Chapter 3
Chapter Three
DREW
By the time I decide I’m done watching Tristan Vale drift around Texas like a man testing a flame with his bare hand, I’m already irritated enough to bench-press a car.
Not because she likes him.
That part makes sense—everybody likes him.
The polished jaw.
The old-money face.
The dark hair and quiet voice and that whole I’m not trying, I’m just devastating act he was probably born doing.
What irritates me is the way he keeps almosting her to death.
Walking her to class.
Lingering after practice.
Sitting with her at lunch like he’s building something.
Looking at her like she’s the only girl in the room—until another girl walks in.
Then something in his face changes.
Only for a second.
Only if you know what to look for.
I know what to look for.
I’ve seen enough men circle what they want while still keeping one hand on what they can’t let go of.
And Isa—Texas—whatever the hell she is to me besides a problem in a white sundress and cowboy boots—thinks she’s standing at the beginning of something.
That’s the part I can’t stomach.
So I stop waiting.
Soccer practice lets out late, and the air behind the athletic fields smells like cold turf, eucalyptus, and the dying last breath of California heat.
I’m posted against the fence with my hoodie sleeves hacked off, because God didn’t make these arms to live under fabric, and because I know she’ll notice.
She notices everything even while pretending not to.
The gate opens and they start filing out in packs—shin guards in hand, hair damp, bodies moving like they’ve all been running on pure spite for two hours.
Then I see her.
Tan legs.
Dark hair.
That tight little mouth she gets when she’s tired and trying not to show it.
She spots me and actually stops walking.
That pleases me more than it should.
Then she keeps coming, because she’s not the kind of girl who turns around just because trouble got there first.
“Absolutely not,” she says before she’s even close enough for me to answer.
I grin.
“Good evening to you too, Texas. Waiting for Vale, instead? I think he’s tied up with Stella in the field house.”
She keeps walking.
I push off the fence and fall into step beside her.
She smells like shampoo, sweat, and the expensive body lotion girls from money always seem to use even after practice. It shouldn’t work on me this well.
It does.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“You.”
That gets me a look so sharp it could take bark off a tree.
“Try again.”
I shove my hands in my hoodie pocket and glance over at her like I’m asking the weather, not changing the next thirty seconds of both our lives.
“Go out with me.”
She laughs.
Not a little laugh.
Not a surprised one.
A full, disbelieving you cannot be serious laugh.
I look down at her.
“You done?”
She wipes at the corner of one eye like this is the funniest thing she’s heard all week.
“No.”
“Take your time.”
She shakes her head and starts walking faster.
I keep pace easy.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I get that a lot.”
“From women or medical professionals?”
“Both.”
That almost gets her again.
Almost.
Then she regains control and throws me a look from under those lashes.
“No.”
I nod once.
“Okay. But has he even asked you out yet? Or is he just hanging around treating his presence like bait?”
That makes her blink.
She expected me to keep talking until the answer changes, but I know when to let a thought land.
She narrows her eyes.
“You stalking the campus gossip app, much?”
I look ahead, then back at her.
“You’ll say no now,” I tell her. “You’ll say yes later.”
Her whole face goes beautiful and offended.
“I would rather date a folding chair.”
“That feels personal.”
“It is.”
I grin wider.
“Still not a no forever…”
She rolls her eyes so hard I’m pretty sure it counts as a concussion.
“You are exhausting.”
“Good. Means you’re paying attention.”
She stops at the path where soccer breaks left toward the dorms and turns to face me fully.
Under the field lights she looks unreal—flushed from practice, hair slipping loose, body all athlete lines and beauty queen polish and enough bite in her face to make me want to get mean just so she’ll sharpen it at me again.
“Listen carefully,” she says.
I nod like a gentleman.
“Always.”
“I am not going out with you.”
“Tonight.”
“Ever.”
I tilt my head.
“Bold statement.”
She folds her arms.
“You are not my type.”
That gets me.
Because I know what she means.
Not polished enough.
Not pretty enough while still being manly.
Not princely enough.
Bank account with not enough zeros….
Not the kind of boy a woman like her mother would point across a room and call smart.
But I come from money and spent summers in Miami in a six million dollar house that’s now worth sixteen. But I won’t dangle dollars for love. That’s not how I ever want to roll.
So, I smile. “Your type’s got a problem,” I retort.
Her brows pull together.
“What?”
I glance toward the basketball gym in the distance.
Then back at her.
“You’ll figure it out. But I’m sure you have already, baby. Denial is a word you’ll need to digest.”
That wipes the smugness off her face for half a second.
Good.
I step backward.
Hands up.
Easy.
“See you tomorrow, Texas.”
“I hope not.”
“Liar.”
She looks like she wants to throw a cleat at my head.
Then she turns and stalks off toward the dorms, bag bouncing against her hip, all that attitude packed into one furious little exit.
I watch her go because she’s the best view. And because I’m me, I say it out loud to the empty path once she’s too far away to hear it.
“You’ll say yes later.”
The next afternoon I’m in the training room getting my wrist taped because apparently catching passes all day at full speed is “wear and tear” now and not a badge of honor.
Soft world.
The room’s busy in that pre-dinner hour way—track girls on the bikes, a baseball pitcher icing his elbow, two swimmers arguing over shoulder bands, trainers moving fast and tired and unimpressed.
I’m sitting on the edge of a table while Eddie wraps tape around my right hand when the air shifts.
I don’t need to look up right away.
I know the feeling now.
Something electric entering a room.
When I do look, Stella Cortez is standing near the far counter with her bag over one shoulder and a roll of tape in one hand.
And Tristan Vale is walking straight toward her.
Not casual.
Not friendly.
Not “hey, how’ve you been?”
Locked in.
