Marcus
I laced my sneakers tighter than usual, double-knotted them just because, then sat at the edge of my bed with my elbows resting on my knees. The game was tomorrow, and I should’ve been visualizing plays, running drills in my head, thinking about how to shut down Eastbrook’s forward in the third quarter.
But that wasn’t what I was thinking about.
I was thinking about Betty.
Her laugh at lunch—genuine, bright, the kind that made people turn around. How her eyes flickered up toward me when she thought no one noticed. The way she sat at our table, nervous but trying not to show it. How she didn’t crumble under Stacey’s stare.
The change wasn’t just in how she looked—though yeah, the way those jeans hugged her hips was impossible to ignore. But it was something deeper. She moved differently. Straighter posture. Stronger eye contact. Like she was slowly realizing she mattered. Like she was learning she deserved space.
And watching that… It messed with me.
Because it wasn’t just a project anymore. It wasn't just a means to an end.
Betty was real now.
And I wanted her. Not the assignment. Not the access. Her.
The way she hugged me back in the cafeteria earlier? She didn’t even hesitate. I could still feel the way she melted into me. Warm and soft. Familiar. And god—when she looked up at me after, all wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, I’d barely stopped myself from kissing her right then and there.
She was getting under my skin in a way I hadn’t expected.
In a way that scared the hell out of me.
Because the plan was never to catch feelings.
The plan was to get close, impress her dad, and keep playing my cards right until the right doors opened. Richard Branson was the holy grail. NBA connections, influence, coaching credentials. Everyone in the game knew his name. My father sure did.
But lately, every time I thought about Betty, it wasn’t her dad that came to mind.
It was her. Just her.
Then the door creaked open.
My dad stepped in without knocking—he never knocked—and leaned against the frame like he owned the place. He had that slick smile he used when he was about to say something that wasn’t really a compliment.
“Big game tomorrow,” he said.
I didn’t look up. “I know.”
He moved closer, arms folded across his chest. “Branson coming?”
I nodded. “He’s sitting with Betty.”
His smile sharpened. “Good. That’s good.”
He didn’t mean good for me. He meant good for optics. Good for influence. Good for his plan.
He glanced around my room like he was already writing the headlines for my post-game interviews. His eyes landed on the trophies lining my shelf, the game posters, the framed photo of me in last season’s jersey. Every time he looked at me, I wondered if that was all he saw—his investment.
Then he said, “I’m proud of you.”
I froze.
He never said that.
I lifted my gaze, confused for a second.
He gave a small nod, like he was doing me a favor. “You’ve been playing smart. On and off the court. Don’t let me down tomorrow.”
I didn’t respond.
He walked to the door. I thought he might leave it at that, let the moment sit. But of course not.
He added, “And don’t let Betty off the hook either. Don’t get distracted.”
And then he was gone. Just like that.
The weight in my chest doubled. I stared at the spot he’d been standing, like I could erase his voice if I focused hard enough.
Don’t get distracted.
Too late.
I picked up my phone and opened our chat. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second before typing fast:
“After the game, come to the party at my place. I want you there. I want you.”
I read it once. Then again. And then I hit send.
The screen glowed back at me. I waited for the regret to hit. For the panic. For the reminder that I was walking a line I wasn’t supposed to cross.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, I realized something I hadn’t been ready to admit until now.
I meant it. Every word. I wanted her there.
I wanted her.
Not as a piece on a chessboard. Not as a favor to my father. Not even for the game.
Just… her. Betty Branson.
And if I had to prove that to her, if I had to fight like hell to earn it?
So be it.