Chapter 39 #3
Tristan followed moments later, burying himself as deep as he could go before pulling out and spilling his seed all over my ass and back.
Ropes of his hot cum spurted on me while his fingers found my clit, pressing and circling, making me come again with him.
He groaned my name until the last of his release.
His arms locked around me, holding me close as we rode the aftershocks together, our breathing ragged and hearts pounding in unison.
We lingered there afterward, still joined, sweaty and glowing, his hand gently stroking over my stomach in tender, possessive strokes. The love between us felt almost tangible—warm, enveloping, wrapping around the fiery passion we had just shared.
Only then did I turn in his arms just enough to see his face—hair a little wrecked, eyes heavy, jaw shadowed, the whole dangerous prince act stripped down to the exhausted athlete underneath it.
“Can we stay here until graduation?” I asked.
His thumb brushed slowly under one eye.
“Tempting.”
I smiled.
Then it faded.
Because the day was here now.
My second playoff match with it.
The one we had all been building toward since August.
The one I had to leave for by noon.
The one he could not come to because he had a game too.
That settled over the room like weather.
He felt it. His hand moved to the back of my neck, thumb warm there.
“Hey.”
I looked at him.
His eyes held mine steady.
“Go take care of your season,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of mine. Then we come back to each other.”
Something in my chest tightened.
Not from fear.
From love so sudden and total it still sometimes felt like tripping into deep water.
So I nodded.
“Okay.”
And because we were us, because tenderness never erased heat with him and never would, he kissed me once—slow, sleepy, lingering just enough to remind me what I had waiting on the other side of whatever happened next.
Then we got up.
Packed.
Dressed.
Pulled ourselves back into athlete life.
And when I left that little hidden house an hour later with my bag in one hand and his hoodie still warm over my body, I felt rested in a way that was almost holy.
Ready too.
Or as ready as anyone can be when their entire season is about to balance on one terrible, beautiful day.
The bus smells like stale coffee, peppermint gum, and nerves.
No one says much once we get on the road.
That’s how you know it matters.
Playoff travel has its own silence. Not the easy kind. The compressed kind. The one full of headphones and film clips and girls staring out windows while mentally running serves, swings, rotations, alternate endings.
I sit three rows from the front with my hoodie folded in my lap and my bracelet turned inward against my wrist, thumb rubbing over the little compass rose whenever my mind starts to spiral.
North.
I touch it again.
Then I check my phone.
One text from Tristan.
Eat. Hydrate. Don’t start trying to carry everybody.
That startles a laugh out of me.
Soft enough not to draw attention.
Then another bubble.
And if anybody gets in your face at the net, hit harder.
I smile down at the screen.
Terrible advice.
I type back.
His answer comes immediately.
Outstanding advice.
Wish I was there.
That one hurts.
Because I wish he was too.
Not because I need saving.
Not because I can’t do this without him.
Because some part of me has already grown used to feeling him nearby when things matter.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes for one second.
I know.
I send.
He doesn’t reply right away.
Probably taping ankles.
Probably in film.
Probably doing the same thing I am—trying to hold one season in his hands while the other one he loves runs in parallel somewhere he can’t reach.
When the bus rolls into the away arena parking lot, my stomach drops exactly the way it always does.
Game body.
No matter how many matches you play, your body always knows.
The gym inside is cold and overlit and louder than it should be for a college arena not even half full yet. Their student section is already trying too hard. Our locker room is small and smells like hairspray, muscle cream, and the sharp synthetic scent of clean jerseys pulled from plastic.
Coach Alvarez doesn’t give speeches before matches like this.
That’s one of the reasons I love her.
She gives bullet points.
Serve tough.
Don’t play small.
Close the seam.
Trust your training.
Then she looks directly at me and says, “You don’t need to win this by yourself.”
I nod once.
But she knows.
I know.
Everybody knows.
When the air gets this tight, stars get leaned on.
That’s how sports works.
Fair or not.
Warm-ups blur.
Tape.
Bands.
Pep talks.
Music in one ear.
The pop of my serve off my palm.
The slap of Mari’s hand against mine.
Lila muttering, “Let’s ruin their whole night.”
By first whistle, I am all heartbeat.
The first set is a brawl.
We take it 25–23.
The second they steal by two after a bad call and one stupid overpass we should have buried.
The third turns into war.
Long rallies.
Dig after dig.
Block touches.
Bodies on the floor.
The kind of points that leave your lungs clawing at your ribs.
I score.
