CHAPTER SIX
Tristan
I watch Stella walk away with Kane. My fist clenches at my side so hard the knuckles crack. The bonfire down on the beach throws gold across the sand, but all I see is her silhouette beside my starting point guard—his arm slung casually around her shoulders like he’s earned the right. She laughs at something he says, the sound carrying back to me on the salt wind, and it hits like a gut punch.
I can still taste the almost-kiss on my tongue. Her breath against my lips. The way her fingers had twisted into my shirt like she wanted to pull me closer instead of push me away. One more second and I would’ve had her. One more second and?—
“Vale! New guy! Come on, man, they’re doing keg stands!”
Some sophomore is yelling my name from the fire pit, red Solo cup raised like a trophy. I force my jaw to unclench and give him a nod that feels more like a snarl. I just got here. First week on campus. I can’t start a war over a girl I barely know, no matter how badly I want to drag her back and finish what we started in that garden.
Kane’s the guy everyone loves. Starting point guard. I’m the new transfer who’s supposed to be the missing piece. Blowing up over Stella tonight would paint me as the hothead before I even lace up for practice.
So I stay rooted in the sand, fire warming my back, and watch them disappear up the path toward the dunes.
Hours later, the beach party has migrated back to the basketball house off campus. Music thumps through the walls. The living room smells like cheap beer, weed, and too much cologne. I’m nursing a long neck when I spot her again.
Stella’s perched on the arm of the couch, long legs crossed, a bottle dangling from her fingers. She’s giggling—actually giggling—as Kane leans in close, explaining the rules of slip cup like it’s rocket science. Their knees keep brushing. Every time she laughs, she tips her head back and her throat catches the lamplight, and I feel that same fist-tight pressure in my chest.
She’s good at this. Playing it light. Acting like the garden never happened.
I’m not.
A group of field hockey girls suddenly swarm me near the kitchen island, all bright smiles and wandering hands. “Tristan! You have to tell us—did you really drop thirty-eight in the championship game last year?” One of them, a tall brunette with a killer smile, presses a fresh beer into my hand and lets her fingers linger on mine.
I know the play. They’re testing the new guy, seeing if I’m easy. Out of the corner of my eye I catch Stella’s gaze flick toward us. Her laugh falters for half a second. Her eyes narrow just a fraction as the brunette leans in to whisper something in my ear.
The corner of my mouth tips up.
Good. Let her look.
I give the field hockey girls enough charm to keep them happy—easy smile, a couple of practiced lines—but my attentionstays locked on the couch. Kane says something that makes Stella throw her head back again, and this time the giggle sounds a little forced.
I endure it for another twenty minutes. Then I peel the brunette’s hand off my bicep with a polite “Gotta find my roommate,” and slip away.
The house is loud, but the back porch is quieter, cooler. Strings of lights hang overhead, moths bumping against the bulbs. I push through the screen door and stop.
Stella’s there.
Alone.
Leaning against the railing with her arms wrapped around herself, the long neck bottle now empty beside her. She’s waiting. For Kane, probably. The thought burns low in my gut.
She turns when she hears the door. Our eyes meet. The air shifts instantly—same crackle from the garden, only heavier now, thickened by everything we didn’t say and didn’t do.
“You waiting for your escort?” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She lifts one shoulder, trying for casual. “He said he’d walk me back to campus. It’s late.”
I step closer, stopping just short of crowding her against the railing. The porch light paints soft shadows across her cheekbones. Up close I can see the faint flush still on her skin from the drinking and the laughing and whatever the hell else Kane made her feel tonight.
“He’s busy holding court inside.” I nod toward the house. “I could walk you.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth for a split second before she catches herself. “You don’t have to do that, Vale.”
“I know.” I lean one hip against the railing, close enough that our arms nearly brush. “But I want to.”
The silence stretches. Music and laughter spill out from inside, but out here it’s just the two of us and the distant crash of waves. Her lips part like she’s about to say something—maybe yes, maybe tell me to fuck off—but before she can, the screen door creaks open again.
