Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Stella
Getting ready for the mixer feels ridiculous and I hate that I care.
Our shared bathroom is chaos—curling irons, bronzer palettes, someone blasting a throwback playlist while Mara debates outfits like it’s draft night.
I stand at the mirror longer than usual with my skin smelling like vanilla body lotion. The expensive one I save for game days. It melts into my skin, soft and warm, the scent subtle but impossible not to notice up close.
My hair falls in loose waves tonight instead of the tight practice ponytail. Gloss instead of chapstick. Mascara on and lashes curled.
Still me.
Just… sharper.
Lila leans against the counter and smirks.
“Who are you and what have you done with Stella Cortez?”
I don’t look away from my reflection.
Mara laughs. “Ice princess in lip gloss. Historic.”
I grab my sandals.
“You’re all dramatic.”
“You look hot,” Lila says simply.
I hate that my stomach flips.
Because part of me wanted that confirmed.
The beach is already loud when we arrive.
Firelight. Music. Sand sticking to everything. Athletes moving in clusters like ecosystems.
Kane spots me instantly. “Well,” he says when I reach him. “Worth the wait.”
“You say that to everyone?”
“No,” he says easily. “Just you.”
He hands me a hard seltzer. Our fingers brush. His gaze lingers — not greedy, just certain.
We fall into conversation like we always do. Easy rhythm. Inside jokes about lifts, coaches, early alarms.
After a minute, his tone shifts.
“So,” he says, nudging the sand with his shoe. “It’s been a year since we met. Tonight. Right here.”
I glance at him.
He doesn’t look away.
“I’m still interested, if you ever decide to let me be.”
Direct. No performance.
I deflect because that’s what I do.
“I’ve seen the girls you give tickets to,” I say. “Your fan club is thriving.”
He smiles slowly.
“Baby, if you were mine, you’d be the only one getting tickets.”
Heat climbs my neck before I can stop it.
I laugh it off, but the air changes.
We drift closer. Shoulder to shoulder. Conversation dipping into that flirty space that feels safe with him because he never pushes past what I give.
And then—
I feel it.
That shift in awareness.
I don’t turn immediately.
I already know.
Tristan is there.
Moving through the crowd like gravity tilts around him. White tee, sun-browned skin, that effortless confidence that used to feel like a promise and now feels like a warning.
I pretend not to see him.
I lean into Kane instead.
Laugh louder. Hold eye contact longer. Let his hand rest at my waist a second more than usual.
Kane doesn’t realize why.
He just thinks I’m finally softening.
Then Tristan is in front of us.
“Haverhill,” he drawls. Then, “Stella.” He says my name in that secret almost sand paper like whisper. My name lands differently in his mouth. Always has.
“What’s up, Vale?” Kane pulls me closer.
Tristan’s eyes move between us.
“Mind if I steal her for a minute? The queen of the court and I have some catching up t do.”
Kane looks at me.
I sigh like it’s an inconvenience. “Fine.”
We walk toward the water again. He doesn’t start with nostalgia.
He starts with curiosity. “How did it work out for you after Royal Oaks?”
I stare at the waves. “I made it work.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
I exhale. “It got ugly after homecoming,” I admit. “That kiss didn’t help.”
His jaw tightens.
“The girls came after me,” I continue. “And at states… someone served a ball straight into the back of my head.”
He looks up sharply.
“That wasn’t an accident?”
“No,” I say quietly. “It wasn’t. Granted I was at net, so she had plausible deniability.”
Silence stretches.
The ocean fills it.
“I didn’t know,” he says.
“You weren’t supposed to.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with something that happened years too late.
“But we’re not there anymore,” he says finally. “We’re not kids.”
I cross my arms.
“Pretty boys don’t stop being pretty boys.”
His gaze locks onto mine.
“You still light me on fire, Stell.”
The words hit like impact.
My body reacts before my brain can armor up. Pulse jumps. Breath catches. My pupils widen—I know they do because I feel exposed in a way I hate.
Five years disappears for half a second.
Electricity. Static. That impossible awareness.
I step back.
