Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Stella
Practice runs long the day the world decides I’m supposed to pick a dress.
Sweat still cooling on my skin, knees aching, hair twisted into that same charcoal tie that’s survived every season with me like a tiny piece of armor.
Coach finally blows the whistle.
“Hydrate. Ice. And try to look like human beings tonight.”
The locker room explodes.
Banquet energy is different from game energy. Less nerves. More possibility. The girls crowd mirrors, towels wrapped around damp hair, talking over each other about heels and dates and whether football boys actually know how to tie ties.
Delia throws me a look.
“You’re coming.”
“That was never the question.”
“The question,” Mara says, grinning, “is who you’re coming with.”
I shove my bag into my locker.
“Stella Cortez. Flying solo. Alone.” I say dryly.
They groan.
“Ice princess,” Lila sighs. “Still no one’s melted you?”
I pretend that question doesn’t land harder than it should.
Shopping with the girls is better than I thought it would be.
Racks sliding. Hangers clacking. Designer fragrance mysteriously lingering in the air from the cosmetic counters. Mirrors everywhere — versions of myself I don’t always recognize.
I don’t do this often.
My life is spandex and sneakers and tape on my fingers.
But tonight feels… different.
The dress finds me instead of the other way around.
Deep navy satin. Simple lines. The kind of dress that doesn’t beg for attention but holds it anyway. It skims muscle instead of hiding it. Makes me look strong and soft at the same time.
I step out of the fitting room.
Silence.
Then chaos.
“Oh my God.”
“Stella.”
“You look—”
I look at myself in the mirror and feel that strange disconnect — like I’m meeting the version of me other people see.
Hair down. Collarbone catching the light. Legs that tell the story of years of work.
“You’re going to ruin someone tonight,” Delia declares.
I swallow.
That’s the problem.
I don’t know who.
The ballroom glows when I arrive.
Not flashy. Intentional.
Candlelight reflecting off glass. White linens. Flowers that smell like clean air and money. Athletes scrubbed of sweat and chaos, suddenly looking like adults with futures.
I pause at the entrance.
Because they’re both there.
Kane first — tux tailored perfectly, shoulders broader somehow, that cocky grin softened by nerves he hides well. Pine and cloves even from across the room.
Then Tristan.
Black tux. Dark hair refusing to behave, that one lock falling over his forehead like it exists purely to undo me. Expensive watch catching candlelight when he adjusts his cuff. Calm in a way that isn’t calm at all.
My stomach flips.
I hate that they can both do that.
They notice me at the same time.
I don’t get three steps into the room before they move.
Not rushed.
Not territorial.
Just inevitable.
Kane reaches me first, hand warm at the small of my back like he’s guiding me through traffic.
Tristan appears on my other side a breath later, fingers brushing my elbow, subtle but unmistakable.
Flanked.
The air shifts.
It’s not dramatic — no gasps, no spectacle — just a low hum that spreads table by table as people register what they’re seeing.
Two tuxedos.
One girl between them.
My pulse jumps.
“This is unnecessary,” I whisper.
Neither of them answers.
Kane hands me a drink like this is normal. Tristan pulls out my chair like it’s expected.
And then they make me sit between them. The whispers settle into the room like background music.
Not cruel. Curious. Electric.
I keep my posture straight. Smile polite. Eat something I can’t taste.
Across the room, our coach’s eyes land on me.
Not angry.
Worse.
Concerned.
It hits like a hot poker under my ribs.
I stare down at my plate and remind myself:
I’m doing my job.
I’m training.
My grades are solid.
I’m allowed to have a little romance.
Right?
The thought doesn’t settle as easily as it should.
The night moves in small moments.
Hands at my back guiding me through crowds. Kane steady and warm. Tristan careful like proximity itself is a decision.
Fabric brushing fabric. Low music. Glassware clinking.
I catch them watching me when they think I won’t notice.
Kane’s gaze is appreciative. Grounded. Like he’s imagining real life.
Tristan’s is quieter. More dangerous. Like he’s remembering something only we share.
The first slow song starts and my pulse jumps before anyone asks.
Kane does.
Always first with the safe choice.
His hand finds my waist and my body recognizes the steadiness immediately. The way his muscles shift under my palm when we move. The warmth of him. The certainty.
“You’re overthinking,” he murmurs.
