Good.
I preferred rage.
Because the other feeling?
The old one?
The one that used to make me forget how to breathe when he looked at me?
That one could go to hell.
Coach tossed me another ball. “Cortez! Focus!”
“I am,” I replied stiffly.
I hit it harder than I ever had.
It flew straight toward the bleachers.
Straight toward him.
It smacked the wall inches from his head.
The sound echoed.
The whole gym went quiet.
Tristan didn’t even flinch. He just looked at me.
Recognition sliding into place.
His mouth tilted like he’d just found something interesting that he remembered liking.
My skin prickled. Something burned from deep inside me—complete rage that he hadn’t instantly recognized me that way I did him.
Coach yelled to go shag the ball I had just launched like an idiot.
Tristan walked closer, unhurried, like a predator who already knew the ending.
Damn, he even walked the same.
Loose. Confident. Untouchable.
“Cortez,” he said, handing the ball to me.
My name in his voice should’ve been illegal.
Low. Rough. Familiar.
I hated that my heart reacted before my brain did.
“You missed,” he added softly.
“I won’t next time,” I retorted.
His eyebrow lifted.
There it was.
