He’s watching us.
Watching me.
Watching him.
And something in my chest twists.
Because I see it.
Clear as day.
He thinks—he’s been replaced.
My breath catches.
And before I can stop it—my eyes flick back to my father.
He’s already assessing—sizing Tristan up. But doesn’t say a word.
I don’t think. I move.
The second the cameras start flashing and someone shouts my name—my full name—I’m done.
“Stella! Stella—TMZ—just a quick?—”
Nope.
My pulse spikes, adrenaline snapping through me as I pivot hard and cut across the quad, dodging bodies, voices, phones lifting like weapons. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Exactly.
I shove through the doors of the field house, the heavy metal slamming shut behind me, muffling the chaos into a dull roar.
Safe.
Or at least… safer.
The air inside is cooler. Sterile. That sharp, familiar scent hits me immediately—rubber mats, floor polish, and underneath it, the bite of adhesive spray and muscle ointment. Aspercreme. Tape glue. Sweat baked into the walls.
My space.
My control.
I head for the training room, shoulders tight, jaw locked. I don’t even need my ankle taped. I just need to breathe without someone watching me do it.
The main area is busy—trainers moving fast, athletes laughing too loud, too many eyes flicking up when I walk in.
So I slip into the smaller room.
Quieter.
Dimmer.
Just the hum of a mini fridge and the low buzz of fluorescent lights overhead.
I grab a paper cup, fill it with cold water. The plastic creaks under my grip as my fingers tighten around it, condensation slick against my palm.
Breathe.
Just—
