Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tristan
My mother never calls before ten.
I’m icing my shoulder after lift when my phone lights up:
Mother.
I let it ring twice longer than necessary before answering.
“Morning.”
Her inhale is clipped. Controlled. The way it gets when she’s about to perform outrage instead of feel it.
“I was at brunch with the Whitakers and the Hadleys. And I met Senator Mallory’s wife.”
I close my eyes.
“And?”
“And one of their daughters,” she continues tightly, “was showing something on her phone. Some… social media platform. And you were in it.”
I rub my forehead.
“In what, exactly?”
She lowers her voice as if the word itself is scandalous.
“A video.”
There it is.
“And who,” she continues, “is this volleyball girl?”
I lean back against the cold tile wall of the training room.
“Hispanic mom,” I say calmly, “that’s Stella Cortez.”
A beat.
Silence stretches across the country.
“…Cortez,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
“From Royal Oaks?”
“Yes.”
“The girl who—”
“—got run out?” I finish evenly.
She exhales sharply.
“Tristan.”
I stare at the ceiling.
“You love Jade,” I say quietly.
That lands.
She doesn’t respond immediately.
“You adore her,” I continue. “You send her birthday gifts. You post her book launches. You call her ‘resilient.’”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Her voice cools.
“You’re not equating this to—”
“I’m saying,” I cut in, tone still controlled, “be careful, Mom.”
Silence again.
The kind that crackles.
“You know what happens,” I add softly, “when your circle decides someone doesn’t belong.”
Her breath shifts.
That was a direct hit.
“You’re being dramatic,” she says finally.
“No,” I reply. “I’m being observant.”
Another pause.
“What exactly is going on with this girl?” she asks.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
I laugh under my breath.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “She doesn’t want me.”
I can practically hear her frown through the phone.
“She doesn’t want to date me. Doesn’t want to be seen with me. Doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“That’s not amusing.”
“It is a little.”My jaw tightens. “She’s not interested, Mom.”
It tastes strange saying it out loud.
Not interested.
“Good,” she says, too quickly. “You’re there to build something. Not to become gossip.”
“I know.”
“You made an agreement when you left Harvard.”
I stiffen slightly.
“I’m aware.”
“You were going to focus. Rebuild. Position yourself.”
“I am.”
“I don’t want to see you trending for the wrong reasons again.”
There it is.
Not concern.
Brand management.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
“You’d better.”
She hangs up first.
She always does.
I barely have time to slide my phone into my locker before I feel it.
The shift in air.
The weight of a presence.
“Son.”
I turn.
My father stands just inside the athletic complex doors, hands in the pockets of a navy sport coat that probably cost more than my first car.
Silver at the temples now.
Still sharp.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Board meeting in Palo Alto,” he says casually. “We’re expanding into a venture capital arm. AI infrastructure.”
Translation—check in. “Mom just rang, literally.”
“We both have some concerns.”
We walk side by side down the corridor toward the empty auxiliary court. The echo of our footsteps feels loud.
“You look good,” he says.
“I feel good.”
“Stanford’s treating you well?”
“Yes.”
“Team?”
“Solid.”
He nods once.
“Good.”
We stop near the baseline.
He surveys the gym like he’s evaluating a property.
“When you left Harvard,” he says calmly, “we agreed it would be to build something.”
“I remember.”
“I don’t mean social media buzz.”
There it is.
Straight.
Direct.
“I’m not chasing headlines,” I reply.
“No?”
His eyes study me carefully.
“Because from where I’m standing, you’re circling distraction.”
My jaw tightens.
“It’s not like that.”
“It never is,” he says.
A beat passes.
He softens slightly — or at least what passes for soft with him.
“You’re talented,” he says. “Disciplined. Focused. That’s why we supported the transfer.”
Supported? More like negotiated—strategically endorsed.
“You want Final Four?” he continues. “You want draft position?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t get entangled.”
The word hangs between us.
Entangled.
Like Stella is a liability.
“She’s not what you think,” I say quietly.
He arches a brow.
“And what do I think?”
“That she’s noise.”
Silence.
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he studies me in a way that feels like valuation.
“Is she?” he asks finally.
I think about the bleachers.
The ribbon in her hair.
The way she looks at the court like it’s holy ground.
“No,” I say.
He watches my face carefully.
Then nods once.
“Then don’t let her cost you.”
He claps my shoulder.
“See you at Thanksgiving.”
And just like that, he leaves.
The gym feels bigger after he’s gone.
Colder.
I walk to the free-throw line.
Pick up a ball.
One bounce.
Two.
Three.
I don’t close my eyes this time.
Because what my father doesn’t understand—
What my mother doesn’t understand—
Is that Stella isn’t noise.
She’s the only thing that’s ever felt real.
And that might be the problem.
My alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m.
Not because my coach demands it.
Because I do.
The basketball house is quiet at that hour—dark hallways, the hum of the industrial fridge in the kitchen, someone’s sneakers left by the couch like a forgotten afterthought.
I don’t trip over them.
I step around them.
Routine.
Protein shake.
Black coffee.
Cold water on my face.
By 5:15, I’m in the weight room.
Locked in.
The mirrors don’t interest me.
The numbers do.
Reps.
Explosiveness.
Vertical.
Sweat drips down my spine before sunrise.
By 7:00, I’ve showered, eaten, and reviewed film from last season.
By 9:00, I’m in a lecture hall, front row, laptop open, notes typed with precision.
The guys notice.
“Ohhh, Vale’s in monk mode.”
“Yo, you’re so locked in, bro. Other teams are cooked.”
“Stanford Final Four loading…”
I smirk but don’t engage.
Kane bumps my shoulder once in passing.
