Chapter 26 #2
Tristan’s gaze hasn’t left me. Issa’s hand is now curled possessively around the back of his neck, but his stare is locked on mine—dark, frustrated, starving.
Like he’s mentally peeling that jersey off me right here in front of everyone.
Like he’s one bad decision away from standing up, walking down those stairs, and dragging me somewhere private regardless of who’s watching.
Isa follows his line of sight. Her eyes narrow when they land on me. The smile she gives me over his shoulder is all sugar and venom—final warning.
I turn away first this time. Heart hammering. Thighs tight. Skin too hot for the cool-down air of the gym.
Media waits. Cameras. Questions. The performance of “focused athlete” I have to nail.
But every step I take toward the tunnel, I feel his eyes on my back. Feel the ghost of that almost-kiss Issa just laid on him. Feel the ache low in my belly that says this is nowhere near over.
I don’t hunt him tonight. Not yet.
I let the moment with my dad stay pure. I let the media swallow me whole. I let Issa think she just won the round.
But the second I’m done answering the same recycled questions for the tenth time?
The hunt begins.
Because he saw me. I saw him. And neither of us is going to be able to pretend that look never happened.
Not for much longer.
Music crashes through the gym speakers, bass thudding so hard I feel it in my ribs.
“Stella! Quick interview!”
I swipe the towel across my face, press it against the back of my neck, trying to cool the heat still running through me. My pulse hasn’t come down yet. Not even close.
“Stella, incredible performance tonight—what was going through your head during that final serve?”
I smile.
Not fake.
Controlled.
“I trusted my training,” I say. “Same routine, same focus. Just executed.”
“Your father was in the stands tonight—did that add pressure?”
There’s a flicker in my chest at that.
I glance up, instinctively.
He’s still there.
And even from here, I can see it—that look.
Pride.
My throat tightens just slightly. “Not pressure,” I answer. “Motivation.”
By the time they’re done with me, the gym has started to thin out.
Not empty—but softer now. The sharp edge of game energy fading into something looser, more scattered.
I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head toward the exit tunnel.
“Mi hija.”
The way he says it hits something deep.
My daughter.
He opens his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And I don’t hesitate.
I step into him.
He’s solid.
Warm.
Smells expensive—clean cologne layered over something deeper, richer. Wood. Spice. Power.
His arms wrap around me, firm, grounding, pulling me in like I belong there.
Like I’ve always belonged there.
“You were extraordinary,” he says into my hair.
Not exaggerated.
Not performative.
Certain.
“I’ve watched athletes all over the world,” he continues, pulling back just enough to look at me, his hands still on my shoulders. “Elite. Disciplined. Talented.”
His eyes hold mine.
“But you—”
A small shake of his head.
“You have something else.”
My chest tightens.
“What?”
He smiles slightly.
“Fire.”
I huff a quiet breath, looking down for a second, shaking my head like I don’t know what to do with that.
“I got that from Mama,” I say quietly.
His expression shifts.
Softens.
“Sí,” he says. “That… I believe.”
We start walking slowly down the corridor, the sounds of the gym fading behind us. My body is still humming, adrenaline not quite ready to let go.
“You held yourself like a champion,” he says. “Not just in how you played. In how you carried yourself. That matters.”
“I’ve had to,” I say.
A small pause.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
He looks at me then.
Really looks.
And I can feel it—the weight of everything he’s realizing all at once.
What he missed.
What I built without him.
“You did not need me to become this,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree.
Then I meet his eyes.
“But I’m glad you’re here now.”
I glance back toward the gym.
Not obvious.
Just a flick of my eyes.
Searching.
I don’t see him.
Not anymore.
And that—that lands differently than I expect.
Because a part of me thought—after that look—after that moment
after everything that passed between us without a single word—he’d come down.
He didn’t.
And I don’t know what that means.
My father is still talking—something about travel, about coming to Madrid, about showing me where I come from—but his voice fades at the edges.
Because my mind is somewhere else.
Back on that service line.
Back in that moment.
Back in the way his body leaned forward—like he was about to come to me.
And didn’t.
I swallow.
Hard.
This isn’t high school.
This isn’t Royal Oaks.
This isn’t stolen glances and almosts that never go anywhere.
I don’t want almost.
I stop walking.
My father notices immediately.
“?Qué pasa?” he asks.
What’s wrong?
I shake my head once.
Nothing.
Everything.
“I thought…” I start.
Then stop.
Because saying it out loud makes it real.
I exhale slowly.
“I thought I was over it.”
