Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Tristan
I strolled across campus just taking it all in. Maybe my outfit was a bit much— but I had just met a business acquaintance of my father’s for coffee. Heads turned as I entered the sports complex. My designer shades hid my eyes—but everyone knew who I was.
This was my third trip to Stanford. And the final one. It was time to sign paperwork. Make it official. Get Keycards. A Student ID. Then head to compliance meetings. Handshakes. Smiles. The part where a decision stops being theoretical and turns into a life.
Spring semester had ended weeks ago. But most athletes stay year round, take summer courses to lighten the academic load and train. Fall sports are already in pre-season mode with the semester already starts in three or four weeks.
The athletic complex smells like cut grass, rubber, and sun-baked concrete.
Inside, everything hums—music somewhere in the weight room, shoes squeaking on hardwood, whistles, voices, bodies in motion.
Basketball has the court in an hour, for now they are in the annex gym. Volleyball is finishing up now.
I’m enjoying the moment. The sounds, smells and sights of my new home. Letting it all sink in— when something catches.
A flash of long tan legs.
Strong. Cut. Controlled.
A high ponytail snapping through the air as she pivots.
Then the light catches her hair—dark as wet ink, almost blue-black under the gym lights.
And then—
She laughs.
That’s what stops me.
Not the legs.
Not the body.
Not even the hair.
The laugh.
Low. Sharp. Unrestrained.
I know that laugh…?
No—
I remember that laugh.
My chest goes tight before my brain catches up.
She turns.
One arm draws back.
She jumps.
And the ball detonates off the hardwood with a crack that echoes through the gym.
A whistle shrills.
“Cortez!” the coach barks. “Get your head in the practice!”
Cortez.
The name hits like a fist straight to the sternum.
My pulse stutters.
She bends for the ball.
And I stop breathing.
And then she looks up.
Our eyes meet.
Everything slows.
The air thickens.
Noise drops.
It’s like the earth forgets to breathe.
Stella.
Stella Cortez.
Older.
Stronger.
Fiercer.
There’s nothing soft about her now.
She doesn’t look startled.
She looks… offended.
Like fate just insulted her.
It hits me again.
This isn’t coincidence.
This is the universe laughing.
Kismet.
Serendipity.
Whatever you want to call it—
It’s a second chance staring me straight in the face.
And she hates it.
A slow smirk tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
Five years and she still sets my blood on fire.
She sees the smirk.
Her jaw tightens.
Next serve.
She tosses.
Launches.
The ball slices through the air and slams into the wall inches from my head.
The crack reverberates through the gym.
Players freeze.
Coach blows his whistle.
“Cortez! Go get the ball!”
I’m already moving.
Grinning like a son of a bitch.
I retrieve it before she can.
Turn it in my hands once.
Walk it to her.
Slow.
Measured.
She stands her ground.
Arms loose at her sides.
Breathing steady.
Up close, I have to look down.
I stop a foot away.
Hold the ball between us.
She’s irritated. I find it sexy as hell. The air crackles with invisible sparks.
This is what I’ve been missing….
“Cortez? You missed?”
“I won’t next time.”
“Didn’t realize this was your court.”
“It is and I don’t remember inviting you on it.”
Her eyes flash.
“You’re still in the way.”
God.
There it is.
That spark.
Alive.
Untamed.
I hand her the ball.
Our fingers brush.
Brief.
Electric.
It’s like sticking a finger in a socket all over again.
She feels it too.
I see it in the micro-flinch.
But she doesn’t look away.
Coach whistles again.
“Cortez! Focus!”
She steps back.
I watch her jog back into position.
She tosses.
Jumps.
Cracks the ball into the floor like she’s issuing a challenge.
Coach Canely steps beside me.
“You know her?” he asks casually.
I don’t take my eyes off her.
“Yeah.”
He studies my expression.
“Problem?”
I smile faintly.
“Not for me.”
Coach laughs.
“We’re meeting Haverhill in five.”
I nod.
Still watching her.
Still feeling that charge in my bloodstream.
I didn’t come to Stanford for this… but the second her name echoed across this gym—
I knew.
I’m not leaving without signing.
Fate doesn’t knock twice.
And this time?
I’m not freezing when the lights come on.
“Vale,” Coach calls. “You remember Haverhill?”
Kane steps forward before the introduction finishes.
Closer up, he’s all economy. Lean muscle. Focused eyes. The kind of player who runs a floor like it’s his.
Handshake.
Firm.
Deliberate.
“Harvard” he says.
“For the next two minutes,” I smirk. “Until I officially sign.”
Coach starts in on roster talk—rotations, tempo, spacing— but Kane’s attention shifts.
Toward the partition.
I don’t have to look to know why.
But I do anyway.
Stella’s at the service line.
Sweat darkens the neckline of her tank.
