Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Stella
Late summer at Stanford smells like eucalyptus, sunscreen, and ambition. I choose the outdoor stadium again on purpose, last time, I cross trained here— I ran into Vale.
The stadium lights hum overhead even though the sun is already threatening the horizon. The concrete steps hold yesterday’s heat. My shoes slap rhythm into the quiet.
My lungs burn by set three. Sweat gathers at the base of my neck, slides down my spine, disappears into the waistband of my shorts.
Good.
Pain means control.
I hit the landing and shake out my arms when I feel it —
That awareness that someone is watching you not like a stranger…
But like history.
Footsteps behind me.
Heavy but controlled. Not clumsy. Not trying to impress.
I don’t turn right away.
I know.
“Didn’t peg you for sunrise punishment,” he says.
His voice is rough with sleep and something warmer. Something that slides under my skin before I can block it.
I turn.
Tristan Vale stands two steps below me like California built him personally.
His skin is darker, sun catching along his shoulders. Sweat darkens the collar of his training top, fabric clinging just enough to outline muscle that definitely wasn’t there five years ago.
His arms are ridiculous.
Cut biceps. Defined forearms. Strength that looks functional, not decorative. His traps flex when he rolls his shoulders and for one traitorous second my brain supplies the word Viking.
I hate my brain.
“How long you been here?” I ask, because staring would be obvious.
“Long enough,” he says.
His eyes move over me the same way mine moved over him—quick, assessing, not subtle enough to pretend otherwise.
My legs.
My waist.
The sweat at my throat.
His gaze pauses half a second too long at my hips when I turn.
Heat flickers low in my stomach.
Annoying.
“Stair work isn’t glamour cardio,” I say.
“Neither is losing minutes late game.”
I glance back, cock a brow, “You really love punishment.”
He’s already moving.
No showing off. No joking. Just grinding beside me like this isn’t new, like he’s been here all summer.
That unsettles me more than arrogance would have.
We run in silence for two sets.
His breathing stays even. Controlled. Matching mine without trying to outrun me.
I stop at the top.
He stops too.
Close enough that I can feel heat radiating off him. That clean salt-and-soap smell mixed with sweat that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is.
“How’s the beach?” I ask, because distance is safer. I saw the Snap posts going around campus with#Vale and #Huzzhunting tags all of him tan, shirtless and gorgeous with the Pacific framing behind him.
“Hot.”
“I’ll bet.”
His mouth tilts.
“Jealous?”
I roll my eyes, but it’s defensive.
He laughs —low, brief—and my chest does that stupid tightening thing it used to do in hallways at Royal Oaks when he said my name like it mattered.
And then he does it again.
“Stella.”
Just that.
Soft. Rough. Like a secret he’s not supposed to say out loud.
My body remembers before my brain does.
Velvet curtain. Electricity. My hands fisted in his shirt. The live-wire feeling of wanting and being wanted back.
I shut it down immediately.
“You don’t have to follow me around.”
“I’m not following you.”
“You just happen to develop a passion for stairs every time I’m on them?”
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he steps down one bleacher.
Not touching.
But the air shifts.
“I’m not here to mess with you,” he says.
I laugh lightly. “That’s funny.”
His expression changes. Playful drains out.
“You still think it was a bet.”
There it is.
I cross my arms. “Leo, said it was.”
“It wasn’t.”
“That’s convenient.”
His jaw tightens.
He reaches past me and grips the railing, leaning in slightly. Not trapping me. Not quite.
But close enough that I feel his breath near my temple.
“It wasn’t a bet,” he says again, quieter now. “I don’t know why Leo said that. I don’t know who started it. But it wasn’t.”
My pulse jumps.
“Then why didn’t you make it right?”
His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Because the lights came on,” he says. “And I was seventeen. And I panicked.”
“That’s your defense?”
“That’s the truth.”
The space between us feels thin. Fragile.
“You still left me standing there,” I say.
His voice drops.
“I know.”
The admission lands harder than any argument would have.
“That was five years ago,” he continues. “Things are different now.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
I swallow.
“We’re not kids hiding behind curtains anymore,” he says.
“And what are we now?”
He studies me like that answer is obvious.
“Still interested.”
My heart stumbles.
“That’s bold.”
“I’ve learned.”
“From pretending?”
He almost smiles. “From regretting.”
That hits.
I step down one bleacher, forcing space back between us.
He doesn’t close it immediately this time.
“Breakfast,” he says instead. “After this. Café in the sports store. Thirty minutes. Public. Safe. I won’t even sit too close.”
“That sounds like a date.”
“It sounds like eggs.”
“With unresolved history.”
“Adds flavor.”
I hate that I almost laugh.
