Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Stella
He’s already there when I get to the stadium.
It’s barely past five. The sky is still that soft gray-blue, the kind that feels like the world hasn’t fully decided to wake up yet. The lights over the bleachers hum faintly, casting everything in that dim, almost cinematic glow.
He doesn’t belong here.
And yet… he does.
Designer athletic wear, all dark neutrals, clean lines that somehow still look tailored to his body.
The fabric moves when he moves, expensive in a way you can’t fake.
His shoulders fill out the zip-up like it was built for him.
Hair slightly tousled, that salt at his temples catching the low light.
He looks like he stepped out of a magazine.
Or a movie.
Or a life I’ve never lived.
And then he turns.
Sees me.
And for a second—
something in his expression shifts.
Not power.
Not control.
Something softer.
“Buenos días, Stella.”
(Good morning, Stella.)
“Morning,” I say, adjusting my ponytail, trying not to feel like I’m suddenly sixteen again.
He looks at the bleachers.
Then back at me.
“Show me.”
We don’t talk much at first.
We just run.
Up.
Down.
Up again.
The rhythm hits fast—breath, step, push, burn.
He doesn’t fall behind.
Which—annoying.
“Okay,” I say between breaths, hands on my hips when we finally stop at the top. “I take it back. You weren’t lying.”
A faint smile.
“I rarely do.”
“Soccer shape?” I ask.
“Discipline,” he corrects.
We sit for a minute at the top row.
The campus stretching out below us.
Quiet.
Still.
Before the chaos.
“You look different here,” he says.
I glance at him.
“How?”
“Free.”
I let out a small breath.
“Yeah,” I say. “This is the only place my head shuts up.”
He studies me.
Longer this time.
“You carry a lot.”
I shrug it off.
“I handle it.”
“I know.”
Not dismissive.
Not condescending.
Just… certain.
We head to the athlete dining hall after.
And this—this is not quiet.
The second we walk in—it hits.
Noise dips.
Heads turn.
Phones tilt.
Whispers start immediately.
“Is that—”
“No way—”
“That’s her—”
I keep walking.
Chin up.
But I feel it.
All of it.
The attention.
The curiosity.
The speculation.
He leans slightly toward me as we move through the line.
“You should know,” he says calmly, “I am… recognizable in Europe.”
I glance at him.
“That’s one way to say it.”
A small smirk.
“I’ve been called many things. ‘Most eligible bachelor’ seems to stick.”
I snort under my breath.
“Of course it does.”
“But it comes with attention,” he continues. “Press. Paparazzi. Curiosity.”
I grab a tray.
“So?”
“So when you come to visit—”
“When?” I repeat.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“When—you will need to be prepared.”
I glance at him again.
“I’m pretty private,” I say. “I barely use social media unless it’s for volleyball. Recruiting stuff. Snapchat, sometimes, but… I’m not out here posting my life.”
He nods once.
“That’s good.”
A pause.
Then—
“They will still find you.”
That lands heavier.
We sit.
And even here—people are watching.
Trying not to.
But failing.
“They will also look into your mother,” he says, quieter now.
My fork pauses mid-air.
“What?”
“I’ve already had someone placed near her.”
My head snaps up.
“You what?”
“To protect her.”
My pulse spikes.
“She doesn’t need protection—”
“She does now,” he says calmly.
Not arguing.
Stating.
I exhale sharply.
“She’s been through enough,” I mutter. “I don’t want this messing with her life.”
“It already has,” he says.
And I hate that he’s right.
“Do you have a step-father in the home?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“No. My stepdad… he left a while ago and then he died.”
A flicker in his expression.
“What happened?”
“Truck driver,” I say quietly. “Ice. Bad accident.”
A beat.
“He was a good man,” I add. “Kind. Took care of us.”
My throat tightens slightly.
“It’s just been me, my mom, and my little brother and sister since.”
He listens.
Really listens.
“She doesn’t want heartache again,” I say.
That part’s softer.
More for me than him.
I pull out my phone.
Scroll.
Find it.
A recent photo.
The four of us.
I slide it across the table.
He picks it up.
And for the first time—he actually reacts.
Not controlled.
Not filtered.
He draws in a breath.
Sharp.
