Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Tristan
I know the exact time because I am already awake.
Not out of virtue.
Because in-season sleep is fragile and my body has stopped trusting alarms to drag it into violence on time.
I’m in the kitchen of my dorm suite while Kane’s barefoot, half dressed for lift, making coffee strong enough to qualify as a felony when my phone starts vibrating hard against the counter.
Kane, who is somehow upright this early without looking legally dead, glances over from where he’s eating eggs out of a plastic container.
“That’s either terrible or you got traded.”
I wipe one hand on my sweats, pick up the phone, and see Stella’s name at the top of the notifications.
Then I see the rest.
Leo.
Jade.
Three teammates.
A message from our SID.
One from my mother that just says:
Handle it.
Well.
That’s never attached to anything pleasant.
I open Stella first.
There’s no message.
Just a link.
That’s worse.
I tap it.
And there it is.
One of those thin, poisonous campus-adjacent sports-and-culture sites that likes to pretend it’s journalism when really it’s just prettier gossip with ad revenue.
A photo of Stella and me outside the arena from two nights ago—my hand at her waist, her face turned up toward mine, both of us caught in one of those private little seconds people think the world doesn’t notice until they see it frozen on a screen.
The headline:
From Queen of the Court to Courtside Queen? Inside Stella Cortez’s post-playoff pivot to Stanford Basketball’s hottest fangirl and WAG.
My jaw locks so hard I taste pressure.
I skim.
Two paragraphs in, I want to put my fist through the counter.
They call her “fresh off a dramatic postseason exit.”
They call her “the internet’s favorite new sports girlfriend.”
They spend more time talking about my stat line than her season.
Then they quote an anonymous Royal Oaks source rehashing the old rumor in cleaner language than the original poison but with the same rot under it:
“There’s always been a long game there. She knew how to stay in his orbit.”
I go perfectly still.
Because there it is.
The old wound.
Not even fully dead all this time.
Just waiting for a cheap enough outlet to drag it back into daylight.
Kane sees my face and sits up straighter.
“What?”
I turn the phone and let him read enough to understand.
His eyes narrow.
“Oh, shit.”
I keep reading, because rage is masochistic that way.
The article ends by framing Stella like she transitioned seamlessly from one stage to another, from star in her own right to girl attached to a hotter headline.
Like volleyball was just the opening act to riding my coat tails.
Reducing Stella Cortez to a decorative afterimage on the edge of my season.
Kane sets the phone down very carefully.
“That’s bad.”
“Yeah.”
He studies me for one second.
Then, because he knows exactly where this cuts, says, “You need to be smarter than mad.”
I drag a hand over my mouth and look down at Stella’s name still sitting at the top of the thread.
No caption.
No explanation.
Just the link.
That hurts too.
Because I know her well enough now to understand what that means.
It means she read it.
It means something old and ugly got touched.
It means she is probably holding herself very straight right now and pretending she doesn’t need anything.
That last part is the one I trust least.
I call her immediately.
Straight to voicemail.
I stare at the screen for half a second, then text.
Where are you?
No answer.
Another text.
I’m coming to you.
That one gets a reply.
Fast.
Don’t. Go to practice.
Then:
I’m fine.
Lie.
I can hear it in the punctuation.
I close my eyes briefly, breathing once through my nose.
Kane is leaning against the counter now, arms folded.
“What’s the move?”
I look at the article again.
At Stella’s face in the photo.
At the byline of some smug little parasite who has probably never taped a joint, played through a torn callus, or loved anyone enough to understand what it costs to have them dragged into a public narrative they did not consent to.
Then I look back at Kane.
“The move,” I say quietly, “is that nobody gets to use my name to reduce her again.”
Coach has us on a speed-and-strength day that already feels like punishment before I decide each rep now has a byline attached to it. By the third set, Jalen is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
By the fourth, Coach whistles me dead and says, “Either tell me what you’re mad at or use less bar speed before you pull the rack apart.”
I rack the weight with more control than I feel.
“Internet.”
He nods once like that explains enough.
It does.
By the time practice starts, the article has spread.
I know because our manager gives me one of those careful looks people do when they want to know if they should be concerned about your impulse control.
I know because a freshman guard mutters, “That site is trash,” when I pass.
I know because Coach calls me over before tip drill and says, “You don’t get ejected over a C level sports reporter’s garbage story.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He studies me for another second.
