CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Stella
Today the gym smelled like rubber and sweat and the faint ghost of yesterday’s adrenaline.
At five a.m., the lights were still half-dim, the bleachers empty, the only sound the rhythmic pop of my serve hitting the far wall and the echo that followed.
My first NCAA playoff match is in three days.
My arm burned. My lungs screamed. But I kept feeding balls into the machine over and over, trying to outrun the fear that had been living under my ribs since the night Tristan walked away.
I didn’t hear the door open.
I only felt the shift in the air—like the whole building had taken a breath and held it.
Then he was there.
Tristan stepped out of the shadows in an oversized black hoodie, hood up, jaw tight enough to split stone. His duffel hung from one shoulder like he’d either just come from practice or hadn’t slept at all.
The next ball slipped from my fingers.
He caught it one-handed before it hit the floor.
My pulse stumbled.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just came toward me, slow and deliberate, like every step cost him something. Like he’d already fought this battle with himself and lost.
Or won.
I didn’t know which was more dangerous.
“Vale,” I said, but it came out thinner than I meant it to.
His eyes dragged over me—sweat-damp ponytail, volleyball shorts, flushed skin, the rise and fall of my chest—and that look alone nearly took my knees out.
God.
I had missed him angry.
Missed him wrecked.
Missed him wanting me enough to look like it hurt.
He stopped close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
“I ended it with Isa, for good. She knows where she stands.”
No hello.
No preamble.
Just truth dropped between us like a lit match.
I stared at him.
He swallowed once, hard, like even saying her name here in front of me scraped him raw.
“She deserved better than half,” he said.
