---
The first big match of the season wasn't supposed to feel like Judgment Day. But walking out onto the glossy court of St. Armitage's arena, under lights brighter than Lagos at Christmas, I felt every nerve in my body scream like I'd been thrown into fire.
The bleachers were packed. Parents with designer sunglasses perched on their foreheads. Students with glitter signs screaming for Wyatt Blake. Alumni in tailored suits sipping overpriced sparkling water. And me—Zinaari Jack, scholarship girl from Port Harcourt—trying to convince myself I belonged here.
The announcer's voice boomed. "ST. ARMITAGE PHANTOMS…!"
The roar was deafening.
Wyatt jogged past me, flashing that stupid grin that made the girls squeal. He bumped my shoulder deliberately.
"Try not to trip, Nile."
I glared. "Try not to choke, Blake."
Naomi, sitting on the bench in her warm-up jacket, hollered, "OOOH, tension!"
I rolled my eyes, but my stomach twisted. Because underneath Wyatt's cockiness, there was something else—something that stuck to me like honey.
The whistle blew. Game on.
---
We were fire. I was fire.
Ball in my hands, sweat on my brow, sneakers squealing against the floor. My body moved like it remembered every dirt court back home, every broken rim I practiced on, every night I prayed for a chance like this.
Layups. Steals. Assists. My lungs burned, but I didn't stop.
Wyatt? He was something else entirely.
Fast. Ruthless. Annoyingly good.
By halftime, the scoreboard read: PHANTOMS 44 – VISITORS 40. Wyatt already had 17 points. I had 9 and 4 assists. My chest heaved. Coach Rinaldi stalked the sideline, barking plays, his black hoodie stretched tight across his shoulders.
But every time I glanced at him, his eyes found me.
And when they did? I felt naked.
---
Final quarter. Tie game. 30 seconds left.
The ball flew into my hands. The crowd roared. Wyatt's voice cut through the noise:
"Jack—swing left!"
I didn't. I drove straight.
A defender blocked me hard, nearly knocking me flat.
The ball slipped. Wyatt dove, caught it, spun—three-point shot from the arc.
Swish.
The crowd exploded. Victory.
We'd won.
And Wyatt Blake was the hero.
He smirked at me as the crowd chanted his name. My blood boiled, but my heart… traitorous thing… skipped anyway.
---
The after-party was chaos.
Music thumped through the dorm lounge, neon lights flashing against walls that probably cost more than my entire childhood home. Students spilled drinks, kissed in corners, danced like the world ended tomorrow.
Naomi was already two mocktails deep, dragging me from person to person, introducing me as "THE scholarship queen, baby!"
I kept smiling. I kept laughing. But my eyes kept searching.
Then I saw him.
Wyatt.
Leaning against the wall like the king of Armitage, a red Solo cup in one hand, a blonde clinging to his arm. Her lips pressed against his neck, but his eyes?
Locked on me.
I froze.
His smirk widened.
And for some godforsaken reason, my feet carried me toward him.
---
"Congrats, Nile," he drawled when I reached him. His breath smelled like rum and rebellion. "Didn't know you had that many handles."
"Congrats to you, Blake. Hero of the night."
The blonde giggled, kissing his jaw. "You were amazing, baby."
Wyatt didn't even look at her. His gaze burned straight through me.
Then—before I could stop it—he leaned forward, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me flush against him.
The blonde squealed in protest, but Wyatt's lips crashed onto mine.
The room spun.
My brain screamed no.
My body whispered yes.
His mouth was hot, desperate, cocky. The kind of kiss that tasted like victory and trouble all at once.
I pushed him back, breathless. "Are you insane?!"
His grin was devilish. "A little."
---
That's when I saw him.
At the doorway.
Coach Rinaldi.
He wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing. Just watching.
His jaw tight, his eyes shadowed, his fists clenched at his sides.
I felt stripped bare under his stare. Guilty, though I had nothing to be guilty for.
And yet… my stomach twisted with shame.
Because the kiss wasn't for Wyatt.
It was for him.
It was always for him.
---
Later, when the crowd thinned and Naomi was dragging the half-drunk blonde to the bathroom, I found myself alone in the hallway.
Or so I thought.
"Jack."
His voice froze me.
Coach stepped out of the shadows, eyes sharp, controlled, but his breathing gave him away.
"You think I didn't see that?" His tone was low, dangerous.
I swallowed. "It was just a kiss."
His jaw ticked. "You can't afford to play games like that."
"Why do you care?" I snapped, my voice trembling. "You're my coach, not—"
His hand hit the wall beside my head. Not touching me. But close enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
"Don't let a boy make you forget who you are," he said, his voice rough.
My chest rose and fell. My pulse thundered.
"Then don't act like a man who forgot he's my coach," I whispered back.
The silence was sharp enough to cut.
His eyes dropped to my lips.
And for one insane, impossible second—I thought he might kiss me.
But he didn't.
He stepped back, his control slamming into place like armor.
"Get some rest, Jack."
Then he walked away.
Leaving me shaking. Burning.
And terrified of how badly I wanted him to lose that control.
---
✨ END OF CHAPTER THREE ✨
> "Then don't act like a man who forgot he's my coach."