LIAM'S POV
Court of Tension
Basketball used to be my escape.
The one place where everything else faded—the noise, the lies, the guilt.
But not today.
Today, the gym felt like a war zone.
My heart pounded in rhythm with the bouncing ball, sweat slicked across my skin, and every time I glanced across the court, he was there.
Nick.
Zara's stepbrother. The guy who hated my guts even before prom night.
And now—after everything—I couldn't blame him.
He didn't even bother hiding the venom in his eyes. Every glare he sent my way was sharp enough to cut. And he wasn't just glaring—he was targeting.
Body checks that weren't part of the drill. "Accidental" elbows to my ribs. Shoulders slamming into me harder than necessary.
Coach either didn't notice or pretended not to. Probably chalked it up to "competitive spirit."
But I knew better.
Nick was here for one reason—to make me pay.
"Eyes up, Hunter!"
Coach's voice snapped me back to the play just as Nick came charging toward me during a scrimmage. I passed the ball a second too late, and he crashed into me—full force—sending me sprawling to the floor.
A grunt escaped my lips as I hit the hardwood. My wrist stung from the fall, but Nick didn't even blink.
He stood over me, chest heaving. "You gonna cry again, lover boy?" he muttered low enough for only me to hear.
I didn't answer.
Not because I was afraid—but because I knew I deserved it.
Every bit of anger radiating off him? I earned that.
I stood slowly, brushing myself off as I met his gaze. "Feel better?" I asked, my voice tight.
Nick's jaw clenched. "Not yet."
We went back to the play, but the tension crackled through every pass and pivot. Teammates were starting to notice, the room filled with side-eyes and whispered exchanges. The vibe was off, and we were the reason.
I could feel it—every movement on the court was a battle of wills. He wanted to humiliate me. Break me like I broke her.
And maybe, deep down, I was letting him.
Because if this was how I paid for what I did to Zara—if this was the cost for playing her like a pawn—I'd take it.
Hell, I'd take worse.
I saw the way she looked at me in the hallway that morning—the way her whole body froze when she caught me with Beatrice. I knew I'd killed whatever part of her had trusted me. And no amount of late-night guilt, or looking through pictures of us, or the bracelet I still wore on my wrist would bring her back.
A whistle blew. Practice was over.
I jogged toward the locker room, grabbing my water bottle, but Nick was right behind me. He brushed past me with a deliberate bump, muttering, "Next time, I won't miss your face."
I didn't even flinch.
Because the truth was, I already felt worse on the inside than he could ever make me feel physically.
And it was all my fault