Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stella
I know something’s off before anyone says it.
Athletic complexes have their own ecosystem. You can feel shifts the way animals feel weather.
Energy travels.
And this morning?
Something changed.
I notice it in the weight room first.
Kane and Tristan are already there.
Not just there.
Together.
Laughing.
Not loud. Not performative. Just easy — Kane leaning against the rack with that cocky half-grin he wears when he’s about to win an argument, Tristan rolling his shoulders like the bar is an afterthought, one stubborn lock of dark hair falling over his forehead every time he resets between reps.
It shouldn’t be distracting.
It is.
Kane smells like pine and cloves when I pass — clean, warm, grounding — the same scent that lingers on his hoodies when he tosses them over chairs like he owns the room.
Tristan smells different.
Cologne that’s subtle and expensive and impossible to name. Like cedar and sunlight and something sharper underneath.
My stomach clenches for no reason I want to admit.
What the hell.
Tristan spots me first. His eyes flick over — quick, controlled — then back to the bar. His hot pink Nikes flash when he steps into position, obnoxious against the monochrome gym like he enjoys breaking expectations.
Kane nods at me.
My stomach twists.
By lunch, it’s worse.
Basketball guys are talking about “the towers” like they’re a package deal. Film sessions. Extra reps. Recovery tubs at the same time.
Someone actually says bromance in the dining hall.
I stab my salad harder than necessary.
I don’t know what they talked about.
I don’t know what Tristan told him.
I don’t know what Kane knows now.
And I hate not knowing.
And they seemed to have both ditched pursuing me to become best boys.
For three days, it’s the same.
They move like symmetry.
On the court it’s terrifying — Kane’s no-look passes landing exactly where Tristan’s hands already are, Tristan absorbing contact like physics is optional.
Coaches are thrilled.
Teammates are obsessed.
And me?
I feel invisible.
Which is ridiculous.
I’ve never needed attention.
But the absence of it from two very specific people feels louder than noise.
Tristan stops watching me constantly.
Not cold.
Not distant.
Just focused — jaw set, free throws steady, that stupid lock of hair falling forward and getting pushed back with the same absent gesture every time.
I notice that I notice.
I hate that.
Kane still flirts — texts about class, shoulder bumps, stealing my favorite black hair ties off my wrist and snapping them before giving them back — but there’s less urgency. More certainty.
Like he’s not chasing blind anymore.
Like something settled.
And the question sits under my skin all week—what did they say about me?
By Thursday, I’m annoyed enough to react.
I take longer getting ready for practice.
Not obvious.
Just details.
My favorite hair tie — the soft charcoal one that doesn’t snap mid-drill. The tank that makes my shoulders look strong instead of small. Lip balm instead of bare lips.
Armor, but prettier.
Lila notices immediately.
“Who are we dressing for?”
“No one.”
“Liar.”
I roll my eyes.
But the truth is uncomfortable.
Because I don’t know whose attention I want more.
Kane’s attention feels safe.
Chosen. Intentional. Pine and cloves and steady hands at my waist.
Tristan’s attention feels like static electricity under my skin. Like the second before a storm breaks.
Both make my stomach clench.
I hate that too.
At practice, awareness hums even when they’re not looking.
Kane argues spacing with a grin that says he already knows he’s right. Tristan listens, then adjusts — competitive but aligned — pink sneakers squeaking across the floor like punctuation.
They look good together.
That thought annoys me immediately.
I spike harder than necessary.
Coach whistles.
“Cortez.”
“Got it.”
Kane glances over — concern first, always.
Tristan doesn’t.
And somehow that lands heavier.
I don’t want him staring.
I don’t want to disappear either.
God. I’m exhausting.
Later, hallway.
Kane falls into step beside me, pine and cloves again, familiar enough to feel like habit.
“You’re in your head.”
“I’m always in my head.”
He bumps my shoulder, steals my hair tie again, spins it around his fingers like a nervous tell he doesn’t realize he has.
