That’s different.
That’s dangerous.
By the time scrimmage starts, Lila backs off after one rally and points at me.
“This is what I’m talking about.”
Mari nods.
“She’s worse.”
Coach, from the sideline, says, “Better. The word you’re looking for is better.”
That one puts a smile in my chest that stays there for the rest of the set.
When practice finally ends, I’m drenched, breathing hard, and more certain than ever that this thing between Tristan and me is not some sweet little side plot threatening my season.
It is fuel.
The girls know it too.
As we cool down, Mari stretches beside me and says, “So the romance made you even more terrifying.”
I smile without opening my eyes.
“Apparently.”
Lila flops dramatically onto the floor mat.
“This is horrible news for the rest of the NCAA.”
Coach Alvarez walks past us with her clipboard, hears that, and says, “Correct.”
I don’t see the missed calls until I’m half dressed and toweling out my hair in the locker room.
Two from Emmanuel.
One text.
Llámame. Ahora.
Call me. Now.
Well.
That is never attached to anything soothing.
I stare at the screen for one second while the room blurs around me.
He saw the photos. A man like Emmanuel Cortez does not casually discover his newly acknowledged daughter flew across the country with a boy, attended a high-profile dance, and appeared on half the East Coast internet in a designer dress and not immediately go full Spanish warlord.
Fine.
I can do warlord.
I step out into the hallway, still damp-haired and warm from practice, and hit call.
He answers on the first ring.
