Beneath His Touch

Chapter Fifteen

SARAH

Have you ever had a dream so vivid, so intensely real, that when you wake up, it feels as if your body is still trapped inside it? Every touch, every breath, so sharp, you swear you could still feel it on your skin. His hands were all over me, his fingers thrusting inside me—it felt like more than just a dream. It was real. Too real.

"Sarah! Watch out!" Lindsey's voice cut through the fog in my mind, but her warning came too late. The tennis ball slammed into my shoulder with a harsh thud, sending me stumbling back.

"Shit, are you okay?" Zipporah rushed over, concern etched on her face as she bent down, reaching for my hand to pull me up.

I blinked, my head throbbing as I tried to shake off the dizziness, the dull ache of the impact slowly spreading. Before I could answer, a loud, piercing whistle echoed across the court. Cynthia, with her fierce, commanding presence, stormed over.

"That's the third time you've been distracted!" she shouted, her frustration clear as her eyes narrowed on me.

It had been two days since the dream. Two days since I woke up drenched in sweat, my body trembling, unsure if what I'd felt was real or something conjured by my own subconscious. But every detail was still there—burned into my mind like a brand I couldn't escape. His touch was so vivid. His fingers, his grip, the heat of his body against mine—it all lingered. Maybe it was because I'd seen him that day, maybe it was something more. Whatever it was, it had taken over every corner of my mind, slowly pulling me away from reality.

Cynthia blew the whistle again, breaking my thoughts. "Take a short break," she ordered, walking away with a frustrated shake of her head.

I staggered to the bench, sinking down as the weight of everything crashed over me. I could feel the spite stares from the other players, but I didn't care. The throbbing in my head faded into the background, replaced by the relentless flashes of the dream. I couldn't escape it, and it was messing with everything—my focus, my game, and my life. And why does it have to be Javan? I exhale deeply

"Hey, are you alright?" Lindsey's voice was soft as she sat down next to me, stretching her legs out. She shot me a sideways glance, worry creasing her brow.

I sighed deeply, my head falling back against the cool metal of the bench as I stared up at the sky. "I'm fine," I muttered, though the lie sounded weak even to my own ears. My thoughts were too tangled, too raw. How could I tell her that I hadn't been able to think straight for days because of some stupid dream that felt like more than just a figment of my imagination?

Lindsey didn't buy my answer, her eyes narrowing. "You don't seem fine, Sarah. You've been off this whole practice. This is important. You know you've got to stay sharp if you want to make the official team, right? We need an all-court player for the upcoming match, and that could be you."

The training is meant to prepare us for the upcoming match and to evaluate who will make the cut as substitutes. The official team consists of twenty-four players, and there are about twenty of us freshmen. The way things work here, the players are divided into three teams. Team A competes in official campus tournaments and major events. Team B is made up of potential players, ready to step in if anyone from Team A is unavailable. Team C mostly participates in internal matches, like friendlies with local and high school teams. However, there's always the chance to move up. For us freshmen, we haven't been assigned to a team yet. The match will determine where we'll end up.

"Ugh, what's her problem?" I hear some girls whispering, not even bothering to lower their voices.

"I bet she's only thinking about Jerry," one of them chuckles.