This is my season.
My scholarship.
My future.
I see less of basketball now.
Different gym blocks. Different schedules.
But Tristan exists in flashes.
Across the quad with Kane.
In the athletic complex hallway, pink Nikes and that stupid Henley that somehow looks casual and expensive at the same time.
Always surrounded — teammates, groupies, girls who orbit like proximity might translate into importance.
I pretend it doesn’t register.
It does.
Kane corners me after class on Thursday.
Literally.
I step out of the lecture hall and he’s leaning against the wall like he planned it.
“Did you forget about our date, Stell?” he asks.
His voice is low, amused.
The smell of his aftershave hits first — pine and cloves again — and my stomach does that annoying, traitorous flip.
“I didn’t forget,” I say.
“Good,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Because I didn’t.”
His Henley is fitted tonight, sleeves pushed up, tan skin and muscle like he belongs in sunlight. He looks… intentional.
And suddenly a thought slides in, uninvited:
Maybe Tristan isn’t the only man who affects my libido.
Maybe I’ve just denied myself too long.
I step back before that thought settles.
“Oh,” I say lightly. “I figured you were busy with your bromance. You and Tristan seem very committed.”
His grin widens.
“Jealous?”
I smack his chest as I move past.
“In your dreams.”
“Stella,” he calls, following. “Our date.”