“Good energy,” he mutters.
That’s approval in our language.
By three weeks in—the rumors about me and Stella have cooled.
People move on fast when you stop feeding the fire.
Now it’s all preseason projections and NIL deals and freshman hype.
Which is how I end up paired with her—the rookie soccer forward. She’s a freshman in my International business analytics class where the professor talks like he’s narrating a documentary.
“Partner up,” he says.
Seats shuffle. I glance to my right. She’s already looking at me.
Long legs crossed at the knee, tan skin glowing under the overhead fluorescents. Brown hair that falls in soft waves past her shoulders — not quite dark, not quite blonde. Caramel. There’s a warmth in it that catches light.
Her eyeliner is subtle but precise.
Lipstick a muted rose that somehow makes her white teeth look even brighter when she smiles.
Which she does. Isabella Reyes Callaway—Isa for short. She’s a firecracker. We’ve met at a few parties. Flirted a bit. She’s light. Fun. Trouble.
“Looks like we’re partners,” she says, that Texas drawl curling around the words like honey.
I nod once. She laughs lightly.
I arch a brow. She grins.
She smells faintly like vanilla and sunscreen.
It’s subtle.
Clean.
Not heavy.
We exchange numbers for the project.
Professional.
Simple.
This is fine…
It starts innocently.
She walks with me out of lecture.
Her stride is confident — not rushed, not trailing.
Matching.
“You always sit in the front?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Overachiever.”
“Prepared.”
She laughs again.
It’s lighter than Stella’s laugh.
Easier.
Less guarded.
We part at the fork in the quad.
She gives a little salute.
“See you, Vale.”
It’s harmless.
Until it isn’t.
Soon, she’s not just my class partner—she’s a fixture.
She walks into the athletic dining hall one afternoon while I’m halfway through grilled chicken and sweet potatoes.
Tray in hand.
Plops down beside me without hesitation.
Her friends trail behind her — three other soccer girls in cropped hoodies and messy ponytails.
“You’re eating clean again,” she observes, eyeing my plate.
“Always.”
She wrinkles her nose playfully.
“Live a little.”
I glance at her tray.
Salmon.
Rice.
Greens.
Also clean.
“You’re not exactly eating fries,” I point out.
She winks.
“I’m disciplined. Just fun about it.”
The guys at the table nudge each other.
Someone mutters, “Vale’s upgrading.”
I ignore it.
Isa doesn’t.
She leans closer.
“Do I intimidate your teammates?” she asks quietly.
“No.”
“Should I?”
“Probably.”
She laughs again.
And I realize something uncomfortable.
This is easy.
No history.
No tension.
No five-year ghost standing between us.
On paper?
She makes sense.
D1 athlete.
Driven.
Focused.
Latina, too — a quarter Mexican, she’d mentioned casually once, like it was trivia. There’s a Spanish lilt that slips into her voice when she’s animated. Maybe, I have a type after all.
Her parents are oil and ranch money in Texas.
Old money meets new money.
It aligns.
I hate that my brain registers that.
Rumors begin.
They always do.
“Vale and the Texas striker.”
“Power couple.”
“Basketball and soccer royalty.”
We’re not even doing anything besides walking to class or studying together. She leans over my laptop to read a graph and her hair brushes my arm.
But perception is louder than truth.
She starts waiting for me outside lectures.
She texts memes about our professor.
She steals one of my fries just to prove she can.
“Don’t get soft on me, Vale,” she teases one afternoon as we cross the quad.
“I’m not.”
“You sure?”
She nudges my shoulder with hers.
Physical.
Comfortable.
Confident.
It feels good.
That’s the dangerous part.
It feels good to be wanted without complication.
To have a beautiful, high-performing athlete flirt shamelessly with me.
To not feel like I’m walking on emotional landmines.
She’s sunshine.
Stella was lightning.
I immediately feel guilty for the comparison.
Because it isn’t fair.
They’re not the same.
Isa is polished.
Well-adjusted.
Social.
Stella is raw.
Sharp.
Quiet until she’s not.
Isa smiles for cameras.
Stella forgets they exist.
I hate that my chest tightens at that thought.
One night, we’re in the library working on our project.
Isa tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, chewing on the end of her pen as she studies the spreadsheet.
“You always this intense?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She tilts her head.
“About everything?”
There’s weight under that question.
“About what matters.”
“And what matters?”
I hold her gaze for a beat.
“Basketball.”
“School.”
She waits.
“And?” she presses.
“That’s it.”
She searches my face.
Then smiles.
“Good.”
Good.
Like she’s relieved.
Like she doesn’t want to be more.
Or maybe she does.
And she’s patient.
The basketball house is louder now. I spend more time here than in my first class athletic dorm. The guys tease. “Vale’s got himself a Texas ten.”
“Soccer star and hoop star? That’s a brand deal waiting to happen.”
I laugh it off.
But I don’t correct them.
Because correcting them would require defining something.
And I’m not doing that.
Not again.
The first time I notice Stella watching—
It’s subtle.
We’re crossing the quad.
Isa is mid-story, hands moving animatedly, describing some Texas state championship game where she scored the winning goal.
I’m listening.
Really listening.
But my peripheral vision catches navy.
A bubble braid.
A ribbon.
Stella.
Standing near the fountain with Delia.
She looks over.
Just once.
Our eyes meet.
Isa says something and lightly touches my arm.
I don’t pull away.
Stella’s expression doesn’t change.
But something flickers behind her eyes.
Gone in a second.
She turns.
Walks away.
My chest tightens.
Isa nudges me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
You chose this.
You said you were locking in.
Hanging with Isa is clean.
Simple.
Healthy.
So why does it feel like I just scored and still lost?