Coach Teo Rinaldi's POV
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The gym was never this quiet.
Midnight meant the squeak of soles was gone, the sharp echo of balls against hardwood silenced. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the ghosts of games past. It should've been peace.
But tonight—tonight, she was here.
Zina.
I spotted her the second I walked in. She hadn't noticed me yet, headphones in, jaw tight, body flowing through motion like she was chasing demons through the paint. Her jumper was clean but inconsistent. She didn't square her feet. Let her off-hand float. She was raw, but she burned through the air.
A slow burn.
She missed. The ball hit rim and bounced away. She groaned low, frustrated. Bent at the waist, hands on her knees, exhaling like the weight of the whole damn campus was on her back.
I stepped forward.
"Fix your base."
She flinched. Yanked her headphones off.
"What the hell—"
"I've been watching for five minutes."
She blinked. "You spying on me now?"
"No," I said flatly. "You left your left foot wide again. If you're gonna sneak in solo court time, at least do it right."
Zina straightened. Her eyes were narrow, calculating.
But not afraid.
"You always walk in like this?"
"Only when I see a future All-American sabotaging her own shot."
Silence stretched between us. The air wasn't empty—it was tight. Thick with tension she didn't understand and I didn't want to name. She wiped sweat from her brow and grabbed the ball again.
"Then show me," she said.
I hesitated.
Just for a breath.
Then I stepped into her space.
"Hold the ball. Elbows in. Feet shoulder-width. Now—don't shoot. Just feel it."
She froze as I stepped behind her. My hand barely ghosted hers—correcting her grip. My voice low. Steady. Measured.
Her breath caught.
Not from nerves. From something else.
Control. I reminded myself. You've been here before. You know the rules.
And the rules are simple:
No lines crossed. No rumors sparked. No careers ended over a girl too young and a man who should know better.
But rules bend in silence.
I leaned down, close to her ear.
"Form isn't about how it looks. It's about how it feels."
She turned slightly, her face too close. Her mouth parted like she wanted to say something, but didn't.
Then—
The gym door creaked open.
Naomi stepped in, froze, then slowly crossed her arms.
Zina jumped away from me like she'd touched fire.
"Just working on my form," she said quickly.
Naomi's gaze narrowed. Not on Zina.
On me.
Her voice was steel:
"Z, your dorm's in the other direction."
"I know."
She grabbed her bag, mumbled a thanks without looking back, and left with Naomi.
I was alone again.
But the silence wasn't peaceful anymore.
It was charged.
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Later That Night – Coach's Apartment
I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
This was supposed to be simple.
Teach. Win. Lead.
Not watch a player like she was gravity.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. My jaw clenched.
You're slipping, Rinaldi.
But when I closed my eyes…
I could still feel her skin through her jersey.
Still hear the way she said "Then show me."
She has no idea what she's doing.
And I have no excuse for not stopping her.
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Final Line:
"There's a difference between control and restraint.
Control is easy.
Restraint is what gets you killed."