Chapter 9 #2
The balcony feels like another world, away from the prying gazes and the weight of expectations.
Night air cool against my overheated skin, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the gardens below.
Palm trees swaying slowly like they’re keeping a secret, their fronds whispering in the breeze.
Tiny lights from the building behind us reflecting in the glass doors, casting a soft, ethereal glow.
And fireflies—actual fireflies—dancing in the dark like tiny sparks of magic.
For a second it feels unreal—like the universe leaned too hard into romance, conspiring to make this moment perfect.
Kane doesn’t crowd me. He stands close enough that I feel chosen without feeling cornered, his presence a comforting anchor rather than a cage. The space between us hums with possibility, his cologne—a clean, citrusy warmth—mingling with the night air.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, genuine, like he's truly checking in, not just filling the silence.
I nod. Lie. But he sees through it, his eyes searching mine with that quiet intensity.
His hand lifts to my cheek, thumb brushing once like he’s asking permission without words—slow, deliberate, the pad of his thumb rough yet tender against my skin, sending a gentle shiver down my neck.
I lean in, granting it.
His kiss is warm. Patient. Not an explosion of the senses like Tristan's, but a steady burn that builds like embers catching flame.
His lips press to mine softly at first, tasting faintly of mint and the champagne we'd shared earlier—fresh, inviting, a flavor that makes me sigh into him.
No urgent sweep of tongue, but a gentle parting, his exploring mine in lazy, unhurried strokes that coax rather than demand.
It spreads heat through my chest in a way that feels just as dangerous for different reasons—safe, secure, like coming home to a fire on a cold night.
Desired. Wanted. Seen in the present, not tangled in the past. My body responds instinctively, a slow melt against him, the warmth pooling in my belly, radiating outward until my fingers curl slightly into his jacket before I realize it, feeling the solid plane of his chest beneath, the steady beat of his heart matching mine.
He smiles against my mouth—soft, relieved—and that reaction does something low and complicated inside me, a flutter that twists into ache, making my thighs press together just a fraction, savoring the security of it all.
Two different truths. Two different feelings. Both real.
That’s the problem.
When we walk back inside, the hum is louder. Not whispers anymore. Recognition. Narrative forming.
I catch fragments: “…both of them…” “…did you see…” “…no way…”
My stomach drops, a cold counterpoint to the lingering warmth on my lips.
At the table, Tristan’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Kane exhales through his nose. They hear it too.
I didn’t come here for this. I came here to celebrate a season. To feel normal for one night. To exist without being reduced to who I might choose.
Across the room, coach looks at me again. And I feel that heat—embarrassment, pressure, fear that something simple just became complicated.
I fold my hands in my lap so no one sees them shake.
I am allowed to live. I am allowed to feel. I am allowed to be young.
But sitting between them, under candlelight and speculation, I realize something I didn’t expect:
Romance is easy.
Reputation is fragile.
And tonight?
The balance shifted.
My cheeks are on fire before the night even ends.
I don’t wait for them.
I can’t.
Leaving between Kane and Tristan would feel like confirmation — like I’m endorsing whatever narrative the room already decided for me. So I slip out with the volleyball girls when they grab their purses and heels, laughing too loud like we’re just another group leaving a banquet.
Except we’re not.
I feel the eyes on my back the entire walk out.
The air outside is cooler, but it doesn’t help. My skin still feels overheated, like I stepped under a spotlight I didn’t ask for.
Delia loops her arm through mine immediately.
“Don’t read it,” she murmurs.
Too late.
Phones are lighting up like fireworks.
Snapchat screenshots.
Group chats.
Private athlete pages.
Instagram stories already captioned with question marks and side-eyes.
I see one blurry clip — me between them at the table. Another — the dance. Another — the balcony silhouette that looks more intimate than it felt.
My stomach drops.
Soccer girls pass us near the parking lot.
One snickers.
Another whispers something just loud enough to land.
The girls who’ve been eyeing my starting spot don’t say anything directly — they never do — but I feel it anyway. Those tiny invisible blades sliding between my shoulder blades.
Disappointment disguised as curiosity.
Judgment disguised as concern.
I’m furious.
At them.
At the situation.
Mostly at myself.
How did I let this happen?
I worked too hard to become Stella Cortez the athlete — the one who earns minutes, earns grades, earns respect.
And tonight I feel like that insecure high school girl again. The one standing in a gym pretending she didn’t care whether the popular boy noticed her.
Is that what I’ve been reduced to?
Attention.
God, did I get attention.
