CHAPTER NINE
Stella
Practice runs long the day the world decides I’m supposed to pick a dress.
Sweat still cooling on my skin, knees aching, hair twisted into that same charcoal tie that’s survived every season with me like a tiny piece of armor.
Coach finally blows the whistle.
“Hydrate. Ice. And try to look like human beings tonight.”
The locker room explodes.
Banquet energy is different from game energy. Less nerves. More possibility. The girls crowd mirrors, towels wrapped around damp hair, talking over each other about heels and dates and whether football boys actually know how to tie ties.
Delia throws me a look.
“You’re coming.”
“That was never the question.”
“The question,” Mara says, grinning, “is who you’re coming with.”
I shove my bag into my locker.
“Stella Cortez. Flying solo. Alone.” I say dryly.
They groan.
“Ice princess,” Lila sighs. “Still no one’s melted you?”
I pretend that question doesn’t land harder than it should.
Shopping with the girls is better than I thought it would be.
Racks sliding. Hangers clacking. Designer fragrance mysteriously lingering in the air from the cosmetic counters. Mirrors everywhere — versions of myself I don’t always recognize.
I don’t do this often.
My life is spandex and sneakers and tape on my fingers.
But tonight feels… different.
The dress finds me instead of the other way around.
Deep navy satin. Simple lines. The kind of dress that doesn’t beg for attention but holds it anyway. It skims muscle instead of hiding it. Makes me look strong and soft at the same time.
I step out of the fitting room.
Silence.
Then chaos.
“Oh my God.”
“Stella.”
“You look?—”
