Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tristan
The ball snaps through the net.
Clean.
Again.
And again.
The sound is all I want right now.
Leather. Air. Net.
No voices. No faces. No Stella. No Isa. I catch the rebound hard, pivot, shoot again from the corner.
Swish.
My lungs burn. My shoulders are tight. Sweat runs down my spine, soaking through my shirt.
Pain means I’m not thinking.
Another shot.
The ball rims out. I grab it before it hits the floor and fire again.
Swish.
“Jesus, Vale…”
One of the guys mutters it from the sideline.
I don’t look.
Don’t respond.
Don’t care.
Because if I stop moving—I’ll think. And if I think—I’ll go back to the library.
To Stella’s eyes.
To Isa’s voice breaking.
To the way I walked out on both of them.
I dribble hard. Drive. Pull up.
Net.
“Leave him,” Coach mutters somewhere behind me. “Let him cook.”
That pulls a low chuckle from someone. I’m already at the other end of the court.
Full sprint.
Layup.
Turn.
Sprint back.
Three.
Swish.
“Vale’s locked in,” another voice says. “Like… locked in locked in.”
No shit.
Because this?
This is the only place that makes sense right now.
Out there—it’s messy.
Here—it’s simple.
You shoot.
You make it.
Or you don’t.
No feelings.
No history.
No five-year ghosts crawling under your skin.
Just the game.
I grab the ball and step to the line.
Bounce.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Shoot.
Swish.
My jaw tightens. The doors open. I don’t look. Don’t need to.
I know that walk. That presence.
Kane.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans against the wall.
Watching. The way everyone else is. But he’s not impressed. He’s assessing. I shoot again.
Miss.
“Still thinking about her?”
His voice cuts through the gym.
Low.
Annoyingly calm. I grab the rebound.
“Shut up, Kane.”
He pushes off the wall, walking toward the court.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding like he expected that. “That’s what I thought.”
I dribble once.
Hard.
Shoot.
Swish.
He steps onto the hardwood.
Gets closer.
“Rumors are flying,” he adds. “T & T done. Stella not claiming you. Isa not talking to you.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s not wrong.
Isa won’t look at me.
Won’t text.
Won’t show up.
And Stella?
She walked away like she dropped a bomb and didn’t stick around to see what it did.
I grab another ball.
Shoot.
Swish.
Kane stops a few feet from me.
“You fumbled that.”
That one hits.
I turn.
Finally.
“Did I?”
His brows lift.
“You don’t think so?”
I step closer.
Chest still rising. Sweat dripping. Pulse high.
“I didn’t ask for that scene,” I snap. “I didn’t ask for her to come in, flip everything, and blow it up.”
Kane tilts his head.
“She didn’t blow it up,” he says. “She finally said something.”
My jaw tics.
“She had time to say something,” I fire back. “Months. She chose not to.”
“And you chose to move on.”
“Yeah.”
“With someone in front of her.”
That lands harder than it should.
I exhale sharply. “She walked away, Kane.”
He doesn’t flinch. “She asked for time.”
I laugh.
Short. Sharp.
“That’s not how I saw it.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
Silence stretches between us.
Heavy.
Then he steps closer.
Lowering his voice.
“She’s not like the others.”
I scoff.
“I know that.”
“No, you don’t,” he shoots back. “Because if you did, you’d know how hard that was for her.”
I don’t respond.
Because I saw it.
I felt it.
Her voice.
Her eyes.
The way she didn’t run this time.
Kane watches me.
“You think that was a game?” he asks quietly.
My hands flex at my sides.
I don’t answer. Because part of me—knows it wasn’t.
“She put herself on the line for you,” he continues. “No mask. No armor. No bullshit.”
A beat.
“And you walked.”
That one sinks in.
Deep.
I look away.
Back to the court.
Because it’s easier than looking at him.
Easier than admitting—
this isn’t clean.
None of it is.
“I don’t see it that way,” I say finally.
