CHAPTER FOUR
Stella
Late summer at Stanford smells like eucalyptus, sunscreen, and ambition. I choose the outdoor stadium again on purpose, last time, I cross trained here— I ran into Vale.
I haven’t seen him in about four days. I hate myself for looking for him everywhere around the complex. I did hear Coach Canely has him watching game tape and learning plays. Besides, it wasn’t hard to know what Tristan has been up to when he’s tagged and posted on every0ne’s socials.
The stadium lights hum overhead even though the sun is already threatening the horizon. The concrete steps hold yesterday’s heat. My shoes slap rhythm into the quiet.
My lungs burn by set three. Sweat gathers at the base of my neck, slides down my spine, disappears into the waistband of my shorts.
Good.
Pain means control.
I hit the landing and shake out my arms when I feel it —
That awareness that someone is watching you not like a stranger…
But like history.
Footsteps behind me.
Heavy but controlled. Not clumsy. Not trying to impress.
I don’t turn right away.
I know.
“Didn’t peg you for sunrise punishment,” he says.
His voice is rough with sleep and something warmer. Something that slides under my skin before I can block it.
I turn.
Tristan Vale stands two steps below me like California built him personally.
His skin is darker, sun catching along his shoulders. Sweat darkens the collar of his training top, fabric clinging just enough to outline muscle that definitely wasn’t there five years ago.
His arms are ridiculous.
Cut biceps. Defined forearms. Strength that looks functional, not decorative. His traps flex when he rolls his shoulders and for one traitorous second my brain supplies the word Viking.
I hate my brain.
“How long you been here?” I ask, because staring would be obvious.
“Long enough,” he says.
His eyes move over me the same way mine moved over him—quick, assessing, not subtle enough to pretend otherwise.
My legs.
My waist.
The sweat at my throat.
His gaze pauses half a second too long at my hips when I turn.
