CHAPTER 152: BETTER THAN NOISE

The court surface felt rough under Luca’s sneakers, the paint lines faded from years of sun and rain.

The air was cooler here, open and still, save for the buzz of the floodlights above.

Jordan tossed a ball in his hand, racket balanced on his shoulder. "Man, I forgot how quiet this place gets at night."

"Yeah," Luca said, adjusting his grip on his own racket. "It’s different without the crowd noise from the school matches."

Jordan smirked. "Different’s one word for it. Makes it easier to hear you curse when I win."

"You’re assuming you will."

Jordan grinned. "Oh, I will. And when I do, I’m telling Noel all about it."

Luca’s brow lifted. "Since when do you give him game updates?"

"Since I figured out you light up like a damn stadium when his name pops up on your phone," Jordan said, spinning the ball lazily on his fingertip. "It’s... weird. In a good way. You’re calmer now. Focused."

Luca looked down at the racket strings, checking the tension. "Maybe I just got tired of wasting energy."

"Sure," Jordan said, but his tone carried a knowing edge. "Or maybe someone finally showed you better things to spend it on."

Luca didn’t bite—just stepped to the baseline and tossed the ball into the air.

The first serve cut clean through the quiet, the sound of the ball smacking the court sharp and familiar.

They fell into rhythm quickly—short rallies, light footwork, the occasional burst of laughter when a ball skidded too far off course.

Half an hour in, Jordan leaned against the fence, catching his breath. "You’re different, man," he said between sips from his water bottle. "Not in a bad way. Just...You used to chase chaos. Now you don’t. That’s different."

Luca rolled his shoulders, eyes scanning the net. "Guess I found something better than noise."

Jordan smirked, tossing the ball back toward him. "Yeah. And he’s probably waiting for a text right now."

Luca caught the ball one-handed, and for the briefest second, that quiet warmth flickered across his face before he masked it with a small shake of his head.

The ball bounced off the court with a crisp pop as Luca served again, his movements sharp, precise.

Another point for him. Jordan barely tried to return it this time, leaning on his racket, eyes studying Luca more than the game.

"Remember," Jordan finally said, "when we first went to the club?"

Luca mouth curved, though his eyes stayed sharp. mid-breath, tossing the ball to serve again. "Oh, don’t remind me."

Jordan’s mouth curved into a half-smile. "Back then, I thought it was the only way to make you forget... everything."

Luca Smirk. "It worked—right up until your dad nearly skinned us for drinking."

They both laughed—short, knowing bursts.

Jordan stepped closer to the net, resting his arms over it. "You’d just found out about Kian. I still remember... you sitting behind the school gym, face buried in your hoodie. Sixteen, but crying like you were ten."

Luca’s gaze flickered, his grip on the racket tightening. "Don’t bring him up."

"Come on," Jordan said lightly, though his eyes softened. "You were crazy about him. Thought the future was all mapped out. Then the guy just... left. No warning."

Luca’s racket stilled. "Yeah." His voice softened. "Graduation day for him. I was so damn proud.Then he just—" He flicked his wrist as if shooing a fly. "Gone.Like I was... nothing."

Jordan tilted his head. "That’s why I snuck you into my family’s club that night. First time either of us drank. You couldn’t even stand after two shots."

"Sixteen years old, sitting there with a whiskey glass too big for your hand."

Luca chuckled, shaking his head. "And you were trying to act all cool, but you were just as drunk. We both got roasted when your dad found out.Worst plan, best night."

They grinned at the memory, but Jordan’s smile faded just a touch. "Two years later, Kian shows up again... and you still gave him another chance."

Luca’s eyes dropped to the court. "Yeah. I was stupid."

"You weren’t stupid. Just... hopeful," Jordan corrected, tapping the racket handle against the ground. "I’ll admit, when I first saw you with Noel, I was worried. Thought maybe he’d end up like Kian—leave you gutted. But..." He paused, watching Luca’s face. "It’s different now, isn’t it? Even with Noel gone for a bit, you’re not falling apart like back then."

Luca’s lips twitched, almost a smile. "Noel’s not Kian."

"Good," Jordan said simply, before flicking the ball back toward him. "Now stop getting sentimental and finish losing to me."

"You wish," Luca said, smirking as he moved back into position.

Jordan bounced the ball lazily, the echo sharp in the open court. "Your mind’s still here, or did it just wander off to... you know."

Luca caught the serve midair, smirk curling. "Speaking of that," he said, spinning the ball in his palm, "it’s making me miss his voice."

Jordan let out a groan that was more for show than annoyance. "You’re impossible," he muttered, though his grin betrayed him.

