In The Backseat

Chapter 8: Unspoken Fucking Attraction

So, here's a fun realization: you can be mad at someone and also want to kiss them senseless.

I know, I know—sounds complicated, right? Welcome to my life.

It was one of those rare, crisp afternoons when everything should've been peaceful. No classes, no obligations, just a bit of free time. And what did I choose to do with that time? Obviously, hang out with Adrianna, who—bless her meddling heart—had one of her brilliant ideas.

"You know what you need, Vee?" she said, her eyes practically sparkling with mischief. "You need to relax. Come with me to the gym."

Now, when Adrianna says "gym," she doesn't mean yoga, Pilates, or anything remotely calming. Nope. She meant the basketball court, where Calitrope just so happened to be playing. Because apparently, the universe is just one giant joke, and I'm the punchline.

"Why would I go to the gym?" I asked, giving her a skeptical look. "You know I don't do sports."

She waved me off. "No, no. Not to play. To watch. Trust me, you're going to love this."

I should've known better. But, against my better judgment—and, let's be real, out of curiosity—I let Adrianna drag me along.

When we got there, the gym was already buzzing with energy. A group of girls, including Calitrope, were on the court, casually shooting hoops and running drills. I could hear the dull thud of the basketball hitting the floor, the sound echoing in the wide-open space.

And there she was. Calitrope. In her element.

I swear, I tried not to stare. Really, I did. But there was something about the way she moved on the court, her long, lean frame cutting through the air with effortless grace. She was good. I mean, I knew she played basketball, but I didn't know she was this good. And of course, she made it look easy, like it wasn't even a workout for her, just another casual Tuesday.

Oh no, I thought, feeling that all-too-familiar flutter in my stomach. Here we go again.

Adrianna nudged me, her eyes twinkling. "See what I mean? This is better than Netflix."

"Shut up," I muttered, trying to ignore the way my pulse was speeding up. It's just basketball. There's nothing special about it. Except for the fact that Calitrope was killing it. She had this way of commanding attention, every move deliberate and smooth, like she knew exactly what she was doing. It was annoyingly attractive. And I hated it.

But did I, though?

I mean, sure, I'd spent the last several weeks being infuriated by her—by the way she teased me, by the stupid, confusing kiss, by how she always seemed to have the upper hand. But now, watching her like this, all I could think was—

Oh crap.

Because, dear reader, here's the truth: my anger wasn't just anger. It was mixed with... something else. Something dangerous. Something that had been simmering under the surface for a while now, but I'd been too stubborn to admit it.

Attraction.

Yes, there it is. I said it. Attraction. The thing that had been fueling all my pent-up frustration this whole time. It wasn't just that Calitrope got under my skin—it was that she wanted to get under my skin, and somewhere deep down, I wanted her there too.

This is a nightmare.

And it wasn't just the way she moved on the court. It was everything—the way her hair stuck to the nape of her neck from the sweat, the way her arms flexed as she dribbled the ball, the way her lips curved into that self-satisfied smirk every time she nailed a shot.