Part 3I’ve Been Dying To Confess To You

The next day, I arrived at the campus basketball courts right on time.

It was packed. I had to stand all the way in the back, clutching a bottle of ice-cold sports drink, feeling a weird knot of anxiety in my stomach.

The second Weston stepped onto the court, the screaming from the bleachers almost blew the roof off.

He was wearing a royal blue and white jersey. His dark hair was slightly damp, sweeping just above his brow bone. During warm-ups, his shirt lifted just enough to expose a sliver of a lean, heavily muscled waist.

I couldn't look away. I literally counted eight distinct abs. I silently concluded that looking at him was basically a meal in itself.

The whistle blew.

When Weston was focused, he was ridiculously attractive.

His movements were fluid and lethal. Dribbling, crossing over, jumping, shooting. He sank three-pointers effortlessly, one after another. Every time the ball swished through the net, the crowd absolutely lost their minds.

The energy was contagious. Before I knew it, I was screaming his name with the rest of them.

This guy was literally paying for my survival. He was my greatest benefactor. By the end of the first half, I was shouting with so much passion that my throat felt like sandpaper.

The halftime buzzer echoed through the gym. I clutched the icy bottle to my chest and carefully squeezed my way through the packed crowd toward the benches, terrified the drink would get warm before I could hand it to him.

Just as I broke through to the front row, a heavy hand clamped down on my arm.

It was a guy in a stained muscle shirt. He looked like absolute trash.

His eyes slowly dragged up and down my body, a greasy, uncomfortable smirk plastered on his face. "Well, well. Pushing your way to the front, sweetie? You here throwing yourself at Weston too?"

I frowned, trying to yank my arm back, but his grip was like a vice.

"Let go of me."

"Don't be in such a rush."

Two of his equally gross friends stepped up, boxing me in from both sides.

"Stop dreaming, little girl. Weston's standards are sky-high. He's not gonna look twice at a thing like you. Why don't you hang out with our boy Trent instead? He knows how to treat a girl right."

The buddies snickered.

"Skin looks so soft," Trent sneered, his hand reaching out toward my face. "I wonder if the rest of you is just as..."

He never finished that sentence.

A long, heavily veined arm shot out from my blind spot. A large hand clamped down over Trent's wrist, violently twisting it backward.

A sickening pop sounded, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

Trent was yanked halfway around by sheer brutal force. Before he could even regain his balance, a heavy sneaker slammed into the back of his knee, forcing him to instantly drop to the floor in agony.

The entire section of the bleachers went dead silent.

I looked up and crashed straight into a pair of icy, lethal eyes.

Weston.

He had just stepped off the court. He hadn't even grabbed a towel yet. Sweat trailed down his sharp jawline, and the muscles in his forearms were tight and completely flushed with adrenaline.

"What did you just say? Repeat it."

His voice was like shattered glass. A raw, terrifying violence burned in his eyes, making him look like a completely different person from the aloof golden boy I knew.

All the color drained from Trent's face. "Weston, hey man, I... I was just joking..."

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Weston released his wrist and gave him a casual shove. Trent collapsed onto his backside, scrambling away like a rat.

Weston shifted his gaze to the two friends, whose faces were now sickly pale. His tone was as casual as discussing the weather. "If I ever see any of you near her again, a kicked knee will be the least of your problems."

"Apologize to her."

Trent clenched his jaw, staying silent.

Weston took a slow half-step forward.

"I'm sorry!" Trent screamed, his voice completely cracking in terror. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I was being a piece of shit! It'll never happen again!"

The two buddies tripped over their words trying to apologize, looking more pathetic by the second.

"Get lost."

The guys nodded frantically, hauled Trent to his feet, and shoved their way blindly through the crowd to escape.

Weston didn't even watch them leave. He slowly turned his head and looked down at me.

The terrifying, murderous look in his eyes faded, replaced by something dark and unreadable. "You. Are you okay?"

I stood completely frozen, my fingers gripping the plastic bottle so hard it crinkled. I still hadn't fully processed the chaos.

Weston reached over, grabbed a clean towel from the bench, and slowly wiped down his fingers, acting as if he had just touched something deeply contaminated.

"Why are you just standing there? Give me the water."

I snapped out of it, hurriedly handing him the bottle. "Thank you. For helping me."

"It's still ice cold. Drink it slowly so you don't hurt your throat."

He paused right as he unscrewed the cap. He lowered his eyes to look at me, a lazy, amused smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "You're surprisingly attentive."

I didn't think anything of it. I just nodded sincerely. "Of course I am."

You're literally funding my college degree. You are my god.

I watched his profile as he tilted his head back to drink, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply with every swallow. My ears suddenly felt uncomfortably hot. I quickly snapped my gaze to the floor.

Weston let out a soft laugh. He pulled his phone from his gym bag and tapped the screen.

The beautiful, angelic notification sound chimed from my pocket.

You have received three hundred dollars.

My eyes went wide. I stared at him in shock. "Why... why did you send me money? The water was a gift. It was free!"

He leaned down. He got so close that there was barely an inch of space between our faces. He blinked slowly. "You screamed your lungs out for a whole half. Consider it hazard pay. Don't let those garbage guys ruin your mood. Go buy yourself a massive dinner tonight."

He was too close.

My entire field of vision was just him. My heart completely lost its rhythm, thumping wildly against my ribs. I could only manage a dumb, mechanical nod.

The referee blew the whistle. The second half was starting.

Weston pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, gave me one last, lingering look, and jogged back out onto the hardwood.