Because I cannot afford to believe him.
“You always did say the right thing,” I say, quieter now. “That doesn’t mean I trust it.”
Something flickers across his face—not anger, not ego.
Respect. Maybe.
“I’m not asking you to trust it,” he says. “I’m just telling you it’s still true.”
The honesty is worse than charm. We walk away from the waves through the seagrass to a small beach garden. I stop just past an arbor covered in string lights.
I shake my head.
“Dangerous habit, Vale.”
“Wanting you?”
“Yes.”
His eyes are dark and intense as he sweeps my face. The moment is charged but awkward. He shifts closer—his gaze now fixated on my mouth. He bends his head, our lips now a whisper away.
I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin, the faint scent of whiskey and something sharper, like pine and clean sweat.
My pulse is hammering so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
One of his hands comes up slowly, not quite touching me, hovering just above my waist like he’s giving me the chance to pull away.
I don’t.
My fingers curl into the front of his shirt instead, the fabric warm from his body. For one dizzying second, the garden disappears—the fairy lights, the distant bass from the party, everything narrows to the space between our mouths. His lips part slightly. So do mine.
Then—
A loud, sloppy giggle slices through the night air.
“Oh my god, is that him?”
“Shhh! You’re so loud, bitch!”
“No, you shhh—wait, is that the new recruit? Vale? Holy shit, he’s even hotter up close.”
We freeze.
Tristan’s forehead drops against mine for half a second, a frustrated exhale rushing out of him. His hand finally makes contact with my waist, but it’s not the way I wanted—more like he’s steadying himself against the interruption.
Three girls come stumbling around the corner of the hedge, arms linked, champagne flutes dangling dangerously from their fingers. One of them is wearing a sparkly “Future Mrs. Somebody” sash that’s sliding off her shoulder. They’re all flushed and giggling, clearly several drinks past polite.
The tallest one spots us and stops so abruptly her friends nearly topple into her.
“Oh… shit. Are we interrupting something?”
The shortest one squints at Tristan like she’s trying to focus through beer goggles. “Wait… you’re the new basketball guy, right? The one who the coach won’t shut up about? We’ve been looking for you everywhere! The girls dared me to get a picture with you for the group chat.”
She holds up her phone like it’s a trophy, the flash already half-on.
Tristan doesn’t move away from me immediately. His hand stays on my waist, thumb pressing just a little harder into the fabric of my dress, a silent promise that this isn’t over. But he turns his head toward them, jaw tight, voice low and rough.
“Not a great time.”
The girls don’t take the hint. The one in the sash laughs too loudly, nearly spilling her drink on the roses.
“Aww, come on! Just one pic! You’re basically campus royalty now. And she—” she waves vaguely in my direction, “—can join too! You two look cute. Are you hooking up? Is this a thing?”
My face burns. I try to step back, but Vale’s grip tightens just enough to keep me there.
“Later,” he says, the word clipped, before releasing me.
“But we told everyone we’d find you!” the third girl whines, already trying to angle her phone for a selfie. “It’s for our sorority’s Instagram…”
A sharp, tipsy laugh cuts her off as one of them trips over a low garden border and grabs her friend for balance, sending all three into another fit of giggles.
Vale mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse, then finally lifts his head fully. The heat between us is still there, simmering under the surface, but the spell is shattered.
He looks down at me, eyes still dark, still hungry, the almost-kiss hanging between us like unfinished business.
“Stay right here,” he says quietly, only for me. “Don’t move.”
Then he turns toward the girls with a strained, polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Alright. One picture. Make it quick.”
As he steps toward them, I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of what almost happened.
The interruption saved me.
Or maybe it just delayed the inevitable.
Because believing him would require admitting that I never stopped feeling it too.
And that is the one risk I refuse to take.
I slip away and walk back toward the fire.
Kane looks up immediately.
Tristan follows a few minutes later, a scowl on his face as he scans the crowd for me. But people close in around Tristan within minutes — laughter, hands, girls angling closer like proximity is currency.
I watch for one second too long.
Then I look away.
Because discipline is survival.
