Swish.
“She hasn’t said a word all practice,” one of the managers whispers near the sideline.
“Would you?” someone else replies. “After that whole thing?”
Phones.
Rumors.
That night.
The banquet.
The tags.
The comments.
The way people said her name like it was a headline instead of a person.
I glance away.
Just for a second.
Toward the bleachers.
Where a couple of girls are sitting—volleyball team, I think—watching.
Not cheering.
Watching.
Assessing.
When I look back?—
She’s already serving again.
“Break!” Coach calls.
Whistle shrills.
The team scatters for water.
Stella doesn’t.
She walks to the back wall, grabs her bottle, drinks without looking up.
No chatter.
No eye contact.
Just efficient.
Contained.
I move before I think.
Again.
