The afternoon sun cut through the high, grid-lined windows of the gymnasium, slicing the air into heavy, amber bars of light. Dust motes drifted lazily through the heat, suspended in that particular, echoing quiet only an abandoned school building could hold. Outside, the relentless, rhythmic buzz of late-summer cicadas bled through the cracked ventilation panes, the same familiar soundtrack that had underscored their entire youth.
You stood at the top of the three-point key, the worn leather of the basketball rough beneath your palms.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound bounced sharply off the high rafters, a stark contrast to the thunderous roars of the crowd that used to shake the floorboards.
“You're slacking, Number Five,” you called out, a familiar, easy smirk tugging at your lips.
Caleb stood a few feet away, hands resting loosely on his hips. He’d thrown his old varsity jersey over a crisp white undershirt, a classic, devastating look that still managed to fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He let out a low chuckle, the deep, rich sound settling comfortably into the space between you.
“Number Five, huh?” Caleb looked down at his chest, giving the fabric a light tug. The jersey was smooth, completely devoid of any printed digit. “Still gonna call me that, shorty? Look at the shirt. No number.”
“I don't need to see it on the fabric to know it's there,” you said softly, taking a deliberate step inward. “You were Number Five. Point guard. Team captain. And I sat in the exact same bleacher seat for three years straight making sure everyone knew it.”
Caleb’s eyes softened, the golden-hour light catching the warm, amber depths of his gaze. The casual, cocky jock posture melted away in an instant, replaced by that soft, protective warmth he only ever reserved for you. You were together now, the tentative, agonizing boundaries of your teenage years long since crossed, but standing on this court brought all that old, heavy longing rushing right back to the surface.
“Yeah,” Caleb murmured, his voice dropping into a lower register as he took a slow, heavy step toward you. “You never missed a single game. Even if I told you to go home because I'd be practicing late, I'd always find you sleeping in the bleachers.”
“Maybe because I wanted to show off the school's basketball team as my best friend,” you agreed.
To break the sudden, throat-tightening wave of nostalgia, you dropped your shoulder and drove hard to the right, trying to catch him off guard.
Caleb anticipated the move instantly. He shifted his weight with a practiced, effortless fluidity, his large frame completely blocking your path. For a second, you were entirely enveloped in him, the scent of clean linen, cedar wood, and the faint, warm trace of skin. You tried to spin back, but Caleb’s hand shot out. His long fingers brushed intimately against yours, a spark of friction igniting between your palms as he cleanly, effortlessly stole the ball.
“Still too predictable, miss coach,” he teased. He spun the ball casually on his index finger before tucking it securely under his arm.
“Hey! Unfair advantage, you're literally unbelievably taller than me,” you complained, crossing your arms over your chest. “Excuses, excuses, pipsqueak,” Caleb grinned, but as he turned the ball over in his hands, his thumb traced over a specific, darkened patch of the worn leather.
You stepped closer, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Is that...”
Before he could pull it away, you reached out, your smaller fingers overlapping his on the leather surface. There, written across the faded orange grain in jagged, permanent black marker, was your own name. It was smudged from years of handling, but entirely unmistakable.
“You stole it?!” you whispered, looking up at him in disbelief. “This was the ball from our senior championship prep. I thought the athletic department recycled the old gear.”
“It ain't stealing if it was branded by someone else. But to answer your question, they did." Caleb looked away for a split second, a rare, incredibly endearing touch of boyish embarrassment coloring his cheeks before he locked his eyes back onto yours. “I took it from the equipment bin the night before graduation. I couldn't simply just leave it behind. Not when it had the name of my favorite person on it.”
The admission hung heavily in the warm air. Even though you were dating now, hearing just how deeply he had cherished you, how tightly he had held onto you even back then, made your chest fill up with pure affection. “Come here,” Caleb said gently, his fingers sliding between yours, locking your hands together. “I want to show you something else.”
He led you out of the cavernous gym and into the quiet, echoing corridor lined with rows of teal metal lockers. The school administration had given you both permission to revisit the campus for the afternoon, and walking through these hallways felt like stepping straight into a time capsule of your own history.
Caleb stopped precisely in front of locker 116, his old locker. He pulled a small, slightly rusted key from his pocket, sliding it into the latch with a familiar, metallic clack. The door swung open, releasing a faint scent of old paper and dust.
Inside, taped securely to the back of the metal door, was a yellowed, crinkled piece of paper. It was an old varsity practice schedule from your junior year. You drew in a sharp breath. Scattered across the grid of grueling, exhausting two-a-day practices were tiny, hand-drawn blue stars.
“My stars!” You breathed, your fingertips tracing the faded ink. “I drew those so the coach would give you a break.”
“You drew them because you were worried I was overworking myself,” Caleb corrected softly. He leaned his shoulder against the locker frame. “With all the pressure I had over me from classmates, teammates, parents... I just couldn't let them down.” With a small blush, he rubbed the side of his neck before letting out the following: “...And I didn't want you to see me as a loser.”
A rush of overwhelming warmth spread through your chest. You turned around, stepping directly into his personal space, resting your hands flat against his chest, right where that invisible number five belonged.
“You were never a loser to me, Caleb, with a trophy or not.”
Caleb smiled down at you, closing the final inch of distance between your bodies. He reached up, his large, warm palm cupping your cheek, his thumb gently tracing the line of your cheekbone. His touch was incredibly tender, a stark, breathtaking contrast to his athletic strength.
“My darling girl,” Caleb whispered, leaning down to press his forehead firmly against yours. The late-summer heat sealed the comfort of your shared past and the beautiful, bright certainty of your present. “I'm so glad I don't have to look across a crowded court to see you anymore.”
He tilted his head, closing the remaining distance to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, sweet, soft, and full of the quiet, unwavering devotion that had started right here in these very hallways years ago.
🍎💗🍏
Originally posted on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/89925836
Comments
Log in to add a comment.
No comments yet.