Kane huffs.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s the problem.”
He steps back.
“Just don’t take too long figuring it out,” he adds. “Because girls like her?”
A pause.
“They don’t wait forever.”
Then he turns.
Walks off.
Leaves me there with the ball and the echo of his words.
The gym goes quiet for a second.
Then—“DAMN, VALE!”
Someone yells it from the sidelines.
Coach claps once. Sharp. Satisfied. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
I don’t react.
But I feel it.
That shift.
That edge.
That focus snapping into something lethal.
Because if I can’t control anything else—I can control this. My game.
My future. I grab another ball. Step back to the line.
Bounce.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Shoot.
Swish.
“ESPN’s gonna eat this up,” someone mutters. “Vale and Kane both locked in? NCAA’s cooked.”
Kane laughs somewhere behind me. “They have no idea what’s coming.”
The locker room is louder than it should be. First conference game of the season.
Music blasting. Guys hyping each other up. Tape ripping. Shoes squeaking against tile.
Normal.
Except I don’t feel normal.
I feel… sharp.
Like everything is turned up one notch too high.
“Yo, Vale—ESPN’s here.”
That gets a few whistles.
“Bout time.”
“Showtime, baby.”
I don’t react.
Just finish wrapping my wrist tighter.
Secure.
Controlled.
Because if I don’t lock everything down—
something’s going to slip.
And I already know what.
I step out onto the court.
The lights hit different tonight.
Brighter.
Hotter.
There’s more people than usual.
More cameras.
More noise.
This isn’t practice energy.
This is expectation.
“Starting lineup!”
Coach’s voice cuts through.
We line up.
My name gets called last.
“—Tristan Vale!”
I jog out. Game starts.
And immediately—I’m in it. Not thinking. Not hesitating.
Just moving. First possession—I steal it clean. Take it coast to coast.
Finish hard.
Rim rattles.
Crowd pops.
Good.
That’s what they came for.
Next play—I don’t score. I assist. Sharp pass. Wide open three.
Bucket. Then defense. Lockdown. Force a turnover.
Again.
Again.
Coach is yelling something.
I don’t even hear the words. I just feel the rhythm.
The control. The dominance.
This—this is where I make sense.
Not the library.
Not the conversation.
Not the mess.
Here.
I call a play.
Drive.
Kick out.
Reset.
Then pull from deep—
Swish.
The gym gets louder.
“VALE IS COOKING!” Someone yells it from the stands.
I don’t smile.
But I feel it.
That edge.
That flow.
That version of me that doesn’t hesitate. And for a second—I almost forget everything else.
Until—timeout.
I grab my jersey, wipe my face.
And that’s when I see her.
Not in the stands this time.
Closer.
Baseline.
Near the tunnel.
Stella.
Not watching the game.
Watching me.
Different.
Because I know that look now.
She’s not observing me.
She’s measuring me.
Like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
Something she didn’t account for.
Something that… might matter.
My chest tightens.
And then—someone steps into her space.
Isa.
Boot still on.
Crutches gone.
But she’s standing.
Strong.
Close enough to Stella that it’s not an accident.
My jaw tightens.
Because I see it immediately—
The contrast.
Isa—polished, put together, controlled.
Stella—raw, steady, unreadable.
And both of them?
Looking at me.
Like I’m the center of something I don’t want to be in right now.
Coach claps.
“Lock in!”
I turn back.
Run the next possession harder.
More aggressive.
Because I need distance.
From them and the way this is starting to feel like a choice I’m not ready to make.
I drive into contact.
Take the hit.
Finish anyway.
And one.
The crowd gets louder now.
Chant building.
“VALE! VALE! VALE!”
I step to the line.
Bounce the ball.
Once.
Twice.
And this time—
I don’t look at either of them.
I stare straight ahead.
Because I already know—they’re both still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And I’m not choosing.
Not tonight.
I shoot.
Swish.
Clean.
Controlled.
Contained.
Exactly how it needs to be.