Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stella
It’s women’s soccers first home game. They played a few scrimmages and won their first game at UCLA. But the first home game under the lights means something. I get that. We show up as a team. Because that’s what you do.
“Women’s sports supporting women’s sports,” Delia says, tossing me a pair of oversized sunglasses as we climb the stadium steps. “Also, the soccer girls came to our opener, so we don’t get to be jerks.”
“I’m never a jerk,” I mutter.
She snorts.
“Right. Ice princess diplomacy.”
The stands are already buzzing.
Music thumps through the speakers. The field glows that deep, perfect green under the California sun. Banners hang along the rails. Posters wave. Someone has glitter paint on their cheeks.
And—there it is.
A sign, held high near midfield:
T & T
Another:
VALE x TEXAS QUEEN
My stomach tightens.
I slide the sunglasses on even though the sun is setting.
Armor.
We settle into a row together.
The team spreads out, legs stretched, snacks passed around, energy light and loud.
I try to match it.
I really do.
I clap when I’m supposed to. Cheer when the crowd rises. Lean forward when the play builds.
But my eyes—
My eyes keep scanning.
Midfield.
Sidelines.
Bench.
Looking for him.
I hate that.
I hate that I’m looking.
The whistle blows.
Game starts.
Isa is easy to spot. She moves like she owns the field—long strides, tan legs flashing, ponytail swinging behind her like a banner. Her jersey fits like it was made for her. She’s fast. Aggressive. Beautiful in motion.
Confident.
Unapologetic.
Everything I’ve been trying not to think about.
“Damn,” one of my teammates says. “She’s good.”
“She’s been starting since day one,” another adds. “Texas state champ or something.”
I nod like I already knew that.
Like I care about stats and not—
Everything else.
Minutes pass.
The game builds.
Crowd gets louder.
And still—
No Tristan.
Not in the stands.
Not near the sideline.
Not anywhere I can see.
A strange, quiet part of me loosens.
Good.
He’s not here.
This is clean.
Simple.
Just a game.
Then it happens.
Fast.
Wrong.
Isa cuts left.
Sharp.
Explosive.
She’s chasing a through ball—perfect placement, just ahead of her stride.
She plants.
Turns.
And her foot—
Slides.
Not clean.
Not controlled.
Wrong angle.
She goes down.
Hard.
The sound of it—
It’s not loud.
But it’s wrong.
The kind of wrong that cuts through crowd noise.
A collective inhale ripples through the stadium.
Isa doesn’t get up.
The whistle blows.
Sharp.
Urgent.
Players slow. Then stop.
One of her teammates kneels beside her.
Another waves frantically toward the sideline.
“Shit,” Delia mutters beside me.
My body goes still.
Too still.
I know that feeling.
The ground.
The impact.
The split-second panic of something’s not right.
Isa rolls slightly, clutching her ankle.
Her face twists, conveying real pain.
Trainers start running out. The crowd noise dips, shifts into that low, uneasy murmur.
Phones come out.
And then—everything changes.
Movement.
Fast.
Decisive.
He’s there.
I don’t even see where he comes from.
One second the sideline is controlled chaos—
The next—
Tristan is already on the field.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t look around.
Doesn’t wait for permission.
He hurdles the barrier like it’s not even there—clean, athletic, effortless—and lands on the turf already moving.
My breath catches.
Hard.
He reaches her before the trainers fully do.
Drops to one knee.
Says something I can’t hear—but I can see it in his face.
Focused.
Sharp.
Commanding.
Not the boy from the quad.
Not the easy laugh.
Not the careless smile.
This version of him—
This is something else.
His hands are steady as he touches her ankle.
Careful.
Controlled.
He’s talking to her.
Low.
Close.
Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Isa grabs his wrist.
Tight.
Her face softens just slightly when she looks at him.
Relief.
Trust.
My chest caves in.
Because I know that look.
I’ve worn it.
He says something else—short, direct—and the trainers adjust around him like he belongs there.
Like he’s part of the response.
Like he’s not just some guy who ran onto the field—
Like he’s necessary.
He slips an arm behind her back.
Another under her legs.
And then—
He lifts her effortlessly. She folds into him. Not resisting. Not embarrassed. Just… letting him.
The crowd reacts—gasps, murmurs, phones lifting higher.
Somebody near us whispers, “Oh my God, that’s Vale—”
Another voice: “They’re definitely together.”
I can’t breathe.
Because suddenly—
It’s not about the injury.
It’s about him.
The way his jaw is tight.
The way his eyes don’t leave her face.
The way his body shields her from everything around them.
Protecting her. It’s instinct—without hesitation.
And it hits me—that could have been me.
If I hadn’t—
If I didn’t—tell him to leave me alone.
If I hadn’t pushed him away.
If I hadn’t chosen distance…
My throat tightens. My lips start to tremble before I can stop them.
