The whistle blows.
Game starts.
Isa is easy to spot. She moves like she owns the field—long strides, tan legs flashing, ponytail swinging behind her like a banner. Her jersey fits like it was made for her. She’s fast. Aggressive. Beautiful in motion.
Confident.
Unapologetic.
Everything I’ve been trying not to think about.
“Damn,” one of my teammates says. “She’s good.”
“She’s been starting since day one,” another adds. “Texas state champ or something.”
I nod like I already knew that.
Like I care about stats and not?—
Everything else.
Minutes pass.
The game builds.
Crowd gets louder.
And still?—
No Tristan.
Not in the stands.
Not near the sideline.
Not anywhere I can see.
A strange, quiet part of me loosens.
Good.
He’s not here.
This is clean.
Simple.
Just a game.
Then it happens.
Fast.
Wrong.
Isa cuts left.
Sharp.
