Chapter 8 #8

{Melanie's P.O.V}

I stood under the scalding spray until my skin turned flushed and raw, letting the hot water pulse over my sore shoulders.

My legs were still trembling—partly from the brutal one-on-one sets Ace had forced me through on his private court, but mostly from the sheer emotional whip of the last twenty-four hours.

I was a female athlete in a male-dominated program. Every single day of my life since high school had been an uphill battle to prove I wasn't just a gimmick, a diversity metric, or a publicity draw.

I had earned my starting point guard position on the Ravens through blood, sweat, and torn ligaments. I knew my court vision was unmatched, my crossover was lethal, and my basketball IQ was higher than half the guys on the varsity roster.

Yet, the second a scandal hit, the world didn't judge me as an athlete. They judged me as a woman—assuming I had traded my body for playbooks, assuming I was weak, assuming I was a distraction.

Seeing Ace’s fanbase step up and shut down those toxic narratives had pierced right through the thick armor I’d built around my heart.

It was the first time in months I felt like someone was actually standing in my corner, fighting off the vultures alongside me.

I shut off the water, wrapped a plush towel around my body, and wiped a circle into the fogged-up mirror.

My eyes looked tired, dark circles smudged beneath them, but the defeated slump in my shoulders was gone.

Ace was right about one thing: I was the toughest point guard in this league. I didn't break. I wasn't going to let Ken, the media, or a horde of internet trolls strip away the sport that defined my entire soul.

I dressed in a pair of dark athletic leggings and an oversized Ravens Basketball hoodie, pulling my damp hair into a sleek braid.

Gathering my strength, I stepped out of the guest bathroom and made my way down the quiet hallway toward the living room.

Ace was sitting on the broad leather sofa, a massive binder spread open across his lap. His dark hair was still slightly damp from his own shower, clinging to the nape of his neck, and he’d pulled on a plain black t-shirt that stretched tightly over his chest.

On the glass coffee table in front of him sat two steaming mugs of black coffee and a printed stack of offensive plays.

"Sit," Ace said without looking up from the binder, his voice low and commandingly calm.

I didn't argue....I didn't have the energy to.

I walked over and sat on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking my legs beneath me.

"What's this?" I asked, nodding toward the sheets.

"Tomorrow's revised tactical rotation," Ace said, finally lifting his head. His dark eyes locked onto mine, intensely focused, stripping away any lingering awkwardness from earlier. "Coach Miller is altering our pick-and-roll defensive schemes for the upcoming game against State. He wants us running high-screen sets."

My sports brain immediately clicked into gear, pushing the personal chaos into the back of my mind. "High-screen sets against State? Their forward line is massive. If we run high screens, their center is going to drop deep into the paint and choke out the passing lanes."

"Which is why you aren't passing into the paint," Ace said, leaning forward and tapping a line on the diagram. "You're pulling their big man out to the perimeter with your drive, then kicking it back out to me at the wing. You have the fastest first step in the conference, Mel. You force their defense to collapse on you every single time you penetrate the key."

He said it so casually, as if it were an undeniable mathematical fact rather than high praise.

"They expect female point guards to play passive, perimeter-passing roles," Ace continued, his voice dropping into a raspy, serious murmur. "They think you won't take physical contact in the paint. Ken's entire defensive strategy against us relies on the assumption that you'll panic when their forward line steps up to physically body you."

I gripped my coffee mug tighter, my jaw clenching. "I don't panic under contact."

"I know you don't," Ace said, his gaze unwavering, heavy with a fierce, absolute belief in my game.

"You're more aggressive at the rim than half the starters in our division. That's why we're going to tear their defense apart. You drive hard, draw the double-team, and trust me to be where I need to be."

We spent the next hour dissecting the playbook page by page. Sitting there on his couch, talking about basketball.

For the first time since the leaked photo exploded across the state, I felt grounded. I felt like a basketball player again.

"The meeting with the is at nine tomorrow morning at the arena," Ace said, closing the heavy binder with a dull thud as the clock on the wall crept toward midnight. "Miller expects us in matching team gear. The narrative stays tight: we're focused on the championship, you were at the 4th Street complex meeting a personal contact, and your commitment to the Ravens is absolute."

"Got it," I said softly, setting my empty mug down on the table.

I stretched my legs out, rubbing the front of my sore knees where the floor burn from practice was starting to bruise into dark purple patches.

Ace's eyes followed the movement, his gaze lingering on the bruises before rising back to meet my face.

"Go to sleep, Mel," he said, his tone softening. "You played hard today."

"Thanks, Ace," I whispered.

I stood up, feeling the deep ache in my quadriceps, and turned to head toward my bedroom.

The house was quiet, bathed in the soft blue moonlight filtering through the high windows, feeling less like a trap and more like a fortress.

I stepped into the guest room, pulling the door shut behind me. I tossed my phone onto the nightstand, walked over to the bed, and pulled back the comforter.

The phone vibrated sharply against the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark room with a bright white glow.

I paused, a sudden cold knot tightening in the pit of my stomach. My first thought was another toxic notification, another death threat from a fan, or another vicious update from the sports blogs.

Slowly, I reached out and picked up the device.

It wasn't a social media alert. It was a direct text message from an unlisted, strange phone number—a number that didn't have a contact name attached, but whose ten digits were burned so deeply into my memory that my throat instantly went dry.

My thumb trembled slightly as I tapped the preview to open the full message screen.

There were only three words typed out on the stark white background, sent just seconds ago:

“Can we meet?”

My heart slammed against my ribs like a trapped sledgehammer, the air rushing out of my lungs in a sharp, terrified gasp.

It was from Ken.