Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Stella
The whistle blows and the sound cracks through the gym like a gunshot.
Game over.
We win.
The place erupts—music blasting, sneakers pounding, bodies colliding in celebration—but I barely hear it over the roar in my own head.
Because I’m not watching the scoreboard.
I’m watching him.
And I swear—I have never seen him like that.
Not at Royal Oaks.
Not in flashes.
Not in memory.
This?
This is something else.
He’s not just good.
He’s dominant.
Controlled violence in motion.
Every cut sharp. Every shot clean. Every decision like it was made before anyone else even realized there was a choice.
He didn’t play like someone trying to prove something. He played like someone who already knew.
And that—that does something to me. Something dangerous.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag, the nylon digging into my palm, grounding me because my body feels like it’s floating somewhere just outside itself.
I swallow.
Hard.
Because I thought I knew what he was.
Cocky.
Privileged.
Untouchable.
I was wrong.
He’s worse.
He’s earned.
And that?
That hits different.
The crowd starts to thin, but I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because he’s still out there.
And I’m still watching.
And then—she steps closer.
Isa.
She’s right there at the baseline now, closer than she was before, her posture straight, chin lifted, like she belongs in his orbit.
Like she’s already claimed her place there.
Her hair’s perfect. Lip gloss untouched. That soft Texas glow under the lights like she walked out of a campaign ad for “future everything.”
She looks like what he should want.
What makes sense.
I hate that thought.
Because for a second—I feel small again.
Like that girl.
The one who got run out.
The one who wasn’t enough.
My fingers flex.
No.
I’m not her. Not anymore. I straighten my shoulders, forcing my spine tall, grounding myself back into my own body.
I earned my place here and I’m not shrinking for anyone.
Not again.
But still—I watch.
Because I need to know.
He jogs toward the sideline, grabbing a towel, dragging it over his face, chest rising and falling like he just came out of war.
Sweat slicks his skin, his shirt clinging to him, muscles still tense, still ready.
Still dangerous.
And Isa—she moves.
Subtle.
But intentional.
A step forward.
Into his path. Her hand lifts slightly, like she’s about to reach for him—I hold my breath. Because this is it, right? This is the part where he goes to her. Where it all makes sense. Where I’m too late. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. Won’t even look at her.
He walks right past, like she’s not even there.
My heart stutters.
Isa freezes.
It’s small.
Barely noticeable.
But I see it.
The flicker.
The confusion.
The hurt.
Her hand drops. And Tristan?
He keeps walking toward the tunnel away from both of us.
I exhale shakily, dragging a hand through my hair, loosening the tension at the base of my skull. I glance toward Isa again.
She’s composed already. Chin high. Back straight. Mask back in place. We share a brief glance before I turn walking away. This thing with the three of us—it’s bad. Three hearts stuck on instant replay.