“She is still beautiful,” he murmurs.
In Spanish this time.
“Todavía es hermosa.”
(She is still beautiful.)
I watch his face.
The way his thumb lingers just slightly too long on the screen.
The way something old flickers there.
I lean back.
“Don’t,” I say.
He looks up.
“What?”
“Don’t go back and… stir things up with her.”
My voice is firm now.
Protective.
“She’s finally stable. Happy enough.”
A pause.
Then—
he smirks.
Slow.
Dangerous.
“We will see, Stella.”
I roll my eyes.
“Men.”
He sets the phone down.
Then—like it’s nothing—“You will have security here.”
I blink.
“What?”
“A bodyguard.”
I almost laugh.
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
“No,” I shake my head immediately. “Absolutely not. I don’t want that. I just want a normal life.”
His gaze sharpens.
“You are no longer in a position to have a normal life.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It is reality.”
I lean forward.
Frustrated now.
“I worked my ass off for this life. I’m not about to walk around campus with some guy shadowing me like I’m—”
“You are a target,” he says, cutting through me cleanly. “Because of me.”
Silence.
“I don’t like it either,” he adds, quieter.
And that—that surprises me.
“I’ve already had to get ahead of it,” he continues. “The information is out. My company issued a statement this morning.”
My stomach drops.
“You what?”
“I am taking time to reconnect with my daughter.”
My heart starts racing.
“The press will follow. It would be better for you to sit for an interview with me.”
I stare at him.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
I exhale slowly.
“I have a match,” I say. “I need to focus.”
He nods. “After.”
I hesitate. Then—“Okay.”
And that’s when I feel it.
I turn slightly.
Instinct.
And there—in the shadow just beyond the entryway—Tristan.
Standing under the dim overhead light.
Still.
Silent.
His fists are clenched.
Tight.
Knuckles pale.
Jaw locked so hard I can see it ticking from here.
He’s watching us.
Watching me.
Watching him.
And something in my chest twists.
Because I see it.
Clear as day.
He thinks—he’s been replaced.
My breath catches.
And before I can stop it—my eyes flick back to my father.
He’s already assessing—sizing Tristan up. But doesn’t say a word.
I don’t think. I move.
The second the cameras start flashing and someone shouts my name—my full name—I’m done.
“Stella! Stella—TMZ—just a quick—”
Nope.
My pulse spikes, adrenaline snapping through me as I pivot hard and cut across the quad, dodging bodies, voices, phones lifting like weapons. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Exactly.
I shove through the doors of the field house, the heavy metal slamming shut behind me, muffling the chaos into a dull roar.
Safe.
Or at least… safer.
The air inside is cooler. Sterile. That sharp, familiar scent hits me immediately—rubber mats, floor polish, and underneath it, the bite of adhesive spray and muscle ointment. Aspercreme. Tape glue. Sweat baked into the walls.
My space.
My control.
I head for the training room, shoulders tight, jaw locked. I don’t even need my ankle taped. I just need to breathe without someone watching me do it.
The main area is busy—trainers moving fast, athletes laughing too loud, too many eyes flicking up when I walk in.
So I slip into the smaller room.
Quieter.
Dimmer.
Just the hum of a mini fridge and the low buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
I grab a paper cup, fill it with cold water. The plastic creaks under my grip as my fingers tighten around it, condensation slick against my palm.
Breathe.
Just—
breathe.
I bring it to my lips, the cold biting against my mouth—
And then I feel it.
That shift.
Like the air pulls tighter.
Like something just walked into the room that changes the temperature.
I don’t turn right away.
I don’t need to.
“Funny,” Isa says behind me.
Her voice is soft.
Sweet.
That Texas drawl wrapping around her words like honey—
—but there’s something under it.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Venom dressed up in silk.
“I thought I had this all figured out.”
I close my eyes for half a second before turning.
Slow.
Measured.
She’s leaning against the wall like she belongs there. Like she belongs anywhere she decides to stand.
Boot still on.
Crutches propped beside her.
But nothing about her looks injured.
Her hair falls in perfect waves over her shoulders, glossy under the harsh lights. Makeup flawless—soft pink lips, long lashes, skin glowing like she just stepped out of a photoshoot instead of rehab.
