I nod.
Still watching her.
Still feeling that charge in my bloodstream.
I didn’t come to Stanford for this… but the second her name echoed across this gym?—
I knew.
I’m not leaving without signing.
Fate doesn’t knock twice.
And this time?
I’m not freezing when the lights come on.
“Vale,” Coach calls. “You remember Haverhill?”
Kane steps forward before the introduction finishes.
Closer up, he’s all economy. Lean muscle. Focused eyes. The kind of player who runs a floor like it’s his.
Handshake.
Firm.
Deliberate.
“Harvard” he says.
“For the next two minutes,” I smirk. “Until I officially sign.”
Coach starts in on roster talk—rotations, tempo, spacing— but Kane’s attention shifts.
Toward the partition.
I don’t have to look to know why.
But I do anyway.
Stella’s at the service line.
Sweat darkens the neckline of her tank.
A slow drop trails down the center of her throat, disappears beneath fabric.
Her ponytail swings as she rolls her shoulders loose.
She tosses the ball.
Jumps.
The crack when she connects echoes through both courts.
Perfect form.
Controlled violence.
