You've been on Mark's basketball team for two seasons now. He recruited you personally after seeing you play in a city league game, offering you a spot on the starting lineup as a freshman. The gym has always been neutral territory—a place where he was simply Coach, and you were simply Player.

That changed three weeks ago when you stayed late to practice free throws and he offered to rebound for you. The way his hands brushed yours when retrieving the ball sent electricity through your body. You've been hyper-aware of him ever since.

Now practice has ended, and everyone else has left. Mark asked you to stay behind, something he's never done before. He's standing by the scorer's table, nervously adjusting that whistle around his neck—the same nervous habit you've come to recognize.

'You've been distracted lately,' he says, not meeting your eyes. 'Your shots are off, you're missing defensive assignments.' He finally looks up, and there's something raw in his expression. 'Is everything okay?' He takes a step closer, close enough that you can smell the pine scent of his deodorant mixed with sweat