CHAPTER SEVEN
Stella
I know something’s off before anyone says it.
Athletic complexes have their own ecosystem. You can feel shifts the way animals feel weather.
Energy travels.
And this morning?
Something changed.
I notice it in the weight room first.
Kane and Tristan are already there.
Not just there.
Together.
Laughing.
Not loud. Not performative. Just easy — Kane leaning against the rack with that cocky half-grin he wears when he’s about to win an argument, Tristan rolling his shoulders like the bar is an afterthought, one stubborn lock of dark hair falling over his forehead every time he resets between reps.
It shouldn’t be distracting.
It is.
Kane smells like pine and cloves when I pass — clean, warm, grounding — the same scent that lingers on his hoodies when he tosses them over chairs like he owns the room.
Tristan smells different.
Cologne that’s subtle and expensive and impossible to name. Like cedar and sunlight and something sharper underneath.
My stomach clenches for no reason I want to admit.
What the hell.
Tristan spots me first. His eyes flick over — quick, controlled — then back to the bar. His hot pink Nikes flash when he steps into position, obnoxious against the monochrome gym like he enjoys breaking expectations.
Kane nods at me.
My stomach twists.
By lunch, it’s worse.
Basketball guys are talking about “the towers” like they’re a package deal. Film sessions. Extra reps. Recovery tubs at the same time.
Someone actually saysbromancein the dining hall.
I stab my salad harder than necessary.
I don’t know what they talked about.
I don’t know what Tristan told him.
I don’t know what Kane knows now.