Even now… she’s put together.
Intentional.
Her eyes drag over me.
Not quick.
Not casual.
Slow.
Taking inventory.
My hoodie. My hair. My face.
Lingering just a beat too long—like she’s measuring something.
“And then,” she continues lightly, pushing off the wall, “you disappear for a few days…”
A step closer.
“…and come back with a millionaire father.”
Her lips curve.
It almost looks like a smile.
Almost.
I lower the cup slowly, setting it on the counter with more care than necessary.
“I didn’t plan that,” I say.
My voice is even.
But I can feel the tension coiled in my chest.
“I didn’t plan any of this.”
She hums softly, like she’s considering that.
Then takes another step.
“But it happened,” she says.
A beat.
“And now we’re here.”
Silence stretches between us.
Thick.
Pressurized.
The hum of the lights suddenly feels louder. The faint echo of sneakers squeaking in the main gym filters in under the door.
“I didn’t want this to be a thing between us,” I say.
And I mean that.
“I didn’t want us to be… this.”
She tilts her head slightly.
Studies me.
Really studies me.
“But we are,” she says.
No hesitation.
No softness.
Just fact.
She shifts her weight, one hand resting lightly on the counter beside her, manicured nails tapping once—twice—like she’s keeping time.
“We’re the same,” she continues, her voice still sweet, still smooth.
But her eyes?
Sharp.
Focused.
“Driven. Competitive. Used to winning.”
Her gaze drops—brief, deliberate—down my body, then back up to my face.
“Smart. Disciplined.”
A tiny pause.
“Let’s not pretend we don’t know exactly what we are.”
Something in my chest tightens.
Then steadies.
That old heat flickers back to life—low, controlled, dangerous.
“I do know what I am,” I say quietly.
Her brows lift just slightly.
“Do you?”
There it is.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
But it lands.
I feel it.
“I want him, Stella,” she says.
No hesitation.
No apology.
Just truth.
My grip tightens around the edge of the counter.
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”
My pulse kicks harder, but I don’t move.
“I’ve been here,” she continues, softer now, but no less sharp. “Showing up. Building something with him.”
A pause.
“And you…?”
Her eyes flicker—just for a second.
Enough to show it matters.
“Until recently… you weren’t even in the picture.” I fire off before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth like bullets.
That one hits her—hard.
Because it’s true.
I straighten slowly, shoulders pulling back.
“Maybe, I’ll just put myself back in the game now.”
Her lips press together—just barely.
A crack in the polish.
“Yeah,” she says.
Her tone shifts just a fraction cooler.
“Now that things… changed.”
Her gaze flicks again.
Pointed.
Meaning clear.
Money. Power. Name.
“Convenient timing.”
I shake my head once.
“You don’t get to reduce me to that.” My voice is still calm—but firmer now. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. What I’ve worked for.”
Her chin lifts.
“I know exactly what you are,” she says.
A beat.
“Competition.”
Silence again.
“I’m not trying to be your enemy,” she adds.
And that—that almost throws me.
“I’m trying to win.”
And there it is.
Clean.
Honest.
No mask.
Something inside me settles.
Locks into place.
I step forward.
Just enough to close the distance.
“So am I.”
Her eyes flash.
She studies me—really studies me—like she’s recalculating something.
Then…
a slow nod.
“Good,” she says quietly.
Almost approving.
“Because I don’t want to win easily.”
A breath slips out of me.
Not shaky.
Not unsure.
Steady.
“Wouldn’t be worth it.”
Her lips curve again.
This time just enough to show teeth.
“May the best woman win.”
I hold her gaze.
Don’t blink.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Let’s find out.”
We move at the same time.
Shoulder to shoulder.
The contact is light—
but deliberate.
A statement.
Not an accident.
Not aggression.
Acknowledgment.
Then she’s past me.
The door swings open.
Noise rushes back in.
And just like that—
she’s gone.
I stand there for a second longer, the smell of antiseptic and adhesive still sharp in the air, the cold from the forgotten water cup seeping into my fingertips.
My heart isn’t racing anymore.
It’s steady.
Grounded.
And for the first time in weeks—
I don’t feel like I’m reacting.
Or running.
Or trying to disappear.
I feel—locked in.
Game on.