CHAPTER TWO
Tristan
I strolled across campus just taking it all in. Maybe my outfit was a bit much— but I had just met a business acquaintance of my father’s for coffee. Heads turned as I entered the sports complex. My designer shades hid my eyes—but everyone knew who I was.
This was my third trip to Stanford. And the final one. It was time to sign paperwork. Make it official. Get Keycards. A Student ID. Then head to compliance meetings. Handshakes. Smiles. The part where a decision stops being theoretical and turns into a life.
Spring semester had ended weeks ago. But most athletes stay year round, take summer courses to lighten the academic load and train. Fall sports are already in pre-season mode with the semester already starts in three or four weeks.
The athletic complex smells like cut grass, rubber, and sun-baked concrete. Inside, everything hums—music somewhere in the weight room, shoes squeaking on hardwood, whistles, voices, bodies in motion. Basketball has the court in an hour, for now they are in the annex gym. Volleyball is finishing up now.
I’m enjoying the moment. The sounds, smells and sights of my new home. Letting it all sink in— when something catches.
A flash of long tan legs.
Strong. Cut. Controlled.
A high ponytail snapping through the air as she pivots.
Then the light catches her hair—dark as wet ink, almost blue-black under the gym lights.
And then?—
She laughs.
That’s what stops me.
Not the legs.
Not the body.
Not even the hair.
The laugh.
Low. Sharp. Unrestrained.
I know that laugh…?
No—
I remember that laugh.
My chest goes tight before my brain catches up.
She turns.
One arm draws back.
She jumps.
And the ball detonates off the hardwood with a crack that echoes through the gym.
A whistle shrills.
“Cortez!” the coach barks. “Get your head in the practice!”
Cortez.