“I don’t do breakfast with boys who humiliate me,” I say.
“I didn’t humiliate you.”
“You let it happen.”
A beat.
“I won’t do that again,” he says.
The confidence in it is dangerous.
Because part of me believes him.
“It’s a no,” I say carefully.
“For now?”
“Don’t push.”
He lifts his hands slightly in surrender.
“Okay.”
I start down the bleachers.
“Stella.”
I pause but don’t turn fully.
“I’m not chasing you because I’m bored,” he says. “I’m chasing you because I never stopped wanting to.”
My stomach flips.
I hate that it does.
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“No,” he answers. “I’m sure of you.”
That is not fair. Cocky vale is hot AF.
I jog toward the track before I can soften.
Before I can agree to coffee and maybe more…
By midweek, campus stops feeling empty.
It starts humming.
Athletes arrive in waves — duffel bags, foam rollers, protein shakers, the constant rhythm of sneakers squeaking across floors that never really sleep.
Football shows up first.
Then soccer.
Field hockey floods the dining hall in packs, loud and sunburned, lacrosse follows like a traveling party, tennis in crisp white, golf somehow already tan and relaxed.
The athletic dorm turns into a small, overachieving country.
A mini Olympic village.
Energy everywhere.
Music leaking from open doors. Laundry rooms full at midnight. Recovery tubs constantly occupied. Someone always laughing too loud down the hall.
And the rumors.
God, the rumors.
At breakfast.
At lunch.
In the training room.
In the weight room.
Who hooked up.
Who almost hooked up.
Who’s throwing the next party.
By Thursday, my teammates are deep in debate over smoothies after lift.
“I’m telling you,” Lila says, stabbing her straw at the table, “soccer boys have endurance.”
“That is not science,” Mara fires back. “Tennis. It’s all core strength.”
Someone across from me giggles.
I close my eyes.
This again.
They start listing names.
Football.
Soccer.
Rugby.
Comparisons like it’s scouting reports.
My eye roll is aggressive enough that Lila notices.
“What?” she says. “You’re judging.”
“I’m tired,” I reply flatly.
“You’re boring,” Mara counters.
The table erupts.
I take a bite of eggs.
They keep going.
Stories. Teasing. Ranking. The kind of conversation that makes preseason feel like summer camp instead of survival.
Finally, I snap.
“Are we here for volleyball,” I say, setting my fork down, “or are we here for hookups? Because some of you sound like you’re majoring in bad decisions.”
Silence.
Half a second.
Then chaos.
“Ice princess strikes again.”
“God forbid we have fun.”
“Sorry some of us have lives, Cortez.”
I shrug.
“Some of us have scholarships.”
That lands.
Not cruel.
Just true.
Lila softens first.
“You could date, you know?”
“I choose not to.”
Mara smirks.
“No, you’re picky.”
I lean back.
“None of them are good enough.”
The table explodes.
“Ooooh.”
“Standards.”
“Who hurt you?”
I grab my water.
“No one.”
Which isn’t exactly a lie.
It’s just incomplete.
Lila nudges me.
“What about basketball boy?”
I don’t react fast enough.
They see it.
The vultures circle.
“Vale.”
“I saw him watching you.”
“You knew him before, right?”
I keep my expression neutral.
“We went to the same school for a year.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
Mara grins.
“That is not a nothing look.”
I stand, tray in hand.
“Practice in twenty. Try to remember why you’re here.”
As I walk away, they’re still laughing.
Still teasing—living in a world where mistakes are stories instead of consequences.
I wish I could exist there.
Just for a day, but every time I get close—I remember how fast everything can disappear.
Outside, the sun is already brutal.
Music carries from the outdoor basketball court. The one meant for pick up games not for the actual team.
Whistle. Sneakers. Shouts. Tan torsos. Abs.
I don’t mean to look.
I do anyway.
Tristan is mid-scrimmage.
Sweat shining across his shoulders, moving through bodies like contact doesn’t slow him down— it redirects him.
He rebounds. Lands. Immediately scans.
It’s instinct.
It’s intelligence.
It’s… dangerous.
Kane calls a play.
Tristan nods without argument.
That catches my attention.
No ego.
Just adjustment.
He glances toward the sideline.
Sees me.
Doesn’t wave.
Doesn’t smile.
Just holds my gaze for a second like we’re continuing a conversation no one else can hear.
My stomach does that stupid drop again.
I break eye contact first. Try not to stare at him shirtless like every other female—because they won’t stop looking.
Discipline is a habit.
Attraction is a liability.
Because boys like Tristan Vale don’t ruin your life all at once.
They do it slowly.
And I cannot afford slow disasters.