Burn it out.
Because I don’t know whose heart I’m about to break.
Isa’s.
Stella’s.
Or my own.
I hit the top step again, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my back, my shirt sticking to me.
And for a split second?—
I picture her there.
Stella.
Running these.
Breathing like this.
Alive like this.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Push off again.
Faster.
Harder.
Like I can outrun the truth.
I can’t.
Because no matter how hard I push?—
it’s still there.
I know what I want.
I just don’t know if I’m man enough to choose it.
The next day the training room smells like menthol, athletic tape, and irritation.
Which fits.
I’m already in a bad mood by the time I walk in.
Practice ran long. Coach spent twenty minutes riding my ass over spacing like I haven’t been carrying half this team on my back since the second I transferred in. My shoulder is tight. My temper’s tighter.
So by the time I step through the training room doors and see Stella Cortez standing at the far counter with a roll of tape in one hand and that don’t-even-think-about-it look in her eyes, I’m in absolutely no shape to pretend I don’t want a word.
Not later.
Not by text.
Not in some neat, controlled conversation where both of us act like what’s between us has ever been polite.