Even when it hurts.
I don’t look at him again.
I slip back into Kane’s orbit like nothing happened.
He reads me the way he always does—quick scan, quiet concern.
“You good?” he asks softly.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He studies my face for half a beat, then lets it go.
That’s what I like about Kane.
He doesn’t interrogate.
He adjusts.
He slides his arm around my shoulders, warm and steady, and we drift closer to the music.
His hand rests low on my waist. Not claiming. Not showy. Just there.
Safe.
“You’re different tonight,” he murmurs near my ear.
“Different how?”
“Like you’re proving something.”
I scoff lightly. “To who?”
He doesn’t answer.
Because we both know.
The mixer swells louder as more bodies spill onto the sand.
And then the energy shifts.
High-pitched laughter. Perfume cloud. Coordinated outfits.
Great more sorority girls have just arrived via their own private party bus.
A whole wave of them.
Stanford has a few elite houses, but the one strutting down the beach like they own it?
Kappa Epsilon.
Legacy rich. Ivy-bound parents. Hedge fund fathers and Beverly Hills mothers who call their daughters “investments.”
And their president?
Blonde. Sculpted. Diamond studs flashing in the firelight.
I know her type instantly.
She clocks Tristan before her heels even hit the sand. He’s a gravitational anomaly.
She moves toward him with surgical precision.
Touches his arm like she’s checking quality.
Laughs too loudly at something he says.
Her fingers slide up his bicep slowly — not subtle.
He doesn’t push her away.
Doesn’t lean into it either.
Just stands there, letting it happen.
Another girl steps closer.
Then another.
They orbit him like he’s already theirs.
My stomach tightens.
Sharp. Unexpected.
It’s ridiculous.
I don’t want him.
I don’t trust him.
I don’t need him.
So why does the sight of Kappa Epsilon royalty running her hands over his arms feel like a blade sliding under my ribs?
Kane follows my gaze.
His jaw tightens slightly.
“They’re bold,” he says.
“Desperate,” I correct.
“You jealous?”
I turn slowly.
“Of what?”
He smirks faintly.
“Thought so.”
He leans in closer, brushing his nose lightly against my temple.
My body reacts—not electric like Tristan.
Warmer.
Grounded.
Safer.
“You should let me take you out,” he says quietly.
There it is.
Not a joke.
Not a tease.
“Like… out?” I ask.
“Like a date, Stella.”
The word hangs between us.
Date.
Intentional.
I hesitate.
Because Kane is good.
Because he sees me.
Because he’s patient.
And because some small, selfish part of me knows he thinks tonight is progress.
My eyes flick across the fire again.
Tristan laughs at something Kappa says.
Her hand is still on him.
Another girl leans into his shoulder.
He isn’t fighting it.
He isn’t chasing me either.
And that?
That hurts more than it should.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say to Kane.
He blinks.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Take me out.”
His smile is slow and genuine.
Not victorious.
Relieved.
He squeezes my waist gently.
“Tomorrow?”
“Text me.”
We’re interrupted by louder music as someone drags another speaker closer to the flames.
The basketball guys start chanting something stupid.
And then Kane leans in again.
“There’s an after-party at the house,” he says. “Small. Just the team. You should come.”
I glance back one more time.
Tristan’s surrounded now.
Kappa Epsilon’s president is practically pressed against him, laughing up at his face like she’s already rehearsing wedding photos.
He bends slightly to hear her better.
Or maybe she pulls him down.
Either way—
The visual lands.
Hard.
I turn back to Kane.
“Yeah,” I say again. “Let’s go.”
We weave through the crowd.
As we walk, I feel it.
That awareness.
That weight.
Tristan’s eyes.
On my back.
On Kane’s hand at my waist.
On the way I don’t look back.
Good.
Let him wonder.
Let him think I might let Kane take me home tonight.
Let him feel a fraction of what it’s like to lose control of a narrative.
Kane laces his fingers through mine as we leave the glow of the fire.
“You sure?” he asks quietly.
“I’m sure.”
And for once, I don’t know if I’m lying to him—
Or to myself.