His gaze sharpens.
“?Sobre qué?”
Over what?
I look back toward the gym again.
This time, I don’t pretend.
“Him.”
There’s a pause.
Heavy.
Measured.
“And you are not,” my father says.
Not a question.
A statement.
I let out a quiet, almost humorless breath.
“No.”
The word settles between us. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it.
“I buried it,” I say. “I focused. I trained. I did everything right.”
I look down at my hands.
Still slightly shaking from the game.
“I thought if I built enough… if I became enough… it would just go away.”
My father is quiet.
Listening.
Not interrupting.
“It didn’t,” I finish.
Silence stretches.
Then—he steps closer.
“Then you have a choice,” he says.
I look up.
“Run from it,” he continues. “Or face it.”
A beat.
“Pero no puedes ignorarlo.”
But you cannot ignore it.
My chest tightens.
Because I know he’s right.
I’ve been ignoring it.
Controlling it.
Locking it down.
And tonight—it broke through anyway.
“I don’t want to lose myself,” I say quietly.
His expression softens.
“You will not,” he says.
Certain.
“Not if you remember who you are.”
I nod slowly.
But inside—everything is shifting.
Rearranging.
Because for the first time—this isn’t about whether he wants me.
It’s about the truth I can’t push down anymore.
I want him.
And that?
That changes everything.
“I miss him.”
The words are still sitting between us, quiet but heavy, when my father studies my face like he’s reading something deeper than what I just said.
Then—his expression shifts.
Just slightly.
A flicker of something lighter.
Amusement.
I narrow my eyes a little. “What?”
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “I was not expecting to be having this conversation so soon.”
I blink. “I just found out I had a father less than a week ago… and now you’re giving me dating advice?”
That lands.
His mouth curves, slow and effortless.
“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “Fair point.”
I cross my arms, one brow lifting. “This feels… accelerated.”
He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Romance and women…” he says, voice smooth, that Spanish accent wrapping around the words like velvet. “Some say I am very good at it.”
A beat.
“Some say I am terrible.”
I snort softly despite myself.
“Which one are you?” I ask.
His eyes glint.
“Depends who you ask.”
That makes me laugh—really laugh, the tension in my chest loosening just a little.
He watches me for a second longer than necessary.
Like he’s memorizing it.
Then his expression shifts again. Sharper now. Protective.
“He seems like a decent man,” he says.
My stomach tightens just slightly at that.
“Tristan,” I confirm quietly.
His jaw moves once, like he’s filing the name away somewhere permanent.
“And if he is not…” he continues.
A pause.
Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes.
“I will address it.”
I blink.
“You’re going to address it?” I echo, fighting a smile. “What does that mean exactly? Are you going to take him out?”
He doesn’t smile.
Not fully.
Just a slight tilt of his head.
“I would not need to.”
That… should not be as intimidating as it is.
I stare at him for a second.
Then shake my head, laughing under my breath. “Oh my God.”
He softens again instantly, like flipping a switch.
“Come,” he says, gesturing toward the parking lot. “I am taking my champion to dinner.”
I glance down at myself—sweaty, flushed, oversized Stanford hoodie thrown over my uniform shorts, sneakers still dusty from the court.
“I’m not exactly dressed for… whatever you have in mind.”
He looks me up and down once.
Slow.
Assessing.
Then meets my eyes again like it’s obvious.
“As if that matters.”
I narrow my eyes. “To you, maybe not. To everyone else?”
He gives a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “You are a celebrity now, Stella.”
I huff. “Relax.”
“No,” he says simply. “I am serious. No one is going to say anything about how you are dressed.”
A beat.
“They will be too busy watching you.”
My cheeks warm slightly.
Not embarrassed.
Just—
aware.
Of everything that’s shifting around me.
He gestures again, already moving toward a sleek black SUV parked near the curb.
“Besides,” he adds over his shoulder, “I refuse to let my daughter eat cafeteria food after playing like that.”
I laugh, falling into step beside him. “It’s not that bad.”
He opens the door for me, one brow lifting. “We will correct that tonight.”
I pause before getting in.
Just for a second.
Glancing back toward the gym.
Toward where I know he was.
Where that moment happened.
Where something cracked open I can’t close again.
My chest tightens.
Just slightly.
Then I look away.
Slide into the car.
And let the door shut.
And the truth?
It doesn’t matter how good dinner is.
Or how proud my father is.
Or how perfect this moment should feel.
Because underneath it—
quiet.
Persistent.
Unavoidable—
I still feel him.