> "I didn't come here to be noticed. I came here to survive.
But survival means staying invisible, and Coach Rinaldi?
He sees everything."
---
The first thing I noticed about St. Armitage Academy wasn't the stained-glass windows or the double spiral staircase carved from marble. It wasn't the gold-accented lockers or the indoor pool that looked like it belonged to Beyoncé.
It was how the air felt.
Heavy. Like money. Like expectations I had no business trying to meet.
I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag and stepped into the foyer, my Jordans squeaking slightly on the polished floor. A tall girl with emerald nails and a high ponytail stared me down like I was tracking mud into heaven.
Welcome to hell.
"Name?" the woman at the reception desk asked, not looking up from her tablet.
"Zinaari Jack," I replied, swallowing. "Full scholarship student. Basketball program."
Her eyes finally met mine. A flicker of surprise—maybe even respect—flashed across her face. But it was gone in seconds.
"Room A-318. Third floor, Ivory Wing. You'll find your welcome packet inside. First team meeting is in twenty." She handed me a sleek keycard.
Twenty minutes. No break. No rest.
Not even time to breathe.
---
The Ivory Wing smelled like imported wood polish and control. My room was clean, too clean. Like no one had ever had a real breakdown here. No late-night crying into pillows. No family secrets stuffed into drawers. Just designer sheets, muted colors, and a view of the indoor tennis court.
I threw my duffel on the bed and kicked off my sneakers.
Then my phone vibrated.
Naomi 👑
"Where r u?! Practice is in TEN, they don't wait for Nigerian time here 😭"
I grinned. Naomi Igbokwe: chaos in heels. My roommate, my best friend, and the only reason I hadn't curled into a ball since landing in New York.
I didn't reply. I just grabbed my water bottle, tied my hair into a puff, and made my way to the gym.
---
St. Armitage's basketball court was three times the size of the one back home in Port Harcourt. The lights above made everything look sharp, almost holy. The floor gleamed like it had never seen failure.
The players were already warming up when I walked in.
"Who's that?" someone muttered.
"She's the one from Nigeria."
"Thick as hell, though."
I ignored them. I always ignored them.
Naomi waved from the bleachers, winking with her hot pink braids swinging. Aleksy sat beside her, legs crossed, sketching something in his notebook.
Then—
He walked in.
Coach Matteo Rinaldi.
Six-foot-something of muscle, shadows, and tattoos. His shirt clung to his chest like it had secrets. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and his gaze—dark, unreadable—landed on me like a punch to the ribs.
He had no right looking that good in a black Nike hoodie.
"This the new recruit?" he asked the assistant coach.
His voice was deep. Italian with an American twist. Lazy vowels, slow consonants.
"Zinaari Jack," I said, before the assistant could speak.
Coach Rinaldi turned toward me. His eyes didn't move down my body like the other guys'. They just held. Studied. Like he was trying to figure out what broke me.
Then he nodded once. "You're late."
I stiffened. "I was told—"
"Don't explain. Just get on the court."
Naomi muttered under her breath, "Damn, he's a hardass."
I jogged to join the warm-up circle.
---
Practice was brutal. He ran us like we were trying out for the Olympics. Drills, sprints, suicides, passing sequences. Sweat dripped into my eyes. My lungs burned. My thighs trembled. But I didn't stop.
Even when I missed a pass.
Even when Wyatt Blake—blonde, cocky, team's top scorer—kept smirking every time he blocked me.
"Fast, but predictable," he said after spinning past me. "Cute combo."
I scowled and threw an elbow during the next play. Naomi howled from the bleachers.
Coach blew the whistle. Hard.
"Jack. Out. You're anticipating too early. Defense starts with patience."
I clenched my jaw, but obeyed.
As I walked past him, he didn't look at me. But he felt me. I knew he did.
And for one dangerous second, I wanted him to see me again.
---
After practice, I stayed behind. Just a little longer.
Everyone else filed out. Except Coach.
I went back to the free throw line. Picked up a ball.
Missed the first. Then another.
"Your wrist is too stiff," his voice came from behind me.
I turned. "I'm just cooling down."
He walked toward me slowly, like he wasn't sure if he should.
Then he reached out and gently touched my wrist, adjusting the angle.
"Here. Looser. Let it roll off the fingers."
My heart was hammering. His hand was warm.
I nodded.
Shot.
Swish.
He smiled, just slightly. "Better."
The silence stretched.
"I don't… usually like people touching me," I admitted quietly.
His gaze softened.
"I don't touch anyone I don't trust either," he said. "But you've got raw fire, Jack. Don't let the wrong people burn it out."
Then he turned and walked away.
---
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Naomi was snoring. Aleksy had sent a funny meme to our group chat. The team already had a nickname for me: "Baby Nile."
But I couldn't stop thinking about that moment on the court.
The way his hand felt.
The way he said my name like it was worth repeating.
I pulled my journal from the drawer.
> Day One: St. Armitage
I'm not here to fall for anyone.
I'm not here to be noticed.
But he saw me. And now I'm scared.
Not of him.
Of what I might do… to be seen again.
---
END OF CHAPTER ONE
> "If survival means keeping my heart locked… I might already be losining.