CHAPTER THIRTY
Stella
The whistle blows and the sound cracks through the gym like a gunshot.
Game over.
We win.
The place erupts—music blasting, sneakers pounding, bodies colliding in celebration—but I barely hear it over the roar in my own head.
Because I’m not watching the scoreboard.
I’m watching him.
And I swear—I have never seen him like that.
Not at Royal Oaks.
Not in flashes.
Not in memory.
This?
This is something else.
He’s not just good.
He’s dominant.
Controlled violence in motion.
Every cut sharp. Every shot clean. Every decision like it was made before anyone else even realized there was a choice.
He didn’t play like someone trying to prove something. He played like someone who already knew.
And that—that does something to me. Something dangerous.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag, the nylon digging into my palm, grounding me because my body feels like it’s floating somewhere just outside itself.
I swallow.
Hard.
Because I thought I knew what he was.
Cocky.
Privileged.
Untouchable.
I was wrong.
He’s worse.
He’s earned.
