Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Tristan
I’m at the athletic complex before the sun.
The sky outside is still that flat gray-blue that feels unfinished. The building hums quietly—HVAC, distant ice machine, nothing human yet.
Good.
I need empty.
The weight room lights snap on overhead.
Cold.
Sterile.
I load the bar heavier than programmed.
No music. No headphones.
Just metal sliding against metal.
The first set is clean.
The second grinds.
By the third, my shoulders are trembling but I don’t rack it. I force it up anyway, teeth clenched, vision narrowing.
Clank.
The bar slams into place hard enough to rattle the rack.
The sound echoes.
Doesn’t fix anything.
I move to deadlifts.
Then sled pushes.
Then medicine balls against the wall until my lungs feel scraped raw and my palms sting.
None of it drowns out the image of Stella’s face last night.
The way her smile disappeared when the whispers got loud.
The way she shrank.
I grab a ball and throw it harder.
It rebounds off the wall. I catch it and fire it again.
Harder.
By the time I strip the plates, my shirt’s soaked through and my pulse is still elevated.
I don’t linger.
Cold shower.
Two minutes under freezing water until my breathing steadies and my thoughts slow down enough to function.
I towel off fast.
No mirror.
Four protein bars from my locker.
Two gone before I even sit down.
By the time I finish the fourth, the complex is waking up.
Doors opening.
Footsteps.
Basketballs bouncing somewhere down the hall.
I push a rolling rack of balls onto the court.
A few of the guys are already stretching.
They look up when I enter.
Something in my face must give it away.
Because the usual “morning, princess” dies halfway out of someone’s mouth.
They don’t ask.
They just shift.
Space opens.
I set the rack at the free-throw line.
First shot.
Swish.
Second.
Swish.
The repetition starts to level me out.
More players trickle in.
They sense it.
The mood.
Nobody jokes. Nobody tests it.
At fifty, a freshman tries to lighten the air.
“Big night, huh—”
I turn and fire a ball at his chest.
Not full force.
But enough.
It hits solid and drops him back a step.
Silence.
Message delivered.
I turn back to the line.
Seventy-three.
Seventy-four.
The doors open again.
This time I don’t need to look.
Kane.
He walks in already dressed, jaw tight, eyes scanning the court once before landing on me.
No words.
He grabs the second rolling rack.
Wheels it to the opposite corner.
We don’t nod.
We don’t acknowledge.
We just shoot.
Corner threes.
Opposite ends.
Ball after ball.
The sound of net snapping and rubber hitting hardwood fills the gym.
The rest of the team gives us a wide radius.
They know better.
Fifteen minutes in, sweat’s dripping down my back again.
Twenty minutes in, Kane finally misses one.
The ball rims out.
He catches it.
Holds it.
Exhales.
“We fucked up.”
The words sit heavy in the air.
I shoot again.
Swish.
“She hates that kind of attention,” he adds.
I don’t argue.
Because he’s right.
“She didn’t look happy,” he continues.
I grab another ball.
“She didn’t look chosen,” I say quietly.
Kane’s eyes flick up.
That lands.
Chosen is quiet.
Last night was spectacle.
We go back to shooting.
Not angry now.
Focused.
“She’s pulling back,” Kane says.
I nod once.
I felt it before sunrise.
“If chasing costs her,” I say finally, “I’m not chasing.”
Kane studies me from across the court.
“Same.”
We shoot until our arms burn.
Because the only thing worse than losing Stella—
Would be being the reason she loses herself.
She’s already in the hallway when I see her.
Hair up.
No makeup.
Oversized Stanford hoodie swallowing that navy dress version of her from last night.
Armor back on.
People part when she walks.
Not out of respect.
Out of curiosity.
I move before I think.
“Stella.”
She doesn’t stop.
I catch up in three strides.
“Stella, wait.”
She turns finally.
Her face is composed.
Too composed.
“Don’t,” she says quietly.
“Just ignore it,” I tell her. “All the bullshit. The posts. The tags. It fades.”
Her laugh is hollow.
“You don’t get it.”
I step closer.
I don’t care who’s watching.
I take her hand.
She stiffens.
I place her palm flat against my chest.
Right over my heart.
It’s still pounding from practice.
“This,” I say. “This is real. That’s what matters.”
Her eyes flick down to where her hand rests.
Then back up at me.
“You know you felt it. The fire. It still burns hot between us. Maybe more than it did before. Please. Just give us a chance.”
Her pupil dilate. She knows it’s true. But then her eyes change.
And something hard settles behind them.
“I didn’t come to Stanford for romance,” she says evenly. “Or to bag a trophy husband.”
That lands.
Harder than expected.
“I came here for me.”
There’s a tremor under her voice now.
“Are you going to ruin this for me the same way you did Royal Oaks?”
It hits like a slap.
My body actually recoils.
I don’t mean to.
But it feels like she shoved a blade between ribs and twisted.
“That’s not fair,” I say quietly.
“Isn’t it?”
Her eyes are glassy now.
Angry. Hurt. Humiliated.
Phones start lifting around us.
Not subtle anymore.
Click.
Whisper.
Record.
The hallway is hungry.
I lower my voice.
“Is that what you really want?” I ask. “You want me to leave you alone?”
This is the moment.
The one that decides everything.
Her jaw tightens.
Her throat works.
She swallows whatever she’s feeling.
“Yes.”
It’s barely above a whisper.
But it’s clear.
Behind her eyes, tears threaten.
She refuses to let them fall.
Another camera flash.
She steps back.
Distance created.
“I can’t do this,” she says. “Not like this.”
The hallway noise swells.
I don’t reach for her again.
Because I see it now.
She’s not pushing me away because she doesn’t feel it.
She’s pushing me away because she feels too much.
And the world is watching.
I nod once.
Slow.
“Okay.”
That surprises her.
Maybe she expected a fight.
I don’t give her one.
“If that’s what you want,” I say evenly, “I’ll leave you alone.”
It feels like swallowing glass.
She turns before the tears spill.
Walks away fast.
Phones follow.
I stand there a second longer than I should.
Then I walk the other direction.
Because the only thing worse than losing her—
Would be making her smaller.
And I won’t be that guy again.