Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tristan
Over the next week or so, my life becomes structured again. Which is dangerous. Because structure leaves space for habits. And Isa becomes one of mine as does—Morning lift.
Film.
Classes.
Protein shakes that taste like chalk and discipline.
Then basketball.
The gym smells like rubber and sweat and the citrus cleaner the custodial staff uses on the hardwood at night. I start recognizing the rhythm of the place — the way the air feels thicker after two hours of drills, the hollow echo of balls hitting the floor before sunrise.
Coach Canley notices I’m sharper.
Kane says I’m moving faster.
The guys say the other teams are cooked.
“Vale’s in demon mode,” someone mutters after I drain five threes in a row.
I shrug it off.
Because the truth is simpler.
I just stopped thinking about things that don’t help me win.
Or at least I try to.
Isa slips into the daily routine before I realize.
Coffee after class.
Study sessions in the athletic lounge.
Walking across campus with the late California sun warming our shoulders.
She fits easily into the empty spaces of my day.
That’s what makes it dangerous.
She’s funny in a dry, confident way. Her Texas drawl shows up more when she’s relaxed, stretching certain words like they’re lazy in the heat.
“Y’all basketball boys think you’re special,” she says one afternoon, stealing half my protein bar.
“We are,” I reply.
She laughs.
Her teeth are perfect. Not the artificial Hollywood kind — just straight and bright against warm tan skin.
Her hair is usually down when we’re not training, long waves that bounce when she walks. Sometimes she braids it loosely over one shoulder. Sometimes she pulls it into a high ponytail that swings like a metronome behind her when she laughs.
Her makeup is subtle but intentional.
Mascara.
Gloss.
Sometimes a faint peach blush that catches when the light hits her cheekbones.
She smells like vanilla and sunscreen and something floral I can’t name.
She knows she’s beautiful.
But she wears it lightly.
Like armor she’s comfortable in.
We don’t flirt.
Not really.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But people the whispers become louder:
“Power couple.”
“Basketball and soccer royalty.”
We’re not even touching.
Just walking together.
Studying together.
She slides her tray across the table in the athlete dining hall and plops down beside me like she belongs there.
Maybe she does.
At night, when the basketball house finally goes quiet, I scroll.
Highlights.
Game clips.
Sports media accounts.
And there she is.
Stella.
Spike after spike.
The Stanford athletics page posts slow-motion clips of her jumping — hair flying, muscles in her legs flexing like coiled steel as she detonates above the net.
Commentators talking about her vertical.
Her kill percentage.
Her dominance on the court.
She looks unstoppable.
Focused.
Alive.
I tell myself I’m just watching good athletics.
But that’s a lie.
One afternoon in lecture, I’m supposed to be listening to a forty-minute breakdown of supply chain logistics.
Instead, I’ve got one earbud tucked beneath my sleeve.
Volume low.
My phone angled against my laptop.
The Stanford volleyball livestream flickers across the screen.
Stella steps to the baseline.
Her bubble braid swings down her back.
There’s a ribbon tied into it today — navy with a tiny white stripe.
She bounces the ball.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Five.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Even through the tiny phone speaker, I can hear the crowd building.
She tosses.
Jumps.
The serve is violent.
Ace.
The gym explodes.
My pulse spikes like I’m the one playing.
“Wow.”
Isa’s voice cuts through it.
My head snaps up.
She’s staring at my screen.
Her face is red.
Not embarrassment.
Anger.
“You’re watching her?” she says quietly.
The livestream keeps playing.
Stella high-fives a teammate.
I pull the earbud out.
“It’s a good game,” I say.
Isa stares at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“Right.” she retorts as her chair scrapes back.
She grabs her bag.
And walks out.
I’m on my feet before I think about it.
“Isa!”
The hallway outside the lecture hall is crowded with students flooding between classes.
She moves fast.
Long athlete strides.
I catch up near the stairwell.
“Isa, wait.”
She turns.
Her cheeks are flushed.
Eyes bright with something sharp.
“Are you in love with her or something?” she demands.
The question lands harder than expected.
“No.”
I shake my head immediately.
“No. We never even dated.”
“Then why do you look like that when you watch her?”
I open my mouth.
Close it again.
Because I don’t have a clean answer.
Isa exhales sharply.
“God, Tristan.”
She steps closer.
Close enough that I can see the tiny gold flecks in her brown eyes.
“Can’t you see I’m right here?”
Her voice softens, but it’s still intense.
“I’m perfect for you.”
The words hang there.
Bold.
Fearless.
Very Texan.
Before I can respond, her hands come up.
They land flat against my chest.
Warm.
Confident.
Her fingers curl slightly into the fabric of my shirt.
Then one hand slides behind my neck.
And she pulls me down.
The kiss hits like a collision.
Hot.
Sudden.
Her lips firm and demanding against mine.
For half a second, my brain goes completely blank.
The pulse in my neck starts hammering.
The hallway noise fades into a distant blur.
It’s not soft.
Not curious.
There’s frustration in it.
Possession.
A challenge.
Her fingers tighten at the back of my head as if she’s daring me to pull away.
I don’t.
But I don’t deepen it either.
Because something about the moment feels wrong.
Not bad.
Just…
Different.
There’s heat.
Plenty of it.
But it isn’t the same electricity that once shot through me behind a velvet curtain five years ago.
This is darker.
Heavier.
Like stepping into a storm instead of lightning striking.
Isa pulls back first.
Her breathing is uneven.
Mine probably is too.
“Well?” she asks quietly.
I look at her.
Really look.
She’s beautiful.
Strong.
Confident.
On paper, she makes perfect sense.
But the truth sits heavy in my chest.
I still don’t know what I’m doing.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.