By the time I’m in the car, my phone won’t stop vibrating.
Texts from teammates.
Friends from home.
Unknown numbers.
Mentions.
The narrative evolves in real time:
Are they dating?
Is she playing both?
Open relationship?
Three-way vibes?
Starting lineup AND starring in a three-way?
My face burns hotter.
I didn’t come here for this.
I came here to play volleyball.
The call from Mamá comes fast.
Too fast.
My sister must’ve seen something.
I answer because ignoring her would make it worse.
Her voice hits in rapid Spanish — sharp, worried, frustrated. Words layered over each other like she’s trying to catch up to a story she doesn’t understand.
She says Tristan’s name.
Royal Oaks.
My chest tightens.
“Mamá, it’s not—”
She switches to English.
That’s when I know she’s really upset.
“You worked too hard to become gossip, Stella.”
The word lands heavy.
“I know.”
“You keep your head clear,” she says. “You remember why you’re there.”
I close my eyes.
“I remember.”
Her anger softens into worry before the call ends, which somehow hurts more.
I wipe off makeup slower than necessary, watching my reflection shift back into the version of me that feels safer — hair pulled up, oversized shirt, bare face.
The room is quiet.
My phone is not.
I flip it over.
For the first time since this started, the question isn’t who I want.
It’s whether wanting either of them is worth what this could cost me.
Because lightning is intoxicating.
Warmth is comforting.
But reputation?
That’s fragile.
And tonight proved how quickly it can crack.
The dorm is too quiet for how loud my phone is.
It’s past midnight, but the notifications won’t stop.
Mentions. Tags. Screenshots.
The same two images circulating over and over:
Me between them at the table.
Me on the balcony.
Me kissing Tristan.
Me kissing Kane.
Freeze-frame judgment.
I should’ve known better.
The first call from Mamá was heat.
The second one is fire.
I answer before it rings twice.
She doesn’t greet me this time.
“?Qué está pasando contigo, Stella?”
What is going on with you, Stella?
I sit on the edge of my bed.
“Mamá, no es lo que parece.”
It’s not what it looks like.
She exhales sharply.
“Siempre dicen eso. No es lo que parece.”
That’s what everyone says. It’s not what it looks like.
My throat tightens.
“Estoy en una escuela donde todos miran. Todos hablan.”
I’m at a school where everyone watches. Everyone talks.
“Entonces compórtate como si lo supieras.”
Then behave like you know that.
I flinch.
“Mamá—”
“?Tú sabes lo que sacrificamos para que estés ahí?”
Do you know what we sacrificed for you to be there?
My eyes sting.
“Sí.”
“Tu nombre no es entretenimiento.”
Your name is not entertainment.
The word lands heavy.
Entertainment.
I glance at my phone again.
Because now it’s worse.
Way worse.
One of the anonymous campus tea accounts posted a slow-motion clip of the balcony kiss with dramatic music behind it.
Another post stitched both kisses side by side with the caption:
Stanford’s New Power Throuple?
My stomach drops.
And then I see it.
TMZ Sports.
Not even a full article. Just a short blurb with screenshots and a headline:
“Stanford Power Forward, Point Guard Share Same Date at Sports Formal?”
The room tilts.
This isn’t campus gossip anymore.
This is searchable.
Permanent.
My little sister follows me.
My cousins follow me.
People from back home follow me.
“Mamá…” My voice breaks slightly.
“Lo vi.”
I saw it.
“Quiero que mantengas la cabeza fría.”
I want you to keep your head cool.
“Lo intento.”
I’m trying.
She softens—just a little.
“No dejes que te conviertan en algo que no eres.”
Don’t let them turn you into something you’re not.
That hits deeper than the anger did.
“I won’t.”
There’s a pause.
Then, quieter:
“Cuida tu corazón.”
Protect your heart.
The call ends.
I sit there in the dim light, the dress pooled on the floor like evidence.
This isn’t high school drama.
This isn’t just boys flirting.
This is NIL contracts.
Scholarships.
Future draft picks.
Reputation.
And somehow I let myself get caught in the middle like I didn’t know what fire feels like.
The texts keep coming.
From teammates.
From people I don’t even know.
From numbers saved under “???”.
Are you actually dating both?
Is it real?
Is it open?
Are you cheating?
My face burns again.
I didn’t come here to be a headline.
I didn’t come here to be a rumor.
I came here to play volleyball.
And tonight?
I’m in way over my head.
There’s only one way to regain control.
Pull back.
From both of them.
Before this gets uglier.