“I live there.”
He smiles into my hair.
Tristan’s turn feels inevitable.
Different gravity.
His hand slides to the small of my back and every nerve ending wakes up. The music fades at the edges. The memory of another dance five years ago flickers like a ghost between us.
“You look…” he starts.
I shake my head.
“Don’t.”
He smiles anyway.
We move closer without deciding to. My fingers brush the fabric at his shoulder. Feel the tension underneath—not nervous, not relaxed. Focused, like a predator who's finally cornered his prey, but in the best way.
His thumb traces once along my hand, sending a shiver up my arm that pools low in my belly.
That stupid lock of hair falls forward again, and I have the irrational urge to fix it, to run my fingers through it and pull him even nearer.
He guides me toward the edge of the room where the lights soften, casting us in a golden haze that makes everything feel intimate, forbidden.
The air changes—thicker, charged with the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and masculine that wraps around me like a promise.
My pulse knows before my brain does, hammering in my throat, between my thighs.
“Still running?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.
“I should be.”
His hand slides to the back of my head, gentle at first, fingers threading into my hair like he remembers exactly how it felt years ago—how it feels now, soft and tangled under his touch.
"Stella," he breathes against my lips, the word a caress, a claim, right before he takes them prisoner.
We move closer without deciding to. My fingers brush the fabric at his shoulder. Feel the tension underneath—not nervous, not relaxed. Focused, like a predator who's finally cornered his prey, but in the best way.
His thumb traces once along my hand, sending a shiver up my arm that pools low in my belly.
That stupid lock of hair falls forward again, and I have the irrational urge to fix it, to run my fingers through it and pull him even nearer.
His hand slides to the back of my head, gentle at first, fingers threading into my hair like he remembers exactly how it felt years ago—how it feels now, soft and tangled under his touch.
The kiss isn’t rushed. That’s what makes it dangerous.
Warm. Intentional. His mouth slants over mine, soft at first, then firmer, coaxing me open.
He tastes like whiskey and sin—smoky, with a hint of sweetness that makes me crave more.
His tongue sweeps inside to find mine, teasing, exploring in slow, deliberate strokes that send heat spiraling through my core.
I find myself clutching his suit jacket with both fists, bunching the crisp fabric as if it’s the only thing grounding me.
My hips instinctively move closer, pressing against him, feeling the hard length of his arousal nudge against my lower belly—hot, insistent, a modern reminder of just how much he wants this, wants me.
The same electricity that once terrified me now blooms slower, deeper, igniting every nerve. My body leans before my brain gives permission, melting into him.
My heels press into the floor for balance. His leg brushes mine, wedges slightly between them. Close enough to feel the strength there, the restraint he's barely holding onto, like he could lift me, pin me, right here if I let him.
Five years collapses into one breath, one shared heartbeat.
I pull back because I have to breathe, my lips tingling, swollen from his.
His forehead rests against mine for half a second—warm, damp with the faintest sheen of sweat.
And that half second ruins me, leaves me aching for the rest of him.
When I pull back from Tristan, my lips are still buzzing, swollen from the intensity of it all.
My breath comes in shallow gasps, and I see it mirrored in him—his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, those dark eyes hooded with want, his hand lingering at the nape of my neck like he can't quite let go.
He's breathless, undone in a way that sends a thrill through me, but also a warning.
I leave him there, wanting more, my heels clicking softly as I weave back through the dim room, my skin flushed, my pulse thundering in my ears.
At the table, Kane's gaze finds mine immediately, warm and knowing, a small smile playing on his lips. "You promised me the “first and last dance,” he says, his voice low and teasing, but there's an undercurrent of something deeper—invitation, maybe even a challenge.
He stands, offering his hand, and I take it, letting him pull me onto the dance floor.
His touch is steady, his palm warm against mine as he guides us through the swaying couples, his other hand resting lightly on the small of my back.
We move in sync, not rushed, his body close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle flex of muscle under his shirt as he leads.
But he doesn't stop at the dance. With a gentle nudge, he works us toward the balcony doors, the music fading behind us as cool night air beckons. We slip outside, the door clicking shut, sealing us in a private world of shadows and stars.
When I step away from the dance, my heart is racing too fast.
I don’t know what that means—whether it's from Tristan's storm or the quiet promise in Kane's eyes.