The lights in the gym flickered once—then went out completely.
A startled murmur spread through our team as we stood frozen in the sudden darkness, the only source of light coming from the dim glow of the emergency exit sign.
For a moment, I thought it was just another power issue.
That maybe—just maybe—it was bad timing rather than deliberate interference. But then—we saw them.
Stacey’s team.
Silhouettes moving in the shadows, carrying our training equipment out of the gym. They weren’t even trying to hide it.
Jade cursed under her breath. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
Carlos took a step forward, but I grabbed his arm before he could charge in.
"Don’t," I whispered, my voice tight with frustration. "That’s what they want."
Because if we started a fight now, if we made a scene, Stacey would just twist the story—make us look like the problem.
We had to be smarter. Stronger.
I exhaled sharply, my fingers clenching into fists.
"Forget them," I muttered. "We’ll find another place to train."
Jade scoffed, voice thick with anger. "And where the hell are we supposed to do that?"
I didn’t have an answer. Not yet.
I was pacing outside the gym, trying to think, to breathe, to calm the raging storm inside me, when I heard his voice.
"You’re not gonna win if you train out in the parking lot, you know."
I whipped around—and there he was. Marcus. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching me too intently.
I frowned, my exhaustion mixing with irritation. "What do you want?"
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed off the wall and walked toward me, stopping just close enough to make my pulse stutter.
"There’s another gym," he said, casually. "One that no one uses anymore. It’s old, kind of falling apart, but it has what you need."
I stared at him, narrowing my eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"
Marcus gave a slow, infuriating smirk. "The reason should be obvious, Betty."
It wasn’t. Not to me. Not when he’d been ignoring me for weeks, acting like I didn’t exist, only to turn around and pull this.
Before I could say anything, he started walking.
"Come on," he said over his shoulder. "You don’t have much time."
I hesitated. But in the end—I followed.
It was exactly how he described it.
Old. Dusty. Abandoned. But still—functional.
Marcus managed to get some of the lights working, flickering just enough to illuminate the worn-out mats and rusted training bars.
"Better than nothing," he muttered, unlocking the storage room.
And when the door swung open—my breath caught. Inside, stacked and scattered in messy piles, was backup training gear.
Still usable. Still ours for the taking.
I turned to Marcus, completely at a loss for words.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, voice softer than I intended.
He leaned against the doorframe, his gaze locked onto mine, intense and unreadable.
"You know why."
I hated the way my stomach flipped at his tone.
I swallowed. "No, I don’t."
Marcus exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Then—before I could press further—the rest of the team arrived, bursting into the gym, eyes widening at what they saw.
Jade let out a breathless laugh. "Holy shit, you actually found us a place?"
I nodded, still watching Marcus. But just like that—he was back to his usual self.
His smirk returned. "Don’t get too excited. It’s temporary."
* * *
At first, Marcus kept his distance.
He sat on the bleachers, arms crossed, watching our training like it was just another basketball game.
But it didn’t take long before I saw it happen. The small twitch in his expression when one of our jumps was off. The slight tilt of his head when our timing slipped.
And finally—he broke. He stood up.
"Stop," he called out, walking toward us.
The team froze. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"You’re off by a second," he told Sasha. "Your landing is too heavy. You’re throwing everyone else off."
Sasha blinked. "Excuse me?"
Marcus turned to Lucy. "And you—you’re not extending your arm fully. Your lines look messy."
Lucy’s jaw dropped. "I—what?"
He ignored her, turning his focus to me. "And you," he said, voice dropping, his eyes flickering with something intense, sharp, almost heated.
I swallowed. "What about me?"
"You’re hesitating," he said simply. "You move like you don’t trust your own body."
My breath caught. He wasn’t wrong. Marcus sighed, looking at the entire team.
"Look, if you actually want to win this thing, you need to fix your precision, your speed, your coordination."
He didn’t say it like a suggestion. He said it like a coach.
A real one.
And somehow, despite all logic and reason—we listened.
With Marcus correcting our form, guiding our movements, making small but crucial adjustments, everything started to click.
Our timing improved. Our synchronization sharpened. Our confidence grew.
Even though I hated to admit it, he knew what he was doing.
Having spent years surrounded by Stacey’s cheer squad, he had picked up more than he let on. And when practice ended, when we all stood there panting, sweating, exhausted but exhilarated—Marcus just smirked.
"Not bad," he muttered, rolling his shoulders.
Jade crossed her arms. "Are you seriously telling me you know this much about cheerleading?"
Marcus shrugged. "Spent enough time around it. Picked up a few things."
Carlos scoffed. "You mean you watched Stacey and absorbed the techniques by accident?"
"Something like that."
Carlos narrowed his eyes. "So why help us now?"
Marcus held my gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he smirked.
"Let’s just say," he murmured, voice dropping, "I like proving people wrong."
As the team packed up, I lingered near the storage room, still processing everything.
Marcus hadn’t left yet. He leaned against the doorway, watching me. When our eyes met, the tension returned instantly. Unspoken. Heavy.
The last time we had been alone, I had ignored him. But now he was the one not letting me go.
I swallowed hard. "So, what now? You just suddenly decided to help me after ignoring me for weeks?"
Marcus’s jaw ticked. "You weren’t supposed to hear what my father said."
I frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"
His eyes darkened, frustration flickering beneath the surface. "It has everything to do with it," he muttered.
And then—he pushed off the wall, stepping closer. Not touching. But close enough that I could feel his heat, his presence, the weight of something unresolved between us.
He exhaled, shaking his head. "I don’t know how to stay away from you, Betty."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest.
Because I didn’t know how to stay away from him either.