Like he’s memorizing it.
Then his expression shifts again. Sharper now. Protective.
“He seems like a decent man,” he says.
My stomach tightens just slightly at that.
“Tristan,” I confirm quietly.
His jaw moves once, like he’s filing the name away somewhere permanent.
“And if he is not…” he continues.
A pause.
Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes.
“I will address it.”
I blink.
“You’re going toaddress it?” I echo, fighting a smile. “What does that mean exactly? Are you going to take him out?”
He doesn’t smile.
Not fully.
Just a slight tilt of his head.
“I would not need to.”
That… should not be as intimidating as it is.
I stare at him for a second.
Then shake my head, laughing under my breath. “Oh my God.”
He softens again instantly, like flipping a switch.
“Come,” he says, gesturing toward the parking lot. “I am taking my champion to dinner.”
I glance down at myself—sweaty, flushed, oversized Stanford hoodie thrown over my uniform shorts, sneakers still dusty from the court.
“I’m not exactly dressed for… whatever you have in mind.”
He looks me up and down once.
Slow.
Assessing.
Then meets my eyes again like it’s obvious.
“As if that matters.”
I narrow my eyes. “To you, maybe not. To everyone else?”
He gives a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “You are a celebrity now, Stella.”
