Heart shots

FIRST TIME (Part 22)

She arrived at the court early, the scent of floor wax and stale air filling her lungs. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a ball echoed through the rafters, and her heart skipped. Carson was already there, his jersey slightly damp, moving through a solo layup drill. When he noticed her, his footwork faltered for a split second. 

The air between them instantly hummed with the memory of the bike ride—the ghost of her hands on his waist and the way he had watched her drive off into the dark. But here, with teammates starting to trickle in and the coach's whistle hanging around his neck, that intimacy felt like a secret they weren't sure how to keep. Blyana stopped at the edge of the paint, clutching her water bottle a little too tightly. Carson slowed to a stop, the ball tucked under his arm. 

"Hey," he said, his voice a little rougher than usual in the morning air. 

"Hey," she replied, offering a small, tight nod. 

It was a short, awkward exchange—a far cry from the heavy, lingering silence they had shared outside his apartment. They both looked away quickly, focusing on the hoop or their shoelaces, the unspoken tension of the night before vibrating between them like a live wire they were both too afraid to touch in the daylight. 

And the surprising part is this was not happening for the first time, the night in the car was way more intensified, but maybe some drinks managed them.

As the coach's voice echoed off the gym walls, Carson felt a sudden, frantic spike in his pulse that had nothing to do with the cardio. His mind was a mess of contradictions. Part of him wanted to bolt to the opposite end of the court to hide the fact that he hadn't stopped thinking about the smell of her hair or the weight of her leaning against him. Another part of him felt an almost magnetic pull; the idea of anyone else standing across from her for the next twenty minutes felt fundamentally wrong.

He watched her for a split second—she looked so grounded in her gear, yet there was a stiffness in her shoulders that told him she was feeling the same static in the air. He realized that if he didn't move now, the silence from their "hey" would solidify into a wall they might not break for the rest of the day.

He stepped toward her, his throat feeling tight. He tried to summon that easy, teammate-to-teammate confidence, but his grip on the basketball was a little too firm, his knuckles white against the orange leather. Every step felt like he was walking through water.

When he finally reached her, his heart was drumming against his ribs—that same "quiet anchor" from last night now feeling more like a heavy, thumping weight. He didn't trust his voice to hold steady for a long sentence, so he kept it simple.

"Partner?" he asked.

He forced himself to meet her eyes, his gaze searching hers for a sign that the girl from the bike was still in there, and that he hadn't imagined the way she'd held onto him. Asking her wasn't just about a drill; it was a silent plea to acknowledge that the world had changed for both of them at 2:00 AM, even if they had to pretend it hadn't under these bright lights.

"Sure," she managed, stepping onto the hardwood.

As they moved into the drill, the rhythmic snap of the ball traveling between them replaced the need for words. Each time the ball hit her palms, it felt like a jolt of energy, a reminder of the night before. They stayed focused, their movements sharp and professional, but every time their eyes locked during a chest pass, the "fairy sleep" from hours ago felt like a distant, beautiful dream being tested by the reality of the morning.