Chapter 12
LEO
I shouldn’t be looking at her.
Every coach I’ve ever had says the same thing—focus on the game, not the girl. But what do they know about her?
There Jade sits, in my line of sight like a damn mirage in a desert—hair loose, face glowing under those stupid prep rally lights. Kannon Kavanaugh has his arm slung over the bleacher behind her, smiling like he just hit a walk-off home run. And she’s smiling back.
That smile used to be mine.
My fists clench at my sides. I roll my shoulders, force my breathing to even out, but it doesn’t help. Because I saw it—he took a selfie with her. Posted it. Tagged it. Claimed it.
And she let him.
“Yo,” Tristan claps me on the back. “Forget it. Eyes on the prize, King.”
Xavier nods from the other side, spinning his basketball in his palm. “Yeah, man. Let Kavanaugh play boyfriend on the sidelines. You’ve got a season to dominate.”
I nod, but I’m barely hearing them. My jaw tics as I watch her lean in, whisper something in Kannon’s ear that makes him laugh. She’s glowing. Lit from within like someone finally turned her switch back on—and the worst part? It wasn’t me.
The gym erupts with cheers as our names flash across the digital scoreboard, fog machines hissing out smoke like we’re entering an NBA playoff game instead of a preppy varsity opener.
“Number 11, Leo Holt!”
The announcer’s voice is loud, but not louder than the blood rushing through my ears.
I step onto the court like a storm barely held in check, the air electric around me.
The girls scream louder. I swear someone tosses white flowers down from the bleachers like I’m some kind of royal being knighted.
But my eyes—my damn traitorous eyes—go right back to her.
She doesn’t look away.
She bites her lip.
And I know she remembers. The way those muscles feel under her hands. The way I used to press my mouth to her throat and make her forget the whole world. She remembers. I can see it in the way she shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, maybe even aroused.
But then she blinks, looks back at Kannon, and laughs again.
I miss the first pass in warmups. Ball slips right past me and skids across the polished court.
“Bruh,” Xavier says under his breath, jogging after it. “You’re gonna throw this game if you don’t pull your head outta your—”
“I’m good,” I growl.
But I’m not. I’m gonna torch this court. Rip through defenders like they’re paper dolls. And every point I score tonight? It's for her.
Even if she’s smiling at the wrong damn player.
Tonight, I remind her who the real king is.
The gym is vibrating.
Lights flashing, beats dropping—some Travis Scott remix shakes the walls. It’s chaos and worship rolled into one, and I feed off it like oxygen.
But I don’t see the scouts sitting up in the high seats with their notepads and lanyards and university polos.
I don’t care about the D1 offers or the draft watchlists or the two guys from ESPN filming reels for the “Future Faces” special.
I only see her.
Jade.
She’s leaning back now, arms crossed, trying to act chill. But she’s watching me. I know it. Every time I look up from the court, our eyes catch, and she flinches—like my stare singes.
Good.
Let it burn.
Let her remember who I am. Who I was to her.
The whistle shrieks and the ball is tipped, and I go off like a lit match.
I don’t just dribble—I dance. Fast feet, spinning through defenders like they’re cones in a drill. The first three-pointer? Nothing but net. The crowd roars. I don’t hear them.
Second shot—reverse layup, one-handed, no look. It lands.
Third time down the court, I dunk so hard the backboard shudders and the entire gym sucks in a collective breath.
I glance up at the stands just long enough to see Jade rise to her feet, lips parted. Kannon puts a hand on her shoulder, says something. She shrugs it off.
I smirk. I want her mad. I want her rattled.
Every drive, every pivot, every block—it’s not for the jersey or the school colors or the highlight reel.
It’s for her.
She left. She turned her back. But she doesn’t get to forget me. Not when I’m still carved into her skin.
By halftime, we’re up by twenty.
Coach is shouting, the bench is hyped, Tristan’s doing that thing where he chest bumps me so hard we almost fall over.
“Yo, Leo—” Xavier’s grinning, breathless. “You playing for the scouts or the queen tonight?”
I wipe sweat from my brow, staring up at her again. She’s sitting now, chin in her hand, jaw tight.
“All hail,” I mutter under my breath. “Let’s see if her highness can ignore that.”
Because I’m not just trying to win the game.
I’m trying to ruin her silence.
And so far?
I’m The gym was electric. Smoke still hung in the rafters from the pre-game pyros. We’d just sealed the win with a double-digit lead, and the whole place was thundering with cheers. Cameras flashing. Students chanting. My name echoing like it belonged in Madison Square Garden.
I should’ve been thinking about the scouts.
About the game.
About the future.
But all I could think about was her.
Jade.
Sitting high in those stands in that dark green jacket that hugged her waist, her long legs crossed like she didn’t even know how damn bad she was. Her new hair spike out around her face, glossy and wild. She looked like a girl no one could touch—but every part of me wanted to try.
I tugged my jersey straight and stepped up to the center court interview like I owned the floor.
The Jumbotron flickered to life. Giant. Glowing. Everyone watching.
The school reporter held the mic with wide eyes and adrenaline still in her voice. “Leo Holt. You’re back. First game of the season, co-captain, and you dropped twenty-six points like it was nothing. We’ve never seen you play like this. What changed? What lit that fire tonight?”
I didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t care who was watching.
I looked straight up, found her eyes in the crowd, and let my voice carry through the speakers.
“My queen,” I said, deep and clear, “Jade Bryan. My girl, Jade. Baby…” I let the grin spread slow and cocky across my face. “I’m coming for you next.”
Gasps and screams exploded around us. I could practically feel the entire school freeze mid-breath.
And just before the mic lowered, I winked—right at her.
Mic drop.
I turned and jogged toward the locker room with the crowd erupting behind me. But all I heard was my pulse. All I saw was her.
Game on, baby.