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Chapter 8

A few days later, a young woman named Rachel DeSantos arrives at Buckhead Baptist Church gym and sits in the bleachers. Rachel is a 27-year-old woman who has an athletic and glamorous appearance. She has long, brown hair that she often styles in sleek, straight looks or loose waves, giving her a polished and put-together look. She has striking facial features, with a symmetrical face, high cheekbones, and full lips. She has bright brown eyes that add to her engaging presence. Rachel maintains a fit and athletic physique, which reflects her background as a former basketball player. Her style typically blends sporty and chic elements. Overall, Rachel exudes confidence and professionalism while maintaining a relatable and approachable vibe.

Rachel stepped into the gym, the faint scent of polished wood and sweat filling the air. The buzz of sneakers squeaking against the hardwood mixed with the rhythmic bounce of the basketball. She had just come from work, still dressed in a chic yet professional outfit, a fitted black blouse, slim beige slacks, and sleek nude stilettos. Her long brown hair was still perfectly styled from her last on-camera segment. Sliding into the bleachers, she crossed her legs and leaned forward slightly, watching as Trevor's rec basketball team warmed up. Trevor Bauer, her boyfriend, was already on the court, going through a casual layup drill. He was a solid player, a lethal shooter with decent size. He had always played in these recreational leagues to stay in shape and because he genuinely enjoyed basketball. Rachel wasn't exactly expecting NBA-level competition, but she still liked supporting Trevor. Or so she thought. Because the moment the game tipped off, her eyes landed on someone else. He was on the opposing team. Tall. Light-skinned. Built like a natural athlete, but smooth with his movements. Rachel's brows lifted slightly as she watched him get the ball on the wing, effortlessly shimmy past his defender with a clean spin move before pulling up for a jumper. Swish. Damn. That was nice. Rachel leaned in, her interest piqued. The game continued, and it quickly became clear. This guy wasn't just good. He was different. Fluid footwork. A polished offensive game. A natural rhythm to his movements. Confidence, but not cockiness. Rachel found herself completely locked in on him, watching his every move.

Who the hell was he?

Trevor was playing admirably, but his team was getting worked, mostly because they had no answer for the guy Rachel couldn't stop watching. He was everywhere. Pull-up jumpers from midrange. Smooth finishes at the rim. Crossovers that left defenders stumbling. Even solid defense, mostly making life very difficult for whoever he guarded. Rachel bit the inside of her cheek, holding back a smirk. Trevor had never mentioned this guy before. And judging by the way his team looked frustrated, she doubted they had played against him before. Rachel glanced down at her watch. Trevor's team was down double digits. She should probably be more focused on supporting her boyfriend. But she wasn't. Her eyes kept drifting back to the man dominating the game. Who was he? And more importantly... Why did she suddenly want to find out?

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After the game, Rachel and Trevor go to dinner together at Longhorn. Trevor was still bitter about the game. Rachel and Trevor walked into Longhorn Steakhouse, the scent of sizzling steaks and freshly baked bread filling the air. It was late, and the restaurant wasn't too crowded, which was fine by Rachel. She wasn't in the mood for too much noise, not with her mind still turning. She and Trevor were seated in a cozy booth near the back. Trevor immediately launched into a rant about the game before their menus were even opened.

"Refs were terrible," Trevor muttered as he picked up the menu. "Some of the worst calls I've seen in this league. They let them get away with so much contact."

Rachel hummed, pretending to listen. She knew how this went. Every time he lost, Trevor usually went in on the refs.

Trevor shook his head, flipping to the steak section. "And that number 12? He thinks he's hot shit, but let me guard him for a full game and I'll shut that shit down."

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