Chapter 2
Two
KANE
The field house is locked for preseason cleaning, so half the basketball team has taken over the outdoor court behind the athlete dorms.
It’s ninety degrees, the blacktop is cooking through my shoes, and I stripped off my shirt twenty minutes ago because sweat was turning it into a second skin.
Nobody complains.
A group of girls has already found reasons to cross the quad three times.
I catch the ball at the top of the key, fake right, drive left, and finish off the glass before Marcus can get his hand high enough to stop me.
“Too slow,” I tell him.
“You pushed off.”
“You’re bigger than me.”
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
“It makes your excuse worse.”
The ball drops through the net. I catch it on the bounce and fire it toward Eli, who is sitting on the sideline with his shoes untied and his phone in his hand.
He nearly takes it to the face.
“Pay attention.”
“I am.” He catches the ball against his chest. “Just not to you.”
Marcus grabs his water bottle. “He’s stalking the transfer portal again.”
“Vale signed,” Eli says.
I turn toward him.
“Everybody knows.”
“Yeah, but the NIL announcement just dropped.”
He holds up his screen. Tristan Vale’s face fills it beneath a Stanford basketball graphic. Dark hair, expensive expression, the same polished East Coast prince look that made him a headline before he played a single college minute.
I take the ball from Eli.
“He was always coming here.”
Marcus gives me a look. “That’s not what people are saying.”
“People say whatever gets reposted.”
“I heard Duke made a serious push.”
“So?”
“So maybe Vale wasn’t locked in.”
“He was.”
Eli rises and stretches his arms over his head. “You sound very certain for a guy who isn’t his agent.”
“I know basketball.”
“This isn’t basketball. It’s rich people negotiating.”
“Same thing with nicer suits.”
Marcus laughs and walks back onto the court.
Eli stays where he is, watching me spin the ball across my fingertips.
“Word is seeing Stella at the field house pushed Vale over the top.”
The ball slips.
Barely.
I catch it before it hits the ground.
“Seeing Stella didn’t lock down anything.”
Eli’s grin widens. “You saw the way he looked at her.”
“He looked at everybody.”
“Not like that.”
I bounce the ball once, hard.
Tristan had walked into the field house with the coaching staff, took one look across the court, and found Stella before anyone introduced them.
I noticed.
Everybody noticed.
It meant nothing.
“Country-club boy isn’t her type.”
Marcus wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt. “Pretty sure tall, rich, and built is every girl’s type.”
“Stella doesn’t care about money.”
“That’s convenient for you,” Eli says.
I shoot from several feet beyond the arc.
The ball drops clean through the net.
“Stella and I are good.”
Marcus snorts. “You had your shot last year.”
“I still have it.”
“Then why haven’t you locked her down?”
“Because she doesn’t need locking down.”
Eli looks toward Marcus. “That sounds like something a man says when the girl keeps refusing to date him.”
“She didn’t refuse.”
“What did she say?”
I retrieve the ball.
“That she wanted to focus on volleyball.”
Both of them laugh.
I point at Marcus. “You lost a girl to a lacrosse player last semester.”
His smile disappears.
“And you,” I say to Eli, “got blocked by twins.”
“They shared a phone.”
“They had separate accounts.”
“That feels unnecessary.”
“Learn from it.”
He flips me off.
I grin and pull up for another shot.
New year. New season.
Stella and I had spent enough time circling each other.
Late-night meals after practice. Study sessions that had very little studying involved.
Her legs across my lap while we watched games in the lounge.
My hand on her thigh, her head against my shoulder, both of us pretending we were friends because she didn’t want labels interfering with her season.
I gave her space.
That was last year.
This year, she would be beside me after games instead of waiting near the tunnel. She’d sit in my seats when she wasn’t traveling. People would stop asking what we were because the answer would be obvious.
Tristan Vale could transfer wherever he wanted.
It changed nothing.
“New year,” I say. “New day.”
Marcus groans. “Here we go.”
“Stella will be sitting beside me this season.”
“In your seats?” Eli asks.
“My seats.”
“Planning the wedding too?”
“I’ll let you know where to send the gift.”
Marcus checks behind me and starts smiling.
“Better work fast.”
I follow his gaze.
Stella is crossing the quad.
Her volleyball bag hangs from one shoulder, and her high ponytail swings behind her with every step. Tiny black shorts show off long, tan legs cut with muscle. White tank. Sunglasses. Smooth stride.
She looks strong enough to break someone and pretty enough to make him thank her afterward.
My teeth catch my bottom lip before I can stop it.
Eli sees.
“Subtle.”
“Shut up.”
Stella glances toward the court.
Her sunglasses hide her eyes, but her mouth curves when she spots me.
That smile belongs to me.
Or it will.
She slows near the edge of the blacktop.
“Field house still locked?”
“Until tomorrow,” I tell her.
Her attention moves over my bare chest, then back to my face.
I catch the pause.
So do the idiots behind me.
Marcus makes a choking noise.
I ignore him.
“You going tonight?” I ask her.
“The mixer?”
“Beach. Seven.”
She adjusts the strap on her shoulder. “Maybe.”
“That means yes.”
“It means maybe.”
“I’ll save you a spot.”
“On the beach?”
“Next to me.”
Her smile grows.
“You seem confident.”
“I am.”
“That’s never caused you any problems.”
“Not once.”
Eli coughs behind me.
Stella glances past my shoulder. “Your friends disagree.”
“They’re jealous.”
Marcus steps forward. “We’re concerned citizens.”
“Nobody asked you.”
Stella laughs, low and quick, then looks back at me.
“I’ll see you tonight, Haverhill.”
“That’s a yes.”
She walks away without answering.
Every one of us watches her cross the rest of the quad.
Marcus lets out a whistle.
“You are in trouble.”
“No.”
Eli picks up my shirt and throws it at my chest.
“Vale is going to that mixer.”
I catch the shirt with one hand.
“So?”
“So he looked at her like he already knew her.”
“He doesn’t.”
“Not yet.”
I glance toward the path where Stella disappeared.
The beach. Bonfires. Music. Every athlete on campus packed into one stretch of sand.
Tristan Vale could show up with his new Stanford deal and his perfect hair and whatever else people found so fascinating.
Stella and I had history.
He had a name.
I toss my shirt back onto the sideline and take the ball from Marcus.
“Check it.”
He bounces it to me.
I catch it, glance once more toward the dorms, and smile.
“Tonight’s handled.”