"Then what are you waiting for?" Jordan tossed the ball back, his eyes narrowing like he’d just dared Luca to break his own restraint. "Call him."

Luca dribbled slowly, glancing toward the far corner of the court as if he could see Noel standing there. "Maybe I will," he murmured, almost to himself, before snapping back into motion—driving past Jordan with an easy, practiced spin.

"Still winning," Luca teased, laying the ball in.

Jordan shook his head, breathless but smiling. "Yeah, but only because your heart’s distracted. Makes you sloppy."

Luca caught his gaze, unbothered. "Or maybe," he said quietly, "it makes me sharper."

Jordan wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, eyes locked on Luca as if sizing him up beyond just the game. "You know, for someone claiming to miss his voice... you’re taking your sweet time."

Luca caught the rebound, the thud of the ball against the ground loud in the empty court. "Timing matters," he said, flicking the ball back toward Jordan with a little more force than necessary.

Jordan caught it, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Or maybe you’re afraid."

Luca raised an eyebrow. "Afraid of what?"

"That if you hear him," Jordan said, dribbling closer, "you’ll realize you’ve been holding back."

The ball shot from Jordan’s hand toward the hoop, rattled against the rim, and bounced away.

Luca snagged it, pacing slowly to the three-point line, his expression unreadable.

"I’m not holding back," Luca said finally, voice low. "Just... waiting for the right moment. He deserves that much."

Jordan studied him, letting the silence hang for a beat before breaking into a crooked grin. "Then hurry up, before someone else gives him that moment."

Luca’s gaze sharpened, the ball still in his hands. And for the first time that game, Jordan saw him falter—just slightly—before he sank the shot clean.

The ball slowed to a lazy roll, nudging the chain-link fence before slumping into the dust. Neither of them bothered to chase it.

Jordan tilted his head back, chest rising with steady breaths, a grin already forming. "That’s game."

Luca dragged a forearm across his brow, lips twitching in a faint smirk. "By two points. Don’t act like you destroyed me."

"Two’s still two," Jordan countered, ambling over to scoop up the ball. "And I’ll take my victories wherever I can. So don’t sulk."

"I’m not sulking," Luca said, but there was a softness threaded through his tone—less irritation, more thought. Jordan caught it instantly, the way he always did.

"Right," Jordan murmured, letting it slide for now.

They fell into step, sneakers grinding against the gravel as the court slipped out of view behind them.

The air had cooled, the sun stretching the street in a syrupy wash of gold, making even the cracked pavement look tender.

They walked in an easy silence at first, the ball cradled loosely under Jordan’s arm.

The gravel path spat little stones under their sneakers, each crunch measuring the slow stretch between words.

Luca’s gaze kept drifting—first to the rows of leaning fences, then to the way the light cut across the cracked asphalt.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, head tilted just enough to avoid Jordan’s eyes.

Jordan noticed, of course. He always noticed. "You’re quiet," he said casually, not as an accusation but as if pointing out the weather.

"Not much to say." Luca’s voice was light, but his shoulders rolled like he was trying to shrug something heavier off.

Jordan’s mouth tugged sideways. "Funny. Usually, I can’t get you to shut up after I win."

Luca huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. "You’re mistaking me for someone who cares about your little victory lap."

They turned a corner, the court now a memory behind them, replaced by the narrow stretch of a dirt path where the pavement gave up.

The air smelled faintly of cut grass and something faintly metallic from the streetlamps that were just beginning to hum awake.

Jordan bounced the ball once, the echo sharp in the cooling evening. "Still," he said after a beat, "whatever’s eating you... you’re not hiding it as well as you think."

Luca’s steps faltered, just for a heartbeat, before he fell back into stride. "I’m fine."

"Sure," Jordan replied, but he didn’t press—just let the word hang there, light on the surface, heavier underneath.

The path ahead narrowed, leading away from the streetlights into the softer dark of the trees.

They slowed when the road forked, shadows stretching long between them.

Jordan’s gaze lingered for a moment, searching Luca’s face as if to hold on to something unspoken. "Guess this is you," he murmured, nodding toward the narrow trail that disappeared between the trees.

"Yeah." Luca’s hands stayed in his pockets, his voice quiet but steady. "Safe ride back."

Jordan’s lips curved into a faint, reluctant smile. "You too." He took a step back, then another, the crunch of gravel underfoot fading as he turned away.

Luca watched him go until the figure was just a moving silhouette in the fading light.

Only then did he turn down his own path, the air cooler here, carrying the faint scent of pine.

Each step felt heavier, though he couldn’t say why—except that every road tonight seemed to curve back toward Noel.