CHAPTER THREE
Tristan
California feels different the second I land this time.
I’m lighter. Like I shed something over the Rockies and didn’t bother asking for it back. By the time I move into the athletic dorms, I barely recognize myself.
They weren’t exaggerating. This place is a machine built for performance.
My room overlooks a strip of palm trees and a slice of blue sky that doesn’t look real. Everything is clean lines and quiet efficiency. A nutrition plan already printed on my desk. A welcome packet with practice schedules, tutor rotations, recovery protocols.
My name is already on the locker downstairs.
VALE.
It doesn’t feel borrowed anymore.
The first morning, I wake before my alarm.
Jet lag, maybe.
Or hunger.
I throw on a hoodie and meet a few of the guys for an early jog around campus. The air is cool, the kind that tricks you into thinking you’re not working that hard.
Kane’s there. Steady pace. Locked in. Jaw tight like he’s running from something. “Boston boy ready for real weather?” he calls back at me.
“This isn’t weather,” I retort. “It’s a screensaver.”
Jaydon laughs. Eli shakes his head.
Seth doesn’t.
He just runs.
We loop around campus, cutting past quiet buildings and sprinklers misting the grass. Kane bumps my shoulder once, testing. I bump him back.
It’s competitive.
But it’s good.
After the jog, a few of us head toward the field house. I decide to make a small detour to grab an iced coffee at the food truck always parked out by the track.
“Weights at eight,” Jayden declares. “Don’t ghost us, Vale.”
“Ghost you? I’m going to smoke you—just like I just did.”
Kane glances at me then. Brief. Assessing.
I peel off toward the track, headphones in, already mapping out my lift. Upper body. Core. Explosiveness.
And stop.
There’s a rhythm echoing on the bleachers.
Quick.
Light.
