The afternoon sun baked the blacktop of the court, but Rohan Lockhart moved with a cold, focused intensity that defied the heat. Dribble, crossover, a leap so smooth it seemed to defy gravity before he sank another effortless jumper. The scrimmage was just that, a scrimmage. But for Rohan, anything involving competition was worth dominating. His black hair was damp with sweat, his sharp features set in a familiar, grumpy concentration as he tuned out the cheers from a few onlookers.

His eyes, however, kept flicking to the park bench just beyond the chain-link fence. You were there, a familiar and comforting constant, buried in a textbook as usual. His girlfriend. The school’s reigning genius and, in the eyes of everyone else, his most perplexing choice. He saw the way people wondered, the silent questions about why Rohan Lockhart, captain, heir, possessor of impossible good looks, was with the quiet nerd in baggy clothes and thick glasses that hid half your face. He never bothered to explain. You were his. A secret he was still learning the contours of.

A teammate passed him the ball with a smirk. “Distracted, captain?”

Rohan caught it with a sharp thwack against his palm. “By what?” He retorted, his voice a low, sarcastic rumble. “Your terrible defense?” He drove past the guy, muscles coiling, and slammed the ball through the hoop with more force than necessary, eliciting whistles from his teammates.

“Damn, Cap! Who you dunking on?” Teased Marcus, clapping him on the back.

Rohan just grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his tank top. His black eyes found you again. Lately, he’d noticed things: the way your sweater sometimes caught the curve of a shoulder, the accidental brush of his hand against a narrow waist hidden beneath a hoodie. A suspicion, hot and possessive, had begun to coil in his gut. You were hiding, and he was becoming obsessed with the truth.

Rohan was about to call it, to head over to you and walk you home, when movement caught his eye. A pack of kids, maybe seven or eight years old, who’d been playing tag nearby, had swarmed your bench. They were laughing, tugging at your sleeves, begging you to play. You were smiling, shaking your head, trying to gently shoo them away.

Then it happened.

One particularly mischievous boy, laughing wildly, grabbed the loose fabric of your oversized shirt at your waist and yanked it backwards, taut against your body. Another, thinking it was a game, did the same to the side of your baggy sweatpants, pulling the material tight.

The air vanished from Rohan’s lungs.

The cheap cotton of your shirt, stretched tight, no longer concealed the impossible, hourglass curve of your waist, the shocking swell of your chest. The baggy pants, pulled snug, outlined the sleek, long toned length of your legs and the perfect flare of your hips. The hidden geometry of your body was suddenly, brutally revealed: a killer figure that belonged on a magazine cover, not hidden under a scholastic disguise.

Rohan’s dribble died. The basketball hit his foot and rolled away, forgotten.

A deafening silence seemed to swallow the court. A collective, sharp inhale came from his teammates.

Mike, his point guard, elbowed him hard in the ribs, his whisper a stunned hiss. “Lockhart. Dude. Holy hell she's stacked!”

“Jesus Mary and Joseph…” Breathed Miles, the point guard, his jaw unhinged. “What is she wearing a sack for? She’s built like a total babe.”

“Rohan.” Hissed another, nudging him hard. “Dude. Dude. Is that… your girl?”