And when I spike the next ball so hard it splits the air in two.
He transferred to the West Coast for vibes?
Cute.
He just walked into my house.
And this time?
I refuse to lose my footing. Or the armor around my heart. If Kane Haverhill, the starting power point guard hasn’t melted the ice cage around my heart—Tristan Vale won’t have a chance.
Kane and I met last August.
Before freshman year officially started.
Before I even got my class schedule. Before media day. Before Stanford became real.
The Athlete Mixer.
Which is code for—unsanctioned beach party thrown by every team captain with a fake ID’s and too much charisma. The beach house is owned by Carlton McDaniels head of the Athletic Alumni Association. The guy is rich, still wants to be twenty at forty and has just as much pride in athletics as he does his hair.
It wasn’t on any official calendar.
It didn’t need to be.
Huge chartered busses or Ubers took us down to the coast where bonfire pits carved into the sand and portable speakers thumping bass heavy enough you feel in your ribs. Kegs buried in coolers. Sunset turning the Pacific into molten gold.
Shirtless swimmers. Soccer boys already sunburned. Gymnasts in cutoff shorts. Volleyball girls pretending not to notice how many eyes were on them.
Hookups happened before the second playlist started.
It smelled like salt, beer, sunscreen, and bad decisions.
I almost didn’t go.
New campus. New start. New version of me.
But my senior setter dragged me.
“Cortez,” she’d said, “you don’t move across the country and not show up.”
So I went.
Black bikini. Oversized Stanford tee tied at the waist. Hair loose, wind-tangled, dangerous.
I was leaning against a driftwood log nursing a warm beer when he found me.
Kane Haverhill.
Already a name on campus before classes even started.
The favorite to be starting point guard as a freshman.
Projected NBA buzz.
Smile like he knew exactly what effect he had and enjoyed it responsibly. The memory of meeting him played in my head as I went through receiving drills.
He had walked up slow, not cocky. Not desperate.
