And that?
That hits different.
The crowd starts to thin, but I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because he’s still out there.
And I’m still watching.
And then—she steps closer.
Isa.
She’s right there at the baseline now, closer than she was before, her posture straight, chin lifted, like she belongs in his orbit.
Like she’s already claimed her place there.
Her hair’s perfect. Lip gloss untouched. That soft Texas glow under the lights like she walked out of a campaign ad for “future everything.”
She looks like what he should want.
What makes sense.
I hate that thought.
Because for a second—I feel small again.
Like that girl.
The one who got run out.
The one who wasn’t enough.
My fingers flex.
No.
I’m not her. Not anymore. I straighten my shoulders, forcing my spine tall, grounding myself back into my own body.
I earned my place here and I’m not shrinking for anyone.
Not again.
But still—I watch.
Because I need to know.
He jogs toward the sideline, grabbing a towel, dragging it over his face, chest rising and falling like he just came out of war.
Sweat slicks his skin, his shirt clinging to him, muscles still tense, still ready.
Still dangerous.
And Isa—she moves.
Subtle.
