Chapter 7
Seven
KANE
Kristais still in my bed when Tristan Vale posts the picture.
Not a soft launch.
Not one of those blurry hands-across-a-table shots people use when they want attention without admitting they want attention.
Full confirmation.
Stella stands between his legs on a hotel balcony somewhere cold and expensive. His arm is locked around her waist. Her hand rests against his jaw. Both of them are smiling like the last year ended exactly where it was always headed.
The caption is worse.
My beginning. My ending. Everything between.
I stare at it long enough for the screen to dim.
Krista rolls onto her stomach beside me, dragging half the sheet with her. Sleek dark hair spills across my pillow. Her tan runs from her shoulders to the tips of her toes without a single strap line.
Georgia sprinter.
Long legs.
Fast hands.
Over fifty yards, she can beat me by nearly a second and will remind me of it any time I start feeling too impressive.
Her kisses are wild. No hesitation. No patience. She kisses like the starter pistol already fired and she refuses to finish second.
It worked for a while.
The flirting. The sex. The simplicity.
No questions about where we were going. No pressure to introduce her to my parents. No hints about future contracts, draft night, or what city she’d prefer if I went pro.
Krista wanted a good time with someone who looked good beside her.
I wanted not to think about Stella.
We both got what we came for.
Mostly.
Krista lifts her head and notices my phone.
“Oh.” She reaches for it. “They finally posted?”
I lock the screen before she can take it.
“You knew?”
“Everyone knew.”
“They weren’t together until now.”
She gives me a look.
“Kane.”
I get out of bed and pull on gray sweats.
My room is too warm. The air smells like her coconut lotion and the takeout we never finished. One of her shoes is under my desk. The other landed near the bathroom door.
“They were together before they were together,” she says. “You had to see that.”
“I saw plenty.”
“Then why do you look like someone cancelled your birthday?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re stalking your ex-situationship’s new relationship from bed.”
“She wasn’t my ex.”
“That makes it sadder.”
I glance at her.
Krista smiles into the pillow.
She isn’t trying to hurt me. Cruelty requires more investment than she has in this conversation.
I pick up the abandoned takeout containers and stack them.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Cleaning.”
“Right now?”
“It’s noon.”
“On Sunday.”
“Trash still exists on Sundays.”
She watches me carry the containers toward the small kitchen.
“You know what you should do?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“We should post something.”
I stop beside the counter.
“What?”
“A picture.” She sits up, pulling the sheet across her chest. “You and me. Maybe from bed, but tasteful.”
“No.”
“Not naked. Just enough skin to make it obvious.”
“To who?”
Her expression says the answer should be clear.
“Stella.”
I toss the containers into the trash.
“I’m not using you to make her jealous.”
Krista laughs.
“You’re not using me. I’m volunteering.”
“No.”
“It would be fun.”
“For you.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
That might be the most honest thing she has said since we met.
Krista and I don’t talk much. We trade insults during workouts, meet after parties, and spend a few hours pretending chemistry can fill every empty space.
When conversation does happen, it rarely survives longer than five minutes.
She talks about races, clothes, parties, and which athlete is sleeping with whom. I tried asking about a political science lecture once. She told me she hadn’t listened because the professor wore ugly shoes.
Last week, I mentioned a case study about collective bargaining and college athletics.
She kissed me to make me stop talking.
At the time, I didn’t mind.
Now the silence between us feels less peaceful than vacant.
“You really won’t post me?” she asks.
“No.”
“Because of Stella?”
“Because I don’t perform my private life for people.”
Krista glances around the room. “Your private life isn’t exactly doing much.”
The shot lands.
I fold my arms.
“You want breakfast?”
“Is that your way of changing the subject?”
“It’s my way of asking if you’re hungry.”
She considers it. “Do you have avocado toast?”
“No.”
“Smoothie ingredients?”
“No.”
“Anything besides eggs and athlete food?”
“Probably not.”
“I’ll grab something on the way home.”
She slides out of bed and gathers her clothes. No awkwardness. No attempt to cover herself. Krista has spent most of her life changing in locker rooms and competing in tiny uniforms. Modesty never made her training plan.
I lean against the counter as she dresses.
“What are you doing later?” she asks.
“Film.”
“After?”
“Reading.”
She pauses with one leg inside her shorts.
“You read for fun?”
“I read because I have classes.”
“I thought tutors handled most of that for you guys.”
My expression must change because she lifts both hands.
“I’m joking.”
