That spark.
The one that used to make everything feel reckless and electric.
“Didn’t realize this was your court,” he murmured.
“It is and I don’t remember inviting you on it.”
We stood too close.
Close enough to smell his cologne. Clean and expensive and unfair.
Close enough to remember locker room hallways and stolen looks and the night he kissed me behind the curtains.
He studied me like he was recalculating.
“You changed.”
“Yeah,” I replied, “I got smarter.”
His gaze dropped briefly. Slow. Appreciative. Not subtle.
Heat crawled up my neck.
God, I wanted to punch him.
Or kiss him.
Probably both.
“I heard you vanished,” he said. “Guess you didn’t.”
“Vanish? I just stopped wasting my time on something small.”
Something flickered in his expression. Regret? Guilt?
“You hate me?”
I met his eyes.
Didn’t blink.
“Can’t hate someone you never think about.” With a shrug and a ponytail flip I took the ball and turned my back.
He smiled.
Like that was the best thing he’d heard all day.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Because Tristan Vale always liked a challenge.
And I had just made myself one.
“Water!” Coach blows the whistle.
My eyes lowered, trying to ignore the curious gazes of my teammates. I sense him. Physically feel him follow me to the bleacher where I had placed my hot pink Owala bottle.
The team scatters toward the coolers along the sideline.