I press them together. Force it down. I shift my sunglasses higher on my face.
Hide.
Breathe.
Don’t let them see.
“Damn,” Delia whispers. “He didn’t even think.”
No, he didn’t.
That’s the problem.
He didn’t hesitate.
Not for her or for anyone.
He just—moved.
And I realize something I’ve been refusing to admit.
He didn’t change.
He didn’t become something new.
He didn’t turn into a different person for her.
That’s who he’s always been.
I just—
Walked away from it.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the bleacher.
The metal is warm under my grip.
Real.
Grounding.
On the field, they disappear into the tunnel.
Gone.
The game pauses.
The crowd buzzes.
People talk.
Speculate.
Record.
Post.
And I sit there—
Perfect posture.
Sunglasses on.
Face calm.
Like nothing just cracked open inside me.
Because I chose this.
Didn’t I?
So why—
Why does it feel like I just watched someone else walk away with something that was mine?
I don’t stay for the rest of the game.
I tell the girls I’ve got film to review.
No one questions it.
Back in my room, the silence is immediate.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my sneakers.
Sit on the edge of my bed and just… stare. The walls feel too close.
The air feels too still. Like everything is waiting for me to feel something I don’t want to name.
My phone buzzes.
Mamá.
She always knows.
“Hola?”
There’s a pause on the other end.
Then—
“?Qué pasó, mija?”
(What happened, my daughter?)
Her voice is soft, but sharp underneath. Listening.
I swallow.
“Nada, Mamá. Estoy bien.”
(Nothing, Mom. I’m fine.)
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“Mentira.”
(That’s a lie.)
My chest tightens.
“You don’t sound like yourself,” she continues, switching into English now, her accent wrapping around the words. “Tell me.”
I lean back against the wall.
Stare at the ceiling.
“I’m just… tired.”
“Tired from what?”
I let out a slow breath.
“Everything.”
Silence.
Then, quieter—
“I thought this is what I wanted, Mamá.”
My voice cracks just slightly.
“I worked so hard to get here. To Stanford. To D1. To all of it.”
I swallow again.
“And now I’m here and it just…,” I trail off.
“Feels what?” she presses.
“…empty.”
The word hangs there.
Heavy.
Ugly.
Honest.
“I don’t let anyone close,” I admit. “I don’t date. I don’t go out. I just… work.”
My fingers curl into my bedsheet.
“I don’t know how to do anything else.”
Her response is immediate.
Sharp.
“?Romance?” she snaps. Her tone shifts—not soft anymore. “Eso es para los tontos.” (That is for fools.)
I close my eyes.
“Mamá—”
“No,” she cuts me off. “You listen to me.”
Her voice rises.
“?Quieres ser como yo?” (Do you want to be like me?)
The words hit like a slap.
“?Limpiando casas? ?Trabajando todo el día? ?Con bocas que alimentar y sin educación?” (Cleaning houses? Working all day? With mouths to feed and no education?)
Guilt floods my chest instantly.
“I taught you better than that,” she continues, faster now, emotion spilling through her Spanish.
“Te ensené a ser fuerte. A ser independiente. A no depender de ningún hombre.” (I taught you to be strong. To be independent. To not depend on any man.)
“I know,” I whisper.
“Entonces enfócate.” (Then focus.)
Her breathing is heavier now.
“You didn’t come this far to get distracted by boys.”
“I know,” I say again.
And I do.
That’s the worst part.
“But Mamá…” My voice softens. “You never told me it would feel like this.”
Silence.
“…?Cómo?” she asks, quieter now. (Like what?)
“Lonely,” I say.
The word barely makes it out.
“It’s… lonely at the top.”
Another pause.
Long.
Different this time.
Not sharp.
Not angry.
Just… thinking.
“Pues no estás sola.” (Well, you are not alone.)
Her voice softens again.
“You have us.”
I press my lips together.
“I know.”
“And we are proud of you.”
My throat tightens.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“No, mija,” she says. “No sorry. Just… don’t forget who you are.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
A beat.
“Your brother is asking for you,” she adds, lighter now. “And your sister—ay Dios—she thinks you are famous now.”
I huff out a small laugh.
“Put them on?”
We talk for a few minutes. But when I hang up—the room is still quiet. The loneliness doesn’t go anywhere.
A knock hits my door. Then it swings open before I answer.
Delia.
Two other girls behind her.
“Party,” she says simply. “Sigma house. Soccer team’s gonna be there. Whole campus, basically.”
I blink.
Normally, I already have my answer.
No.
Always no.
But tonight—I don’t want to sit here.
I don’t want to think. I don’t want to replay that moment on the field over and over again. I don’t want to feel like the only person standing still while everyone else moves on.
“I’m coming.”
The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them.
The room goes still.
Delia blinks.
“…Wait. What?”
“I said I’m coming.”
She grins slowly. “Oh my God.”