I skim.
Two paragraphs in, I want to put my fist through the counter.
They call her “fresh off a dramatic postseason exit.”
They call her “the internet’s favorite new sports girlfriend.”
They spend more time talking about my stat line than her season.
Then they quote an anonymous Royal Oaks source rehashing the old rumor in cleaner language than the original poison but with the same rot under it:
“There’s always been a long game there. She knew how to stay in his orbit.”
I go perfectly still.
Because there it is.
The old wound.
Not even fully dead all this time.
Just waiting for a cheap enough outlet to drag it back into daylight.
Kane sees my face and sits up straighter.
“What?”
I turn the phone and let him read enough to understand.
His eyes narrow.
“Oh, shit.”
I keep reading, because rage is masochistic that way.
The article ends by framing Stella like she transitioned seamlessly from one stage to another, fromstar in her own righttogirl attached to a hotter headline.
Like volleyball was just the opening act to riding my coat tails.
Reducing Stella Cortez to a decorative afterimage on the edge of my season.
Kane sets the phone down very carefully.
“That’s bad.”
“Yeah.”
He studies me for one second.
Then, because he knows exactly where this cuts, says, “You need to be smarter than mad.”
I drag a hand over my mouth and look down at Stella’s name still sitting at the top of the thread.
No caption.
No explanation.
Just the link.