“You don’t have to compete.”
I stop walking.
“I’m not competing.”
His grin says otherwise.
Across the hall, Tristan exits film. Free-throw hair lock. Pink Nikes. Focused eyes that find me automatically like muscle memory.
Three seconds.
Awareness.
Then he nods once and keeps walking.
No performance.
No claim.
Just gravity.
My chest tightens anyway.
And the question finally surfaces, unavoidable:
Whose attention do I actually want?
The boy who steadies me?
Or the one who makes everything feel like it could burn?
I don’t have the answer yet.
But the fact that both exist—
Means nothing about this is simple anymore.
Campus changes overnight.
Late August flips a switch — dorm doors propped open, parents hauling mini fridges, freshmen walking in packs like nervous birds. The quiet athlete bubble dissolves into real university chaos.
Schedules drop. Group chats explode. The dining hall gets louder.
Delia and I sit cross-legged on my bed comparing class times like we’re planning a military operation.
“Two labs back-to-back?” she groans.
“I’ll trade you for my 8 a.m. stats.”
She snorts.
Volleyball is no longer preseason.
It’s real now.
Film. Travel plans. Rotations. The constant low buzz of expectation.
I stay off social media.
I need my head right.
This is my season.
My scholarship.
My future.
I see less of basketball now.
Different gym blocks. Different schedules.
But Tristan exists in flashes.
Across the quad with Kane.
In the athletic complex hallway, pink Nikes and that stupid Henley that somehow looks casual and expensive at the same time.
Always surrounded — teammates, groupies, girls who orbit like proximity might translate into importance.
I pretend it doesn’t register.
It does.
Kane corners me after class on Thursday.
Literally.
I step out of the lecture hall and he’s leaning against the wall like he planned it.
“Did you forget about our date, Stell?” he asks.
His voice is low, amused.
The smell of his aftershave hits first — pine and cloves again — and my stomach does that annoying, traitorous flip.
“I didn’t forget,” I say.
“Good,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Because I didn’t.”
His Henley is fitted tonight, sleeves pushed up, tan skin and muscle like he belongs in sunlight. He looks… intentional.
And suddenly a thought slides in, uninvited:
Maybe Tristan isn’t the only man who affects my libido.
Maybe I’ve just denied myself too long.
I step back before that thought settles.
“Oh,” I say lightly. “I figured you were busy with your bromance. You and Tristan seem very committed.”
His grin widens.
“Jealous?”
I smack his chest as I move past.
“In your dreams.”
“Stella,” he calls, following. “Our date.”
I stop.
Turn.
He watches me carefully now.
“You backing out on your word?”
I sigh.
“Fine.”
The relief in his face is subtle but real.
And that does something to my chest I don’t examine too closely.
The burger place is right on the beach.
String lights. Salt air. Grease and music and the kind of casual that makes people fall in love by accident.
I wear cut-off denim that shows the muscle in my legs from years of training, wedge sandals that make them look longer, a soft tank that catches the breeze. Coconut oil on my shoulders. Hair blown out and falling down my back instead of pulled tight.
I look hot.
I know it.
Kane definitely knows it.
“You clean up dangerous,” he says when I sit.
“You say that to everyone.”
“No,” he says. “Just you.”
We talk easily.
Classes. Travel schedules. His mom. My siblings. The kind of conversation that feels… normal.
He makes me laugh.
Really laugh.
For a second, everything feels simple.
Then the door opens.
And my stomach drops before I even turn.
Tristan walks in with the guys like coincidence is a myth. Fitted tee tonight, sleeves hugging his arms, hair slightly messy like he ran his hands through it on the way. That one lock falls forward again.
His eyes find me immediately.
Then Kane.
Then the table.
I stare at Kane.
“What the fuck.”
Kane exhales, annoyed.
“I told some of the guys where I was bringing you,” he says. “Looks like they decided to crash.”
