CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tristan
Something’s off.
Not loud.
Not obvious.
But I feel it the second I step onto the court.
It’s in the air.
In the way the gym sounds—same squeak of sneakers, same echo of balls, same whistle cutting through drills—but something underneath it has shifted. Like a frequency just low enough you don’t consciously hear it… but your body does.
I grab a ball off the rack, spin it in my hands, and scan the court.
There.
Baseline.
Stella.
She’s already in motion.
Hair pulled into that bubble braid she does on game days—tight, deliberate, a small black bow tied at the end like a signature. Not flashy. Not for anyone else.
For control.
Her stance is perfect. Knees bent. Shoulders loose. Eyes locked.
She bounces the ball.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Every time the same.
Every time exact.
Then she tosses?—
Jumps—
Cracks it over the net like she’s trying to split the air in half.
The sound of it hitting hardwood on the other side echoes sharp and clean.
A kill.