Then:
“You can answer it after the game. You answer it in here first.”
That lands.
Because he’s right.
Whatever I say later only means something if I back it up now.
So I do.
The whole practice feels like my blood has teeth.
Every cut harder.
Every closeout sharper.
Every jumper cleaner because anger, when it’s disciplined, is just focus with a bruise under it.
And all through it there’s this steady second track in my head:
Stella.
Reading that garbage.
Maybe not saying much.
Maybe going cold in that lethal way she gets when she’s hurt and trying to turn it into steel.
I hate that I know exactly how that looks.
By the end of practice, our SID catches me with a tablet in one hand and tension around her mouth.
“There’s going to be a question about it tonight.”
“Good.”
Her brows lift.
I keep my eyes on the court.
“Put me in front of a mic.”
She goes quiet.
Then, carefully, “You want to answer it.”
“Yes.”
She studies my face.
Then nods once.
“Okay.”
The game is loud from the start.
Pac-12 rivalry night.
Packed house.
Student section feral by warm-ups.
The kind of electricity that makes the floor feel thinner under your shoes.
I find Stella in the stands during introductions before I can stop myself. She’s there in dark jeans, my hoodie, hair up, face composed.
Too composed.
That alone tells me the article got in.
Her season may be over, but athlete face isn’t.
It never leaves for long.
I hold her eyes across the noise for one beat.
Then two.
She doesn’t smile.
Not because she’s angry.
Because she’s holding the line.
I tap my fist once over my chest without thinking.
The smallest flicker crosses her face.
There.
That’s enough.
Then the lights cut, the announcer loses his mind, and basketball takes over.
From the first possession, I know I’m not missing tonight.
Not after this morning.
Not with all that pressure looking for a place to go.
The game narrows fast.
Screen.
Split.
Finish.
Next trip down, kick out to Kane in the corner.
Three.
Then a steal.
Then a pull-up.
Then a chasedown block so violent the student section starts chanting my name like they invented me.
Good.
Let them.
By halftime I have sixteen and enough adrenaline in my system to qualify as unstable.
Kane slaps the back of my head on the way to the bench.
“That one was for toxic media, right?”
“That one was for being annoying.”
He grins.
“You’re welcome.”
Coach doesn’t mention the article once in the huddle.
He doesn’t need to.
Every guy in that circle can feel exactly what this game has become for me.
Not revenge.
Not ego.
Proof.
Second half gets uglier.
They start trapping high.
Bodying up.
Talking.
One of their guards says something in my ear after a hard foul that I don’t fully catch except for the word girlfriend in a tone that means he’s stupid enough to think this is useful.
That’s his mistake.
I bury a three in his face on the next possession and don’t say a word.
By the under-four timeout, we’re up nine and I’ve got twenty-eight.
The arena is shaking.
The cameras are everywhere.
My whole body feels carved out of pressure and purpose.
And through all of it, every time I glance up and find Stella in the stands, she’s there.
Still.
Focused.
Watching.
Not courtside decoration.
Not my lucky charm.
Not the soft thing at the edge of a hard game.
The person who knows exactly what I’m carrying and why.
We close it out at the line.
Final buzzer.
Win.
Thirty-four.
The place detonates.
My teammates swarm me.
The student section is chaos.
Somebody from ESPN’s digital crew is already circling like they smell blood and content.
Good.
Let them.
This time I know exactly what I’m saying.
The postgame hall outside the locker room is too bright.
Always is.
Mics.
Cameras.
Logos.
People trying to turn exhaustion into language while your blood still hasn’t realized the game is over.
I take my seat at the podium with sweat still drying at my temples, stat sheet in front of me, Coach to my left, SID off to the side.
The first three questions are what you’d expect.
Tempo.
Coverage.
The second-half run.
How did it feel to close in transition.
I answer.
Coach answers.
We move.
Then a girl from one of the campus outlets lifts her hand and says, with the kind of false-casual tone people use when they know exactly what they’re doing:
“There’s been a lot of attention today around your relationship with Stella Cortez and whether it’s changing her public identity on campus from athlete to, well, your girlfriend. Do you have a response to that?”
The room goes very still.
Coach doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
Because here it is.
The moment.
The lights on.
The question in public.
The exact place where the old version of me used to get slippery.
Not tonight.
I lean toward the mic.