Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stella
The gym smells like fresh polish. The janitor must’ve finished late last night. There’s that faint lemon-cleaner scent layered over old wood and sweat baked into the floorboards from decades of bodies diving and sliding and bleeding on it.
I love that smell.
It smells like work.
Like effort.
Like legacy.
I kneel at the end line and lace my shoes tight — double knot, always double knot. My fingers move automatically.
The ball cart waits at the sideline.
I roll one out.
It feels cool in my hands.
Smooth.
Familiar.
I step to the baseline.
Close my eyes.
This is my cathedral.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Every time.
No more.
No less.
The rhythm settles something in me.
I inhale.
Open my eyes.
Toss.
Jump.
Contact.
The crack of the serve slices through the empty gym and echoes back to me.
Clean.
Again.
Five taps.
Again.
By the time the rest of the team trickles in, sweat is already sliding down the center of my spine.
Delia stops mid-sip of her pre-workout.
“Jesus, Cortez. Did you sleep here?”
“Morning,” I say.
She shakes her head but she’s smiling.
They all feel it.
The shift.
I’m not icy because I’m mad.
I’m icy because I’m focused.
Drills begin.
My passes are sharp enough to sting my forearms. My footwork is surgical. When I jump, I feel weightless for half a second before gravity remembers me.
“Again!” Coach calls.
I do.
Harder.
She doesn’t compliment me.
She doesn’t need to.
Her nod at the end of scrimmage is enough.
“Starting rotation,” she says casually, clipboard tucked under her arm.
My teammates cheer.
I just exhale.
Earned.
It’s finally the first home match. The locker room buzzes like champagne. Glitter gel. Loud music. Someone arguing over eyeliner.
I sit on the bench lacing up in silence. Bubble braid redone. This time with a thin white ribbon woven through it.
Delia nudges me.
“You gonna smile tonight?”
“I always smile.”
She snorts.
“That thing you do with your lips doesn’t count.”
I shrug.
When we run out onto the court, the noise hits like a wave.
Music pounding. Posters shaking. The student section already on their feet.
The lights are brighter during games.
Hotter.
The wood floor gleams under them.
I step to the line.
Ball in hand.
The crowd hums.
I tune them out.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I close my eyes for half a second.
This is mine.
Toss.
Jump.
The ball rockets across the net untouched.
Ace.
The roar is immediate.
My teammates slam into me.
I don’t look up at the stands.
Not yet.
Second set.
I elevate above the block and drive the ball straight down the seam.
The sound is violent.
Final.
Coach claps once.
That’s approval.
Midway through the third set, while resetting at the baseline, I feel it.
Eyes.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
Just there.
I glance up briefly.
Top row.
Shadowed.
Two figures.
Tristan.
Kane.
Separate seats.
Still.
Watching.
They don’t wave.
They don’t shout.
They just stay.
Something in my chest tightens — not distraction, not weakness — just awareness.
I don’t look again.
Instead I jump higher.
Hit harder.
We win in three.
When the final whistle blows, glitter cannons explode in the student section and music blares.
I let myself smile this time.
Not for them.
For me.
Because I did that.
And when I glance up once more?
The seats are empty.
Weeks pass.
Silence settles.
If I see Kane in the athletic complex, it’s a nod.
Professional.
If I pass Tristan near the weight room, he doesn’t linger.
He said he’d leave me alone.
He does.
It should feel peaceful.
Instead it feels like standing in a room after music stops.
Too quiet.
It’s what I wanted. I’m locked in. All business. The rest of the week is the same routine giving me no time time to think about heartache.
In the locker room before the next away game, Delia bursts out laughing at her phone.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
She turns the screen toward me.
Snapchat poll.
Who gets Kane Callahan’s courtside family tickets this season?
Option 1: The ex
Option 2: Sigma freshman
Option 3: Blonde Kappa bombshell
There’s a blurry photo of Kane leaning toward a girl at a party, her hand on his chest.
He looks relaxed.
Uncomplicated.
My stomach tightens before I can stop it.
“That’s just Kane,” Delia shrugs. “Background noise.”
Background noise.
The phrase echoes.
I shove my phone into my bag.
“I don’t care.”
But later that night, while icing my knee, I stare at the ceiling and replay the image longer than I should.
Three days later, the quad is golden with sun and freshman energy.
I’m crossing the grass, headphones in, backpack heavy with books.
And then I see him.
Tristan.
Laughing.
Not smirking.
Not guarded.
Laughing.
He’s walking beside a tall caramel brunette girl in Stanford soccer gear — long legs, Texas drawl I can almost hear from here.
She nudges his arm.
He leans closer.
That stupid lock of dark hair falls over his forehead.
He brushes it back absently.
He’s wearing a fitted charcoal tee that stretches across his shoulders, sleeves tight around biceps that look carved.
My pulse skips.
She touches his forearm when she laughs.
He doesn’t pull away.
The sun catches the metal of his watch.
He looks… easy.
Unbothered.
Free.
Something sharp twists under my ribs.
Jealousy is ugly.
And hot.
And immediate.
I stop walking for half a second before forcing myself forward.
This is what you wanted.
Space.
Focus.
No spectacle.
You told him to leave you alone.
So why do I feel like a jealous ex?