“You weren’t.”
“Not completely.”
I look away.
People make the same assumption everywhere.
At my old private school, they thought the scholarship covered expectations along with tuition. As long as I scored, nobody cared whether I understood the assignment.
I cared.
My coach got me through the gate. Basketball paid the bill. Grades kept every teacher, administrator, and bitter parent from claiming I didn’t belong.
I learned more than offensive sets and press breaks.
I had to.
One injury can end a basketball career before the paperwork catches up. A bad workout can move a player down a draft board. One team decides it wants a taller guard, a younger guard, a safer guard, and suddenly the future everyone promised disappears.
The game is my best path.
It can’t be my only one.
Krista pulls her shirt over her head.
“You’re doing the intense silent thing.”
“What intense silent thing?”
“The one where you stare like I failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.”
“You didn’t fail anything.”
“Good.”
She checks her reflection in the microwave door and smooths her hair.
That is the whole problem.
Neither of us failed.
There was never enough here to test.
“You’re bored,” she says.
I look at her.
“With me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
She picks up one sneaker and searches for the other.
I find it beside the bathroom and toss it toward her.
She catches it.
Fast hands.
“Thanks.”
“Krista.”
She sits on the edge of the bed to tie her shoes.
“We’re not dating, Kane.”
“I know.”
“So don’t give me a breakup speech. It’ll make this embarrassing.”
“I wasn’t planning one.”
“Good. We had fun.”
“We did.”
Her gaze flicks toward my phone on the counter.
“You’re still in love with her?”
The question hits harder than it should coming from someone who claims not to care.
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
“It means I don’t know.”
She stands and grabs her bag.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you miss Stella as much as you miss thinking she might choose you.”
I go still.
Krista swings the strap over her shoulder.
Maybe I underestimated her.
“Where did that come from?” I ask.
“I’m not stupid. I’m just not interested in talking all night.”
Fair.
She walks toward the door, then glances back.
“You need a girl who likes arguing with you.”
“No one likes arguing with me.”
“You love it enough for two people.”
She leaves before I can answer.
The door clicks shut.
I pick up my phone.
Tristan’s post has already crossed a hundred thousand likes. Sports accounts are reposting it. Fan edits will follow. By tonight, strangers will be calling them royalty and talking about forever like they were there for any part of it.
Stella chose him.
Not tonight.
Long before either of them admitted it.
Krista was right about that too.
I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the couch.
The room feels quieter without her.
Not lonely.
Empty.
There’s a difference.
* * *
My academic advisor has three degrees, no patience, and a small wooden sign on her desk that reads:
YOUR EMERGENCY IS NOT MY SCHEDULING STRATEGY.
She taps my degree audit with one painted nail.
“You still need an upper-level seminar.”
“I know.”
“You said that last semester.”
“I was busy.”
“You were playing basketball.”
“Exactly.”
“That does not make the requirement disappear.”
I scroll through the available classes on my laptop.
Most conflict with practice, film, travel, or team lifts. The ones that fit are either full or taught at eight in the morning by professors who believe suffering builds character.
My advisor leans back.
“You could take an easier elective.”
“I don’t need easy.”
“You need three credits.”
“I can want both.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Both?”
“Credits and something worth taking.”
She studies me for a second.
“You know, some students come in here asking which class requires the least reading.”
“I’m not some students.”
“No. You make everything more difficult than necessary.”
“I’ve heard that.”
A new course appears when I refresh the page.
Power, Influence, and Institutional Ethics.
Twelve students.
Discussion based.
Heavy reading.
Professor Aldridge.
One seat remaining.
My advisor notices where I’m looking.
“Aldridge is demanding.”
“Good.”
“He expects participation.”
“Better.”
“He does not care about your travel schedule.”
“I’ll handle it.”
I click the course description.
Power. Status. Public responsibility. The ethics of influence.
Relevant enough.
The meeting time fits between morning lifts and afternoon practice.
I press Enroll.
My advisor closes the degree audit.
“There. One less crisis.”
I pack my laptop into my bag.
“Never a crisis.”
“Then what do you call showing up five minutes before your registration window closes?”
“Winning at the buzzer.”
She points toward the door.
I leave with the seminar added to my schedule and Krista’s words still lodged somewhere beneath my ribs.
You need a girl who likes arguing with you.
I don’t need any girl.
I need a clean season, a tournament run, and a draft stock high enough that no general manager can talk himself out of taking me.
Everything else is noise.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.