He glances toward me.
Just once.
Then back at Tristan.
Then back at me again.
Oh.
He knows something’s up.
And Tristan?
Tristan tracks that look.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Calculating, if Kane and I are a thing.
The two of them have every0ne’s head turning, not just mine.
“Ladies!” Coach is frustrated blowing her whistle. This is volleyball. My court is not a Tinder app. Stop scrolling in your heads and get refocused! Suicides on my whistle until I blow twice.”
Groans erupt.
But none of us stop looking as our punishment is center court sprints.
Point guard and power forward.
If they sync?
Stanford basketball becomes lethal.
Kane runs the floor like a general.
Tristan owns the paint like gravity answers to him.
They could be unstoppable.
If they don’t kill each other first.
Coach blows the whistle twice after four minutes.
“Reset!”
I step back into position.
Let them stare.
Let them measure.
Let them calculate.
I’m not a rebound.
Or a trophy.
And I am definitely not a bet.
But if they want to compete?
Fine.
I’ll break both their hearts and collect the wreckage as interest
or every girl they’ve ever treated like practice.
Welcome to sophomore year.
