BETTY
We were supposed to be working on our presentation. Final touches. Charts, slides, timing. But instead, Marcus dragged me to the basketball court behind our old elementary uni.
“I swear we’ll finish it,” he promised. “Just… come here first.”
The court was empty, lit by flickering streetlights and a string of fairy lights that definitely hadn’t been there the last time I came. They swayed in the breeze like they were trying to dance.
“This is where I learned to play,” he said, spinning a ball slowly on one finger. “Before my dad turned it into a job.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And this is where you want to rehearse our cardiovascular project?”
“Nope,” he grinned. “This is where I want to breathe.”
We dropped our bags on the bleachers and sat cross-legged in the center of the court, my laptop open between us. But I could feel his eyes on me—not the screen. I was trying to explain our closing slide when I caught him staring, lips parted like he forgot what we were doing entirely.
“What?” I asked, tugging at the hem of my hoodie.
His voice was hoarse. “You just… look insane right now.”
“Insane how?”
“Like I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to kiss you and mess this up.”
I blushed hard, cheeks burning. “We have a presentation tomorrow, Marcus.”
“I know. But all I can think about is how good you look when you’re explaining blood flow like it’s poetry.”
“Gross,” I muttered, grinning.
He leaned closer. “Sexy gross.”
“Marcus.”
He kissed me. It wasn’t careful. It was like his heart had been holding its breath since the last time and finally exhaled. My hands slid up his chest and tangled in his shirt. I could taste the tension in him—everything he hadn’t said, everything he was too scared to admit.
But I pulled back.
“Not now,” I whispered. “We’re not messing this up. Not this time.”
He rested his forehead against mine. “Okay. Slow.”
Just then, my phone buzzed.
DAD: Where are you? Just got home.
I texted back quickly: Basketball court.
His reply came instantly: You mean the court? My old spot?
“Everything okay?” Marcus asked.
“My dad’s coming,” I said, laughing nervously. “He said he wants to play.”
Marcus froze. “Play?”
“You’re about to meet Coach Branson in shorts.”
Ten minutes later, my dad showed up, wearing gym shoes and his classic Riverside Prep hoodie. His eyes narrowed the second he spotted Marcus.
“So you’re the infamous Marcus Mitchell.”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus said, standing tall.
My dad tossed him a ball. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
We played 2-on-1. Me and Marcus versus my dad. It was messy, competitive, and a little hilarious. Marcus went full athlete mode, showing off without looking like he was trying to impress. And Dad? He laughed more in that thirty minutes than I’d seen in weeks.
Afterward, sweaty and breathless, Dad clapped Marcus on the back.
“Dinner,” he said. “You’re coming. No excuses.”
We went home together. Marcus showered in the guest room while I changed. When we all sat down to eat, it felt easy. Natural. Like this could be something real.