“I was famous for exactly zero seconds.”
A couple girls snort.
Coach’s mouth twitches.
Doesn’t quite become a smile.
“Good,” she says. “Because I do not care if you’re dating basketball royalty, a senator’s son, or the second coming of Jesus in Nike slides. If it costs me one ounce of your edge, I will make your life deeply educational.”
That gets a full laugh out of the team.
Even me.
“Yes, Coach.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“Locked in?”
I glance down at the floor.
At the sweat.
At my taped fingers.
At the bracelet I took off and tucked safely in my bag before practice because I am not stupid enough to wear meaningful jewelry during live reps.
Then back at her.
“More than ever.”
That’s the truth.
And maybe she hears it, because something in her face settles.
“Good,” she says. “Then prove it.”
I do.
The next hour is vicious.
Not because I’m angry.
Because I’m awake.
Every serve lands harder.
Every read comes cleaner.
Every swing feels like my body has finally stopped splitting itself into pieces.
Tristan didn’t make me soft.
He didn’t pull me off my game.
He didn’t turn me into some dreamy idiot drifting through drills on the memory of a boy’s mouth.
He made me stop wasting energy fighting myself.
