Page 48 of Under the Lights (The Big Boys of BRU #2)

Thirty Eight

Sierra/ Dom

Sierra

Music blared through my headphones, and I bobbed my head, trying to concentrate. I was way too early. The game wouldn’t start for a while, but something had drawn me here like a magnet.

The gym lights were still dim, casting long shadows across the court. The scent of sweat, polish, and worn leather lingered — familiar, grounding. Maybe it was the quiet atmosphere, or maybe it was the fact that this was one of the few places where shit still made sense.

I’d decided to start with some stretches, really trying to get my head into the game. But my thoughts kept circling and wouldn’t rest.

How much did Dom know?

I’d been avoiding him with the excuse of my busy schedule, but curiosity clawed at me.

Between stretches, I picked up my phone, scrolling through some of the evidence I’d collected, all the notes I’d taken.

A notification hovered at the top of the screen.

Unknown: Still playing detective? Keep going, and we’ll bury you in more than rumors.

My chest tightened. That message hadn’t been there last night — it must’ve come in the early hours, while I was still passed out beside Dom.

What if he’d seen it? He had acted strange this morning. Quieter. Sharper. Like he knew something I hadn’t said out loud yet.

“It’s here. It has to be. I’m just not seeing it.” My frustration rose as I muttered to myself. I tried to compartmentalize, to shove it all into a corner of my brain. This was not the time.

Volleyball first. Feelings, betrayal, and revenge later.

A memory of Dom’s face surfaced, his deep voice, his eyes looking straight into my soul. Not the time for that , either.

I needed to regain control. Right now, more than ever.

***

The whistle blew, and instinct took over.

My feet barely kissed the floor before I was airborne, arm swinging back with purpose. The set was perfect.

Too perfect to pass up. Snapping my wrist over the ball, I sent it screaming into the backcourt, untouched .

Whenever the ball came to me today, I slammed it like it owed me something, every single time, working out all my frustrations.

Cheers erupted all around, but I didn’t smile. Not yet. I wasn’t here to enjoy myself, after all. I was here to win. To regain some semblance of control, even when it recently eluded me in the rest of my life.

The pace shifted, and the other team adapted. A low dig slipped just out of reach. I dove, my fingers grazing it, but it slipped past, making my jaw clench. I knew I could do better, I had to be better.

“Almost had it! If you wanted to put on a dramatic flop for the crowd, then bravo,” one of my girls chuckled next to me.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, next time I’ll throw in a slow-motion hair flip.”

“Now that I want to see.”

The next serve came fast and flat, catching me mid-step. It threw me out of position, too far inside. Rotating my hips, I corrected my position instantly, keeping my footwork tight.

There was no room for panic. I simply needed to recalibrate, to control myself .

Making eye contact with the setter, I gave her a nod, sharp and sure. I wanted the fucking ball again. At the net, the opposing middle blocker loomed — tall, long-armed, cocky.

The first attempt was a fast outside. I went for the line, hard and clean … and got stuffed. Straight down. The ball slammed at my feet, and I could hear the crowd wincing.

Brush it off.

“Okay,” I told myself, stepping back, eyes already tracking the blocker’s patterns. “You got one.”

During the next rotation, the set came high and tight, with the same blocker. I managed to sell the hit, my shoulders turning for the same line shot. But at the last second, I tipped it softly, just over the blocker’s outstretched hands.

With a thud, it fell untouched behind the front row.

Adapt. Control. Win. I chanted inside my head.

Timeout was called after a long rally, and I jogged to the bench, towel in hand. Dom was leaning against the railing at court level, away from the crowd. His stance was casual, his expression pleasant but unreadable.

Our gazes met, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t move at all. The usual exuberant air surrounding him had given way to an intensity that made my breath hitch. All he did was look at me, but it was enough.

I wanted to ignore him. Wanted to believe I could keep this thing contained. But realistically, I never stood a chance.

Swallowing a couple of mouthfuls of water, I tried to keep my cool facade, determined not to let any of the emotions wreaking havoc inside me shine through. Determined to appear unshaken.

Even so, Dom’s intense gaze branded me, staking an unmistakable claim on me. My heartbeat pounding in my ears was louder than the crowd.

The setter gave me a tight back-row set, forcing me to jump out of position, hang in the air, and slam it through the block. The crowd erupted, but everything sounded muted to me.

I hit the floor hard with a strained grunt, adrenaline coursing through my veins in a rush. Hands braced on my knees and my heart pounding, I caught my breath.

Involuntarily, my eyes flicked to Dom, who hadn’t stopped watching me — heat crawled up my spine under his stare. He was still wearing that unreadable expression, still standing in the same spot.

We ended the game with a huge win, my teammates bouncing around me, screaming, hugging, and trading high-fives. I offered them a smile but didn’t feel like joining in.

Dom was still there, his eyes still fixed on me with an intensity, they might as well burn right through me.

I parted my lips, but the words just wouldn’t come. My mind was too loud, in a state of absolute mayhem. I’d played like I was in control, but he saw me crack.

Maybe it wasn’t about losing control. Maybe it was about trusting someone to see you without it.

There was fire in his eyes, and God help me, I wanted to burn .

***

Dom

Sierra emerged from the athletic complex with damp hair and that sharp, unreadable expression she wore like armor. Her duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, and her skin was still glowing with the flush of adrenaline and hot water.

She didn’t look at me right away but didn’t pretend to not see me, either.

I pushed off the rail where I’d been leaning. Didn’t say anything. Just fell into step beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re still here?” she asked after a few seconds, not quite surprised, but not exactly neutral either.

“Figured you’d need a ride.”

She gave me a side glance, one brow ticking up. “You figured, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said simply. “I did.”

She didn’t argue. Just shifted her bag a little higher on her shoulder and kept walking. The air was warm — sticky, the way it gets in the South even in the fall.

As the sun dipped low in the sky, casting a strange, soft gold across the pavement, streetlights flickered to life above us. Crisp, orange leaves rustled across the pavement with the breeze.

“I played like shit in the first set,” she muttered.

“You pulled it together.”

“I cracked.”

I peered at her sideways. “So?”

“So,” she said, “people don’t usually get to see that.”

“Maybe it’s the cracks that show who you really are.”

That stopped her. Just for a breath. She didn’t respond right away — didn’t know how to, maybe.

Instead, she huffed out a low laugh, one with no real bite to it. “You always this good at saying the exact wrong thing at the exact right time?”

“Yeah,” I retorted, “but only for you.”

Her smile flickered, faint but real. That was the thing about her — you had to watch closely to catch it, like a star that disappeared if you looked straight at it.

She went quiet again, but it wasn’t the brittle silence I’d learned to expect. It was the kind that settled between two people learning how to be less afraid.

We reached her apartment building, and she stopped on the steps, not going in just yet. The light on the landing buzzed overhead. I started to turn away, giving her space to breathe, but her voice stopped me.

“Hey.”

I looked back.

Sierra didn’t meet my eyes, just toyed with the strap of her bag. “Thanks for waiting.”

I nodded. “Anytime.”

She thanked me as if I’d done her a favor. As if I hadn’t planned my entire day around this moment. As if I weren’t already bleeding for her, quietly smiling through it.

She had no idea I was past the point of waiting — I was worshiping .

I could feel my control slipping. Like a beast clawing its way out, desperate to claim what’s already his. Maybe it was time to stop dancing around her walls and just smash through them.

Because if she didn’t finally admit it? I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold back.