Chapter 5
Five
KANE
Things were going well with Stella.
Better than last year, when every good moment came with a line she refused to cross.
Tonight, she found me near the first bonfire. She let me hand her a drink, stood close enough for her bare arm to brush mine, and smiled when I told her she looked beautiful.
She didn’t dodge the compliment.
Didn’t tell me we were friends.
Didn’t put another inch between us.
For ten solid minutes, I thought the new year might finally belong to me.
Then Tristan Vale arrived.
The air changed before he reached us.
People stepped aside. Cameras came out. Half the beach already knew Stanford had secured one of the biggest transfers in college basketball. Vale wore the attention like he’d been raised beneath a spotlight—dark hair, expensive watch, calm expression, no visible need to impress anyone.
He looked straight at Stella.
She went still beside me.
Tiny movement.
Barely there.
I caught it.
Vale did too.
“Cortez,” he said.
“Vale.”
No introduction.
No confusion.
History.
It sat between them before either said another word.
I looked at Stella. “You two know each other?”
“Royal Oaks,” Vale answered.
Her gaze stayed on him.
“We went to school together.”
That was all she gave me.
One sentence where an entire story should have been.
Last year, Stella told me she’d attended a prep school on scholarship before transferring. She said the first place hadn’t worked out and left it there. I never pushed because I understood what it meant to enter a building where everyone else had paid for the right to belong.
I went to the best private school in my state on scholarship money. Coach drove me every morning because no bus ran from my neighborhood to campus.
Being a guy made it easier in some ways.
The girls left me alone.
The boys didn’t.
A shoulder into the lockers when no coach was watching. An elbow during practice that would have drawn a technical in a real game. Fathers in the stands asking why their sons lost minutes to some scholarship kid.
My parents held their heads high.
I learned to do the same.
You grit through it. Work harder. Take the starting spot and hold it until everyone stops pretending you stole it.
It gets lonely near the top.
That was what Stella and I shared.
At least, I thought we did.
Then Vale walked into Stanford carrying generational money, an old name, and a past with her that she never mentioned.
He leaned closer and said something I couldn’t hear.
Stella smiled.
A minute later, she followed him down the beach.
Into the dark.
No explanation.
No glance back.
I watch them disappear beyond the far bonfire and drain what’s left of my beer.
Eli comes up beside me.
“You good?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He looks toward the shoreline.
“No reason.”
“Then quit staring.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“Probably.”
I grab another beer from the cooler.
Stella doesn’t owe me every detail of her life. We never made anything official. She spent most of last year insisting volleyball came first and labels complicated things.
I gave her space.
Apparently, I gave Vale an opening.
Music pounds across the sand. A group of swimmers races toward the water, throwing shirts behind them. Someone near the fire starts another drinking game.
I twist the cap from my beer.
Eli watches me.
“Want company?”
“No.”
“That sounded healthy.”
“I need air.”
“We’re outside.”
“Air without you in it.”
He lifts his cup. “Love you too, bro.”
I head toward the water before he can follow.
The farther I walk, the quieter the party gets. Bonfire light fades behind me, leaving a thin wash of moonlight over the surf.
I keep looking toward the stretch of beach where Stella disappeared.
That’s why I don’t see the girl until she slams into me.
Beer flies from my bottle, splashing across my hand, my shorts, and the front of her oversized sweater.
“What the hell?”
She stumbles back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Watch where you’re going.”
Her apology vanishes.
“I was standing still.”
“You stepped in front of me.”
“No. You walked directly into me while staring down the beach like you were tracking a fugitive.”
I look at the beer dripping from my fingers.
“Great.”
She glances down at the dark stain spreading across her sweater.
“Yeah. A tragedy for both of us.”
She’s small.
Or she looks small beneath the sweater hanging from one shoulder. Jean shorts. Birkenstocks in one hand. Thick tortoiseshell glasses covering half her face. Dark hair blowing wild around them.
The glasses remind me of Aunt Gina, who reads birth charts at Thanksgiving and keeps polished rocks inside her bra because she claims they balance her energy.
I must stare too long.
The girl folds her arms.
“I’m the designated driver.”
“What?”
“I’m not an athlete. You don’t have to keep looking at me like you’re trying to figure out what sport I play.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was looking at your glasses.”
Her eyebrows rise behind them.
“Much better.”
“They’re intense.”
“They help me see men walking into me.”
I almost laugh, but the image of Stella leaving with Vale kills it.
“So you crashed the mixer.”
“My roommates crashed it. I drove.”
“And now you’re wandering the beach hoping to lock down an athlete?”
Her face twists like I suggested she drink from the ocean.
“Please. A man is the last thing I’m trying to lock down.”
Maybe she doesn’t like men.
Fine by me.
At least she isn’t going to ask for a picture, post it with a loaded caption, and spend the next month hinting that we hooked up because we stood near the same bonfire.
“First night?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Freshman?”
“Yep.”
Silence stretches between us.
She looks at the water.
I glance toward the party.
This conversation has reached its natural end.
“Nice meeting you…?” I say.
She holds out her hand.
“Sandy.”
I look at it before shaking.
Her fingers are cold from the ocean.
“Kane.” I release her hand.
“You don’t know who I am?”
“I told you. I got here today.”
“Right.”
She waits.
Recognition usually arrives before I introduce myself. Apparently, the giant glasses block sports news along with peripheral vision.
“If this season goes the way it should, everyone in America will know my name.”
She looks me over.
“Football?”
I let out a short laugh.
“Basketball. Starting point guard, baby.”
Her gray eyes widen behind the tortoiseshell frames.
There it is.
She knows now.
Interest flashes across her face, sharp and immediate.
I give her the smile that usually closes the distance.
Instead, her expression shuts down.
She steps back.
“Right.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She slides her Birkenstocks onto her feet.
“You leaving?”
“Suddenly, yes.”
Then she turns and walks toward the bonfires like I announced I’m carrying something contagious.
I stare after her.
“What was that?”
I breathe into my palm and check.
Beer. Mint gum. Fine.
Maybe it’s sweat. I lift one arm and sniff.
Not great, but nowhere near bad enough to trigger an evacuation.
Eli appears beside me carrying two fresh brews. His gaze follows Sandy as she disappears into the crowd.
“Did that chick just dust you?”
“No.”
“She moved pretty fast.”
“She’s weird.”
“Sure.”
He hands me a beer.
I take it.
“Cat-lady librarian crashes an athlete mixer, then acts offended when she finds out who I am.”
Eli grins. “Maybe she didn’t like what she found out.”
“Everybody likes point guards.”
“Vale plays point too.”
My jaw tightens. “Not anymore. That was high school.”
He glances toward the dark stretch of beach where Stella disappeared with Tristan, then back toward the bonfires.
“Rough night, Haverhill. Vale’s closer to locking down Stella than you ever were, and Granny Glasses just rejected you on sight.”
“She didn’t reject me.”
“What would you call it?”
I take a long drink.
“Bad eyesight.”
Eli laughs.
I don’t.
Somewhere down the beach, Stella is talking to Tristan Vale about a past she kept from me.
Behind us, Sandy has vanished into the party without looking back.
Two girls walking away from me in one night.
That won’t happen again.