A slow drop trails down the center of her throat, disappears beneath fabric.
Her ponytail swings as she rolls her shoulders loose.
She tosses the ball.
Jumps.
The crack when she connects echoes through both courts.
Perfect form.
Controlled violence.
Kane’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Mine probably does too.
Coach stops mid-sentence.
“Boys,” he says dryly. “We signing you to the basketball program or the volleyball one?”
Kane huffs a laugh but doesn’t look away.
“Just appreciating cross-training, Coach.”
“Uh-huh.”
Stella lands.
Her gaze flicks toward us.
Just once.
Quick.
Assessing.
She sees us standing there together.
She hits the next ball harder.
It rockets over the net and smacks the far wall.
Coach blows a whistle.
“Cortez! Dial it in!”
Kane’s eyes follow the line of sweat down her arm.
The flex in her legs as she resets.
“She’s good,” he says casually.
It’s not casual.
“Yeah,” I reply.
He glances at me.
“You know her?”
This is the moment.
I shrug lightly.
“Think she went to my prep school freshman year.”
That’s all I give him.
Neutral.
Unthreatening.
Like it doesn’t matter.
Kane studies me.
“She didn’t stay long there.”
There’s something protective in the way he says it.
“You keep tabs on the volleyball team?” I ask mildly.
He smirks.
“I keep tabs on everything in my gym. Especially, her.”
My gym?
Interesting.
“Looks like it’s my gym now. You’ll have to share.” We lock eyes at my words.
“Somethings a man doesn’t share, Vale.”
Us both knowing we’re not talking about the gym anymore.
Stella serves again.
Cleaner this time.
But when she lands, her eyes flick between us.
Me.
Then him.
Then away.
And it’s subtle —
The shift in her shoulders when Kane’s watching.
The way she straightens slightly when I am.
We both see it.
Coach claps his hands once.
“Vale, paperwork’s inside.”
I nod, but neither of us move immediately.
Kane’s voice drops just enough that Coach can’t hear.
“You transferring to help us win a title?” he asks.
“Think you can carry a team to one, Haverhill? I watched the tapes. The Sweet Sixteen game against Michigan was a bit rough.”
His eyes narrow a fraction. “Coach, can you believe this guy talking shit already?”
Both of us pretending to follow coach as our eyes drift back over our shoulders.
“Remind me to text the athletic director to make sure we don’t share the weight room or field house time with women’s volleyball.” Coach shakes his head, “Don’t make me regret this Vale. I’m signing you for the game we play on the court not the ones you boys run off of it. You understand?”
“Perfectly. I’m good coach.”
“Good.” He nods.
Translation: stay in your lane.
I glance back toward Stella.
She’s pretending not to notice the air tightening.
But her next spike is almost reckless.
Ball flies wide.
Coach whistles again.
“Cortez! What the hell? Did you overdose on those fancy energy drinks this morning?”
Kane exhales slowly.
“Focus,” he mutters — not to her, not to me. To himself.
Coach shakes his head.
“You two planning to stand there all afternoon? Or are we building a Final Four team?” Coach rolls his eyes.
Kane breaks eye contact first.
“Let’s win something,” he says.
But when he says it?
He’s still half-watching her.
And I don’t like that.
Not one bit.
Which is probably for the best.
Coach walks me through the rest of the visit like nothing seismic just happened.
Locker room. Film room. Weight training facility that looks like a tech startup fused with a performance lab. Glass walls. Screens flashing biometric data like stock tickers.
“Upperclassmen can apply for off-campus housing,” he says as we move through a private corridor. “But we strongly discourage it.”
“Why?”
He grins. “We like our athletes close. Less trouble. More cohesion.”
The athletic dorms aren’t dorms.
They’re a vertical country club.
Private chef.
In-house dietitians.
Study lounges with tutors on rotation.
IT support on call twenty-four-seven.
Concierge desk handling everything from class scheduling conflicts to NIL contracts.
“If your laptop dies at three a.m., someone fixes it,” Coach says. “If your syllabus changes, we know before you do.”
I nod like I’m weighing logistics.
In reality, I’m scanning every hallway.
Every auxiliary court.
Every flash of dark hair in the distance.
I don’t ask about her.
I don’t check the women’s practice schedule posted outside the training room.
I don’t linger too long anywhere that would make it obvious I’m looking.
But I am.
We loop back to Coach’s office. He slides the paperwork across the desk.
The Stanford letterhead feels heavier than it should.
This isn’t just a transfer.
It’s a pivot.
A bet on myself.
On something bigger than Harvard’s stone buildings and expectations that were chosen for me before I could spell my own name.
I sign.
No hesitation.
The second the pen leaves the page, something inside me settles.
Coach stands and claps my back.
“Welcome to the Cardinal.”