Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 28: Possessive

Blaise

Warm-ups were routine—dynamic lunges, defensive slides, the three-man weave—until the gym filled with that particular electric roar only an opening number can spark. I kept the pace hard; the guys matched me, breath and feet syncing into a single machine. Across the court the rivals mirrored us, sneers tucked behind their towels.

The dance crew filed in. Hats down, lines tight. The first passage ate space—clean, precise, unshowy. I wasn't supposed to care who opened, but my eyes snagged on the girl with the red bandana, tied low on her thigh. I didn't know why; I just knew she'd taken my attention and wouldn't give it back.

Then they split—girls to the right, guys left. The choreography flipped like a switch: coy, provocative, polished. I scanned the line for Sky and missed her at first. Then a shove—one girl thrown forward, oversized denim swallowing her, thick glasses making her eyes small. She offered a paper heart and the boy smacked it away, laughter erupting from the boys. The girls closed around her like armor.

The track cut. She stripped the glasses off.

Sky.

Her ponytail whipped free as she pulled the wig off, her jacket sliding from her shoulders in one smooth throw—straight at the guy who'd rejected her. When she faced the crowd again, a smirk curved her mouth, sharp enough to cut me at the knees.

The reaction from the stands was instant — whistles, wolf-calls, too-high laughter. But ugly whispers threaded through it: low, deliberate, meant to unsettle.

"Damn, who's that—"

My hand cracked against the back of Seth's head before the words finished.

"Hey! What the—"

"Shut it," King snapped at him. "Unless you want Captain to turn you into roadkill."

Seth paled. "Oh. That's... Skylane."

My jaw locked until it ached.

What the hell was she wearing? Where were the black trousers? She could wear whatever she wanted—she had every right—but the way those wolves in the stands were devouring her with their eyes made something primal claw up my spine.

"She looks incredible," our assistant muttered, then winced. "But the way the crowd's staring? Gross."

He wasn't wrong. Sky didn't even realize—didn't see—that every second on that floor was pulling eyes in ways that weren't safe. She was a lamb in the middle of wolves.

The formation shifted again. Partner section. Boys stepping in, girls stepping forward. Hands grazing hips, spins into catches, a fake lift that drew a cheer. It was choreography, controlled, rehearsed—but when her partner leaned too close, closer than the counts demanded, my blood went nuclear.

The guy smirked right at me as he did it.

My fists curled.

"Bro. Chill," Seth said, trying to laugh it off as he tapped my shoulder. "That's normal blocking. Look—the others are even closer."

I didn't glance. I just burned holes into the floor with my eyes, hair damp against my forehead from running drills. Focus. Tip-off in minutes. Handle this later. But in the back of my head, a promise built sharp and dangerous: I'd make sure that guy never thought about smirking again.

"Number 16's losing it," someone from the rival bench hissed.

"He's protecting her. Who even is she? His girl?" another taunted.

"Damn—she's hot enough to be." Whistles. Laughter. Ugly and surgical.

That last line landed like a slap. Dalyn's head snapped up first. His jaw hardened; the smirk that had been flirting with the idea of a challenge disappeared and was replaced by something flat and lethal. He caught my eye across the court, and whatever moved behind his gaze said everything: this ends badly for them.