My irritation spikes fast.
“I went out with you,” I say quietly. “Not with him.”
Kane’s jaw tightens — not defensive, just frustrated.
“I didn’t invite a parade, Stell.”
Across the restaurant, Tristan says something to the group but his attention keeps drifting back.
It’s not subtle.
I hate that it affects me.
“What’s going on with you two anyway?” I ask Kane. “You’re supposed to be rivals.”
He glances toward the counter where Tristan’s ordering, then back at me.
“Tristan’s a great guy,” he says simply.
That throws me.
“You’re talking him up?”
“We’re trying to win,” Kane says. “Team chemistry matters.”
I stare at him.
“You know he’s into me, right?”
Kane shrugs.
“Yeah. So what?”
My brain stalls.
“I am too,” he continues. “Not going caveman over it.”
I blink.
“You’re serious.”
He smiles slightly.
“We let you choose, Stell. Not that complicated.”
Nothing about this feels simple.
Across the room, Tristan’s watching us — not possessive, not smug. Just aware. Like he’s waiting for something he can’t control.
And that might be the most destabilizing part of all.
Because the game changed.
And no one told me the rules.
We leave before dessert.
The restaurant got too loud. Too crowded. Too full of eyes that knew our names.
Kane doesn’t argue when I nod toward the door. He just stands, drops cash on the table, and falls into step beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The beach is quieter at night.
Waves rolling in steady. String lights fading behind us. Sand cool under my feet when I slip off my wedges and carry them.
For a minute, we don’t talk.
Then his hand brushes mine.
I hesitate.
He doesn’t grab — just leaves the space there, an invitation.
I take it.
His fingers lace through mine, warm and sure, and something in my chest loosens.
“I haven’t dated since junior year,” I admit, staring at the water.
He glances over. Doesn’t tease.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I kind of… locked in. Volleyball. Life.” I huff softly. “I’ll spare you the ex stories. Especially on a first date.”
His thumb brushes my knuckles.
“No rush.”
We stop where the shoreline curves away from the lights.
The wind pushes my hair forward. He reaches up automatically, tucks it behind my ear like he’s done it a hundred times already.
My heart stutters.
“Stell,” he says quietly.
And then he kisses me.
Gentle.
Intentional.
His hand cups my jaw, not demanding, just grounding, and my toes curl in the sand before I can stop them.
It’s warm. Steady. Real.
No lightning strike. No chaos.
But something opens anyway.
For a second, I let myself lean into it — into the possibility of a boy who makes sense. Starting point guard. Future draft pick. NIL money. Stability.
A life that wouldn’t feel like constant freefall.
I pull back first.
Not because I didn’t feel it.
Because I did.
“If we do this,” I say, searching his face, “can I trust you? Like… actually trust you?”
He doesn’t get defensive.
Doesn’t laugh.
“I’m not a saint, Stell,” he says. “Never pretended to be.”
Honest.
“But those girls?” he continues, shaking his head. “Background noise. You’re different. You get the grind. You get what it costs to be here.”
His hand squeezes mine.
“Other girls want time and attention I don’t have. You don’t. You’re built for the same life I am.”
My chest tightens.
“If you give me a real shot,” he says, voice softer now, “I wouldn’t mess that up. You’d be the only one.”
That lands.
Because Kane doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
We start walking again, slower now.
The waves fill the silence while my brain tries to catch up with my heart.
Safe.
Possible.
Good.
At the dorm steps, he stops.
“So?” he asks lightly.
I study him — the Henley, the cocky grin softened by nerves he’s pretending he doesn’t have, the pine-and-clove scent that already feels familiar.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “But I’m not committing after one date, Callahan.”
His smile returns, easy.
“Fair.”
He brushes a kiss against my temple this time. No pressure.
No claim.
And that might be why it lingers.
As I walk inside, one thought follows me up the stairs:
Kane makes sense.
So why does choosing still feel complicated?