His POV

They could’ve assigned me to guard anyone. But of course, it had to be her.

My ex. The one I swore I’d never touch again—except now I had no choice but to put my body between her and the basket.

When the coach called her name, something in me tightened. I almost laughed, almost cursed. Almost walked off court. But pride’s a stubborn bastard. And she knows I don’t run.

Then she dribbled up the court, eyes locked on me like she’d been waiting for this. Same fire, same smirk—the one that used to undo me.

“Of all people,” she muttered as she passed half-court.

I slid into position, smirking back. “What? Afraid I’ll steal more than the ball?”

Her laugh—sharp, low—hit me harder than it should’ve. She faked left, tried to cut right, but I knew her tells. I always did. The sway of her shoulders, the twitch in her wrist—I’d memorized them long before we turned into strangers.

My hand brushed hers when I reached for the ball. Just a touch. Too brief, too electric. The kind of touch that dragged me back into every night we tangled up and tore each other apart.

“Still predictable,” I whispered, close enough for only her to hear.

Her eyes flicked up, blazing. “Still arrogant.”

She spun, tried to slip past me, but I pressed closer—chest to shoulder, heat to heat—cutting her off. The crowd roared like it was just a game, but my pulse said otherwise.

The ref shouted for clean hands, but I couldn’t pull back. Not when she looked at me like that—like I was the only wall between her and everything she wanted.

She smirked, biting her lip. “You can’t stop me forever.”

I leaned in, voice low, dangerous. “Maybe not. But I’ll make sure you remember what it feels like to be against me.”

Her laugh slipped out—soft, lethal. And God, I hated how much I still wanted to hear it again.

The ball slipped free. She darted past me, fast, sharp, unstoppable. But even as she scored, even as the crowd erupted, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Because the truth? She still burned. And I still wanted to burn with her.