CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tristan
The ball snaps through the net.
Clean.
Again.
And again.
The sound is all I want right now.
Leather. Air. Net.
No voices. No faces. No Stella. No Isa. I catch the rebound hard, pivot, shoot again from the corner.
Swish.
My lungs burn. My shoulders are tight. Sweat runs down my spine, soaking through my shirt.
Pain means I’m not thinking.
Another shot.
The ball rims out. I grab it before it hits the floor and fire again.
Swish.
“Jesus, Vale…”
One of the guys mutters it from the sideline.
I don’t look.
Don’t respond.
Don’t care.
Because if I stop moving—I’ll think. And if I think—I’ll go back to the library.
To Stella’s eyes.
To Isa’s voice breaking.
To the way I walked out on both of them.
I dribble hard. Drive. Pull up.
Net.
“Leave him,” Coach mutters somewhere behind me. “Let him cook.”
That pulls a low chuckle from someone. I’m already at the other end of the court.
Full sprint.
Layup.
