LOGINElias’s POV“Who sent you?”Dante Moretti’s cold voice sent a shiver down my spine.I sat frozen in the back of his expensive black SUV, staring at the phone in his hand.One stupid message had ruined everything.“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.Dante raised an eyebrow.“Really?”“Yes.”He turned the phone toward me, displaying the message.Did you get close to Moretti yet?“Then explain this, pretty boy.”I swallowed nervously.“It’s a wrong number.”For a moment, he simply stared at me.Then he laughed.“Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”“It’s the truth.”“You’re a terrible liar, Elias.”“And you’re a terrible kidnapper,” I snapped.His smile disappeared.“Careful.”I folded my arms and turned toward the window.I couldn’t tell him the truth.Not when my younger brother’s life depended on my silence.Three weeks ago, Adrian Russo had approached me outside the hospital where my brother, Noah, was receiving treatment.He offered to pay Noah’s medical bills
Elias’s POVIf there was one thing I hated more than being broke, it was rich people who thought the entire world existed to serve them.Unfortunately, my job required me to smile at them.“Table seven needs another bottle of champagne, Elias!”I swallowed the curse threatening to escape my lips and turned toward my manager.“Coming!”My feet were killing me.I’d been working for almost ten hours, my stomach was empty, and the stupid black trousers I wore were so tight that I was beginning to question every decision that had brought me to this miserable restaurant.Welcome to La Perla, one of the most expensive restaurants in Milan, where the customers spent more on a single bottle of wine than I earned in an entire month.And where employees like me were expected to smile even when customers treated us like garbage.“Elias!”I closed my eyes.What now?“Yes, Mr. Romano?”My manager approached me, his round face glistening with sweat.“Take this bottle of whiskey to the private dining
Noah BennettSaturday the gym was loud before tip-off.I saw the scout in the second row. Notebook. Neutral face. Cole did not look at him. Cole looked at us.In the huddle his voice was the same as it was in an empty gym at 8:30.“You know what to do. Do it.”I did it.I did not force the first open look. I hit the extra pass. I set my feet on the ones that were mine. At the half we were up nine. I had eight points and six assists and my jersey was already stuck to my back.Cole did not smile. He never smiled. When I came off for a minute he only said, “Stay in it,” and his fingers brushed the back of my arm like an accident.It was not an accident.Second half I wanted the ball more than I should have. I took one bad shot. He pulled me two possessions later. I sat. I watched. When he put me back in I passed first.We won by eleven.The locker room was noise and ice bags and somebody yelling about going out. I sat on the bench and untied my shoes slow. Cole stood in the doorway with
Noah BennettI got there at 8:27.The side door was unlocked. The main lights were off again. Only the one over the far basket. Cole stood by the rack with a ball in his hands like last night had not happened.It had happened. I felt it when I walked. A dull ache that made me think about his desk every time I took a step.“Film,” he said.“You texted the gym.”“I texted film.”I dropped my bag near the bleachers. “You also said it could not happen again.”He bounced the ball once. The sound carried in the empty court. “It cannot.”I walked onto the floor anyway.He did not tell me to leave.We started with tape. My own game from Friday paused on the wall. He pointed at a close-out I had beaten. Then at the extra pass I had made instead of forcing the shot.“That is the version of you I need on Saturday,” he said. “A scout will be here. You play like that, they will write your name down. You play like the first week, they will write nothing.”“I know how to play.”“You know how to scor
Noah BennettWe won at home on Friday.I played the way he wanted. Set my feet. Did not force the highlight. Fifteen points and eight assists. The gym was loud when the buzzer went. The team wanted to go out. Somebody already had a house lined up.I said I was tired.I was not tired.The parking lot emptied. I sat in my car until the last headlights left. Then I walked back inside.His office light was still on.I knocked once and opened the door.Cole sat behind the desk with the same game tape paused on his laptop. He looked up like he had been waiting and like he wished he had not been.“You should be with your team,” he said.“I played the way you told me to play.”“That is not an answer.”I closed the door. The lock clicked louder than I meant it to.He watched my hand leave the knob.“Bennett.”“Noah.”He said my first name like it cost him something. “This is a bad idea.”“Then tell me to leave.”He did not tell me to leave.I walked around the desk. He stood. We were too close
Noah BennettHe called me in the next night.Not in front of the team. A text after practice. Short. No greeting.Film. 8:30. Gym.I stared at the message longer than I should have. Then I went.The main lights were off. Only the side ones over the far basket were on. The rest of the court sat in shadow. Cole stood under the hoop with a remote in his hand and the projector throwing game tape on the wall.“You’re late,” he said.I looked at the clock. 8:29.He did not smile. I was starting to think he never did.I dropped my bag and sat on the bottom row of the bleachers. He did not sit. He stood with his arms crossed and let the tape run. My own missed pull-up from last season. Then another. Then the one where I forced a pass and it got stolen.“You see it?” he asked.“I see I missed.”“You see you rushed. You did not set your feet. You wanted the highlight more than the point.”I clenched my jaw. “You called me here to tell me what I already know?”“I called you here because you are







