Study lounges with tutors on rotation.
IT support on call twenty-four-seven.
Concierge desk handling everything from class scheduling conflicts to NIL contracts.
“If your laptop dies at three a.m., someone fixes it,” Coach says. “If your syllabus changes, we know before you do.”
I nod like I’m weighing logistics.
In reality, I’m scanning every hallway.
Every auxiliary court.
Every flash of dark hair in the distance.
I don’t ask about her.
I don’t check the women’s practice schedule posted outside the training room.
I don’t linger too long anywhere that would make it obvious I’m looking.
But I am.
We loop back to Coach’s office. He slides the paperwork across the desk.
The Stanford letterhead feels heavier than it should.
This isn’t just a transfer.
It’s a pivot.
A bet on myself.
On something bigger than Harvard’s stone buildings and expectations that were chosen for me before I could spell my own name.
I sign.
No hesitation.
The second the pen leaves the page, something inside me settles.
Coach stands and claps my back.
“Welcome to the Cardinal.”
They hand me a practice jersey.
My number stitched clean.
VALE across the back in block red.
I run my thumb over the letters.
It feels earned.
Photos happen immediately. Studio lights. Cardinal red. West Coast sun pouring through high windows.
By evening, it’s everywhere.