A lot of people in the room notice.
Nobody says anything.
That’s the thing about athletes. We can smell drama from three fields away and still act like we’re all above it.
Vale stops in front of her.
Too close.
She says something first—short, low, controlled. I can’t hear the words over the training room noise, but I can read tone. She wants distance. Wants caution. Wants him not to do whatever it is he came over here to do.
He doesn’t listen.
Of course he doesn’t.
He steps in until he’s got her half backed into the edge of the supply counter, one arm braced beside her shoulder, the other planted to the other side so that from where I’m sitting it looks exactly like what it is—a cage.
The room doesn’t fully stop.
But it changes.
Even Eddie notices, because the tape goes tight around my wrist for one second and he mutters, “Oh, boy.”
No kidding.
Stella tilts her face up at Vale with that cool, cutting volleyball queen expression like she’d rather die than let anybody know she feels a thing.
He looks down at her like he’s one wrong breath from saying something ruinous.
The look that passes between them is not flirtation.
It’s not a crush.
It’s not old chemistry.
It’s combustion under pressure.
Contained only because there are too many eyes in the room and too much season left to waste.
Now I’m pissed.
Not because of Stella.
Not really.
Because I know what I’m seeing.
And because Isa doesn’t.
Stella says something else, sharper now.
Vale answers.
His jaw’s tight.
Her mouth’s set.
Neither of them looks like they’re in this conversation for fun.
Then Stella shoves lightly at his chest—more warning than force—and slips out from under his arm.
She doesn’t run.
That’s not her style.
She just walks away with her shoulders stiff and her bag high on her shoulder and every inch of her body saying not here, not now.
The second she’s gone, I hop off the table.
Jace catches my tape roll.
“Drew—”
Too late.
I’m already crossing the room.
Vale turns before I get there. He reads motion like a man who’s spent his life one step from collision. I stop in front of him. Close enough that if one of us breathes wrong, it becomes a problem.
“What the hell are you doing, Vale?”
His face closes instantly.
Not surprise.
Not guilt.
Just that cold prince shut-down I hate on sight.
“None of your business.”
I laugh once.
Short.
Ugly.
“I think it is.”
His eyes narrow.
“Say what you came to say.”
“Stay away from Isa.”
That lands.
Not because it shocks him.
Because now we’re finally not pretending.
He shifts his weight once, shoulders squaring.
“And what exactly makes her your concern?”
I lean in.
The whole training room goes quieter.
Not silent.
Just the kind of half-hush people get when everybody wants to know whether they’re about to witness a fight and nobody wants to be the one who starts screaming first.
“What makes it my concern,” I say, “is watching you chase two girls like you think no one can see it.”
Something dark flashes through his face.
Dangerous.
Good.
Because I’m tired of the polished act.
He steps closer.
Now we’re chest to chest.
“What do you care what my love life looks like?” he asks.
There’s no heat in his voice.
That’s what makes it worse.
It’s all restraint.
All expensive contempt.
I can feel my fist clenching.
Can feel the tape tighten over my knuckles.
“Because she thinks you’re picking her… and you’re not.”
That gets him.
His own hand balls at his side.
His jaw goes hard enough to crack teeth.
For one second I think he might swing first.
Part of me hopes he does.
Then Kane appears out of nowhere like a six-foot-four warning label.
He gets an arm across Vale’s chest at the exact same second one of my guys from football—Sanders, thank God—gets a hand on my shoulder.
“Easy,” Kane says.
“Back up, Travers,” Jace mutters in my ear.
Neither of us moves.
Vale’s eyes are locked on mine.
Mine are locked on his.
And everything ugly and unfinished and male sits there between us in broad daylight where everybody can finally smell it.
Kane looks from him to me and swears under his breath.
“Not in here,” he says.
He means—not in front of trainers
not in front of staff
not in front of the season…
He’s right.
That doesn’t improve my mood.
A trainer hurries over.
Then another.
One of the assistant strength coaches steps in from the hall and looks between us with the weary expression of a man who knows exactly how much paperwork a fight between flagship athletes would generate.
“What’s going on?”
Nobody answers.
No one’s snitching.
Not football.
Not basketball.
Not me.
Not Vale.
We all know the rules.
The assistant coach looks at Kane.
Kane lifts both hands.
“Nothing.”
The lie is insulting.
The coach takes it anyway because the alternative is a scene.
Jace’s hand stays on my shoulder until I finally take one step back.
Then another.
Vale doesn’t move.
Doesn’t say anything.
Just watches me with that cold, pretty face and those dark eyes that say he understood every word and hated all of them.
Good.
I point once at him on my way backward.
“This isn’t over, Vale.”
He doesn’t answer.
So I give him the part I really came to say.
“I see through your pretty-boy bullshit.”
That one lands. Kane’s mouth tightens.
For one second, Vale actually looks like he might come through the whole room and finish what we started.
But he doesn’t. He can’t. His NIL money and sweetheart transfer portal deal would blowback hard.
I turn and walk out before anybody can stop me.
The training room door swings shut.
My pulse is violent.
My hands are useless rocks at the ends of my arms.
And all I can think, over and over, is the same thing—Isa’s gonna hate me for this. And she’s still gonna get hurt anyway. That’s the part that makes me want to punch concrete. Because I asked her out.
She said no.
Fine.
I can live with no.
What I can’t stand is watching her walk clean into something I already know how to name.
So yeah.
Maybe this isn’t over.
Maybe I’ve got no business in Tristan Vale’s life.
Maybe Isa Calloway will tell me to go to hell again.
Maybe I’m a loud, broad-shouldered idiot with scissors and bad timing and no respect for boundaries when I think a girl’s about to get played.
All true.
Still.
I saw her first.
And I’m not done.