I get stuffed.
I score again.
I serve tough.
I get targeted in serve receive and answer anyway.
By the fourth, everything hurts.
Not dramatically.
Systemically.
Quads.
Shoulder.
Low back.
The spot between my ribs where breath keeps scraping on the way in.
The score stays ugly and close.
24–24.
25–25.
26–26.
That number starts to feel cursed after a while.
We take the fourth somehow, mostly on anger and a back-row kill from me that clips a hand and lands inside the line by maybe an inch.
Then it’s five.
A season should never come down to fifteen points.
That feels obscene.
And yet.
The fifth set is shorter, louder, crueler.
Everything narrows.
Their crowd is on its feet.
Our bench is hoarse.
Coach Alvarez’s voice cuts through the noise like steel.
At 9–9 I block one straight down and we surge ahead.
At 11–10 they answer with an ace that clips tape and dies like God personally picked a side.
At 12–12 my shoulder is burning so hard it feels detached from the rest of me.
I can feel the season tipping.
That’s the worst part.
Not not knowing.
Knowing.
At 13–13, Mari sets me high.
I go up.
See the block.
Adjust late.
Tool the outside hand.
Point.
14–13 us.
Match point.
My whole body becomes one bright, terrible wire.
The gym is screaming.
Coach is yelling something I can’t hear.
Lila grabs the back of my jersey and shouts, “One more.”
One more.
The phrase has never felt crueler.
I rotate back.
The ball is in my hands.
For one second, the whole world stills.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for me to feel everything at once.
The gym.
The pressure.
The months.
My body.
The bracelet in my bag.
The private jet.
The dance.
The sea.
Tristan’s voice saying, Don’t start trying to carry everybody.
I toss.
Jump.
Serve.
It’s good.
Fast.
Sharp.
They pass it barely. Scramble. Send back a free ball.
We should end it there.
We should.
But the set drifts too tight.
My approach is a half-step rushed.
Their middle closes sooner than I expect.
I swing anyway.
Hands.
Stuffed.
The ball comes down on our side.
The sound that leaves their gym is not cheering.
It’s detonation.
My feet hit the floor a split second too late to save anything.
14–14.
The whole match flips in that instant.
I feel it.
Everybody does.
We lose the next point on a scramble.
Then the last on a line shot I almost reach and don’t.
That’s it.
That’s the season.
Not a dramatic collapse.
Not some grand cinematic failure.
Just two points.
Two ugly, ordinary, merciless points.
The whistle blows.
Their side explodes.
And my body goes silent.
That’s the weird part about losing something that mattered this much.
You expect tears first.
Rage first.
Some obvious violent emotion.
Instead it’s blankness.
A vacuum.
Like the inside of your chest just got hit with weather hard enough to strip it clean.
Their girls are screaming.
Ours are frozen.
Then somebody on our bench starts crying.
That breaks the spell.
Lila bends over with both hands on her knees.
Mari yanks her ponytail out so hard it snaps.
One of the freshmen is openly sobbing before she even makes it to the line.
We do the handshakes because sports is sadistic and insists on courtesy in moments where your soul is actively leaving your body.
Good game.
Good game.
Good game.
I hope all their socks shrink.
Then locker room.
And that—
that is where it really happens.
Not on the court.
Not on the scoreboard.
In the quiet after.
Tape coming off.
Girls crying into towels.
The hiss of showers.
Coach Alvarez standing in front of us with her clipboard hanging limp at her side because there are no more adjustments to make now, no more sets to steal back, no more next point waiting to save you.
“It hurts because it mattered,” she says finally.
I stare at the floor.
At my knees.
At my hands.
At the stupid shape of my own fingers.
Somebody says, “We had them.”
Somebody else says, “I know.”
The freshman beside me starts crying harder.
I still can’t.
I want to.
Nothing comes.
Just emptiness.
My body gave everything.
My season gave everything.
And the world still said no.
The bus ride home is darker than the ride there.
Nobody watches film.
Nobody talks.
A few girls cry quietly.
Most just stare.
I keep looking at my phone and not opening it.
Because I know there will be messages.
From friends.
From campus.
From my mother.
Maybe from Emmanuel.
From people trying to make this feel meaningful in hindsight because they weren’t the ones still inside it.
I can’t do hindsight yet.
By the time we pull back onto campus, it’s late enough that the world has gone soft and dim around the edges.
The athletic complex looks almost kind in the dark.
We unload in silence.
Coach says she’s proud of us.
She means it.