The morning after our victory, St. Armitage looked different.
The stone walls of the gymnasium seemed to hum with leftover energy, as if the bricks themselves had swallowed every scream, every chant, every frantic stomp of last night's crowd. Walking the halls, I could still hear them—"BLAKE! BLAKE! BLAKE!"—rattling inside my skull like a drumbeat.
I hated that name still had power over me.
Wyatt Blake.
Golden boy of St. Armitage. Heartbreaker. MVP. A boy whose grin could light up an arena, and whose arrogance could dim it twice as fast.
And the boy who had kissed me last night.
My lips burned at the memory. Not because of the kiss itself—it had been fast, messy, fueled more by alcohol and ego than anything else. No, what haunted me was the truth buried underneath.
That even as Wyatt held me, pressed his mouth against mine like he was staking a claim, my head had been full of someone else.
Coach.
Morning Practice
The gym smelled of rubber and sweat—sharp, alive, like war. The sound of bouncing balls echoed, sneakers squealed against the floor, and a steady rhythm of swishes cut through the noise.
Wyatt was already there, shooting free throws as though the world were his personal highlight reel. Each shot was perfect, arrogant in its simplicity. He did not miss once.
I tightened my hoodie over my braids and started stretching. My body was still humming from the game, from the crowd, from the way Coach's eyes had lingered on me in that doorway last night.
Wyatt did not look at me when he spoke. "Morning, Nile. Sleep well? Or were you dreaming about me?"
"Please." I picked up a ball and spun it in my hands. "The only thing I dreamt about was missing free throws. Guess you infected me."
His smirk was instant, smug. "Funny. You didn't look too mad when I kissed you."
The ball in my hands went still. My chest tightened, but before I could answer, Naomi's voice rang across the court.
"HELLO? Can you two please stop flirting and actually train? Some of us came here to work."
"Thank you," I muttered, rolling my eyes.
"Nobody's flirting," I added, louder this time.
But Wyatt's smirk—lazy, cocky—said otherwise.
Coach Walks In
The air changed before he even opened his mouth.
Coach Rinaldi strode into the gym, whistle dangling against his chest, his black hoodie stretched across those broad shoulders like armor. His eyes swept the court—stopping for half a second too long on me.
He did not frown. He did not blink. He just looked. And it was enough to make my pulse trip over itself.
"Pair drills. Now," he barked.
We obeyed.
Wyatt partnered with me, of course. He bumped into me more than necessary, brushing my arm as if by accident, crowding my space as if the entire court wasn't open.
"Damn, Nile," he muttered after I shoved him back harder than intended, "rough much?"
Before I could retort, the sharp shrill of Coach's whistle sliced the air.
"Blake, stop playing hero. Jack, square your shoulders. Again."
"Yes, Coach." My throat tightened. His voice always did that—rough, steady, scraping something raw inside me.
After Practice
The team filtered out one by one. Naomi winked at me as she slung her bag over her shoulder.
"Careful," she whispered in passing. "Walls have eyes."
She disappeared with the others, leaving the gym quiet except for the sound of my ball bouncing against the polished floor. I stayed behind, practicing, chasing rhythm, chasing silence.
"You're driving too deep. Again."
The voice froze me.
I spun, breath catching. He was leaning against the doorway—Coach Rinaldi—arms folded, gaze locked on me with that infuriating intensity.
"You spying on me now?" I asked, forcing steadiness into my voice.
"Correcting you." His reply was even. Controlled. But I heard the undercurrent.
I swallowed. "Last night—"
"Don't." The word sliced through the air.
He stepped closer. One stride, then another. Deliberate. Dangerous. His control was precise, but I felt the tension bleeding underneath.
"You cannot tell me not to talk about it," I said, my pulse stuttering. "You saw."
His jaw flexed. Now he was only inches away, tall enough to swallow my frame. His presence pressed down like heat.
"I saw you letting a boy touch you like you don't know who you are." His voice was low, rough, every syllable an accusation.
My chest rose sharply. "And I saw you watching like you forgot who you were."
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. Electric.
For one reckless second, I thought he might break it—step over the invisible rim that separated us.
But he did not.
"You're playing with fire," he said, hoarse.
I tilted my chin, heart pounding like a war drum. "Maybe I like the burn."
The Locker Room
He turned away quickly, as though control was slipping through his fingers.
"Shower. Go. Practice is over."
But my feet betrayed me, carrying me after him. I followed into the locker room, the door thudding shut behind us. The tiled walls echoed every sound, amplifying the silence between us.
His back was to me, shoulders tense as steel cables.
"You do not understand what is at stake, Zinaari."
Hearing my full name in his mouth nearly undid me. It was too intimate, too sharp. I hated it. I loved it.
"Then explain it," I said, stepping closer. My voice cracked but held. "Do not just bark orders and expect me not to feel—"
He spun, eyes burning. "Feel what?"
The words stuck in my throat. My pulse was louder than my voice.
He did not touch me. He did not need to. The way he looked at me—like I was both salvation and sin—was enough.
"Go," he said again, but softer now, hoarse.
I should have left. I did not.
The Twist
The door creaked open.
"Yo, Nile—you in here?"
Wyatt's voice. Casual. Cocky. Oblivious.
I jolted, stumbling back a step.
Coach straightened immediately, his mask snapping into place. "Blake. What are you doing here?"
Wyatt stepped inside, eyes flicking between us. His gaze sharpened. Suspicion flickered.
"Looking for my teammate," he said slowly. Then his lips curled into that infuriating smirk. "Didn't know practice came with… private lessons."
My stomach dropped.
Coach's face was carved stone. "Out. Now."
Wyatt's smirk deepened. He backed toward the door, but his eyes never left mine.
"This is going to be fun," he murmured, and slipped out.
The door closed.
And the rim between us felt thinner than ever.
Ending
I pressed my palm against my chest, feeling the thunder of my pulse.
Coach's stare pinned me—warning, want, and war all tangled in one impossible gaze.
And all I could think was:
If Wyatt keeps looking at me like that, and Coach keeps looking at me like this… someone is going to burn. And it is probably me.
✨ END OF CHAPTER FOUR ✨