Chapter 4 A Flirtatious Foul

LUKE'S POV

People always ask me if I flirt on purpose.

The answer? Yes. Always.

Why wouldn't I?

Flirting is language. It's connection. It's fun. It's all about timing, attention, and the art of misdirection.

So when I spotted the Holy Cross chess player across the volleyball court-chilly, unreadable, and glaring at the Mater Carmeli's bleachers like we owed her money-I knew I had to say something.

She sat in the front row, flanked by a cheerleader and another girl who looked like she majored in sarcasm with honors.

"You saw her, right?" I asked, nudging Nate with my elbow.

He was busy tying his shoelaces. "Who?"

"Queen Checkmate. The one who destroyed Bia on the chess floor."

"Oh, the scary girl."

"She's not scary. She's sharp."

Nate snorted. "You just like girls who look like they'll stab you if you smile wrong."

"I like a challenge."

That morning, we were scheduled for a friendly match with Holy Cross' volleyball team. Coach said it was part of some youth sports outreach program.

Mater Carmeli's varsity boys would do a couple of mixed-team drills with Holy Cross' players. Swap a few post-game social media tags, pretend to be ambassadors of goodwill. I wasn't complaining, though.

Especially not now.

It wasn't even 10 a.m., and the gym already reeked of sweat, liniment, and nerves. Students were filing into the bleachers, including a group of cheerleaders and a few members of the chess club.

And there she was.

I didn't know her name yet, but I'd remember her face anywhere. Especially the way her eyes tracked our captain like she was analyzing a threat, not admiring a player.

Interesting.

He hadn't noticed her. Yet.

But I had.

"She's not watching the game," I muttered-accidentally out loud.

Tim looked while drinking from his water tumbler. "Who?"

"The girl beside the cheerleader. "

"The chess girl?" He chuckled. "Looks like she's deciding whether to play volleyball or assassinate someone. Scary."

I jokingly hit him on his nape.

We ran through warmups, but I was only half-present. Between stretches and blocking drills, I kept catching glimpses of her-eyes sharp, unmoving, like she's dissecting our strategy. Most people watched volleyball with wide eyes and snacks. She watched it like she was prepping for a thesis defense.

We started the first set and Holy Cross tried, bless them. But Mater Carmeli was Mater Carmeli. Basti led with quiet precision. I added flash where needed. Nate had energy for days.

So during a pause in the match, Tim spiked clean over the opponent's shaky middle blocker, I took a detour toward the edge of the court.

She sat in the front row, arms crossed, lips pursed like joy personally offended her.

"Enjoying the view?" I asked, casually leaning on the barrier like it owed me rent.

She blinked at me like I was speaking an alien language.

"I'm not here for the show," she said coolly. "I'm here to observe your defense formation."

I grinned. "Sounds like someone's a fan."

"I'm not."

That made me smile wider. "Give it time. I grow on people."

"Not happening," she said with finality. "You keep defaulting to a 6–2 rotation. It's leaving your corners wide open."

I laughed. "Are you a coach now?"

"I'm a chess player."

"Ah. So tactical."

Behind me, Nate let out a groan. "Dude, you're sweating on the audience."

"It's called rapport-building," I said. "You should try it sometime."

"You're being weird," Nate remarked.

"I'm being magnetic."

I turned back to her. "What's your name?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Oof. Cold."

"Just accurate," she replied, unfazed.

From across the court, Basti called out. "Luke! Rotation!"

I gave her a mock salute. "Duty calls."

She didn't respond. But I saw it-the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. A win's a win.

After the game-predicatably, we won-I sat on the sidelines, towel draped over my head, half-listening to Coach's feedback. But my mind was elsewhere.

I noticed Basti glancing toward the audience.

"Who's the girl sitting beside that cheerleader?" he asked.

Nate laughed. "That's the one Luke just got rejected by."

"I didn't get rejected," I muttered.

"She said, and I quote, 'Don't worry about it.'"

Basti kept watching her. "She's the chess rep, right?"

"Yup. Beat Bia yesterday. Clean."

He didn't say anything after that. Just picked up his towel and walked away.

I didn't like that look in his eyes. Because Basti didn't flirt. He didn't chase. He didn't even care most of the time.

But the way he looked at her?

That wasn't curiosity.

That was focus. The kind that never bodes well for the rest of us.

And suddenly, the match felt like background noise.

Back in the locker room, I kept thinking about her. There was something about the way she dismissed me-not cruelly, just firmly. Like she didn't need me to notice her. Like she didn't care if I did.

Girls usually smiled. Flushed. Laughed nervously.

She didn't just stare back-she dismantled me with one look. And I liked it.

Later that evening, I scrolled through a playlist I'd made and found myself clicking on instrumentals with strings. Minor chords. Stuff that matched the rhythm of our weird, electric exchange.

Flirting was easy. Connection was rare.

And if I was being honest, she intrigued me more than anyone had in a long time.

I sent a quick message to an acquaintance in Holy Cross who was also a chess player:

Me: Hey, Jed, do you know the name of the chess player who beat Bia?

Jed: You mean Denzel Ramos?

Me: Thought so. Thanks.

I stared at her name longer than I meant to, letting it echo like a chord I couldn't quite place.

Denzel.

Strong. Short. Sharp.

Just like her.