I stayed quiet. Let them talk. Let them guess. I wasn’t giving them shit.
But the rest of the locker room wasn’t quiet.
Everybody was talking about last night.
The library showdown. Tristan Vale. Stella Cortez. And Isa.
I heard pieces of it while I changed after drills.
“—heard she straight up cried in front of everybody?—”
“—Stella went nuclear, man. Dropped that shit about Isa’s mom trying to lock down Vale for the money?—”
“—Vale just walked out. Left both of them standing there?—”
“—Isa looked wrecked?—”
I kept my head down and didn’t say a word, but every mention of her name made my blood run hotter.
After a long, scalding shower, I headed to the training room for stretching and tape on my shoulder. The place was half-empty this early. I was almost to the table when I saw him.
Tristan Vale.
Coming out of one of the side rooms, duffel over his shoulder, that clean, pretty-boy look still somehow intact even after everything that went down last night.
Our eyes met.
I didn’t slow down.
I grunted once — low, dismissive — and shouldered him hard as I passed. Not enough to start a full fight in the middle of the training room, but enough to make it clear I wasn’t in the mood for his bullshit.
He stumbled half a step.
I kept walking, but I couldn’t help myself. The words came out before I could stop them.
“She’s a fucking queen,” I said over my shoulder, loud enough for him and anyone nearby to hear. “Tasted like one too.”
Then I winked.
Tristan’s face went dark in half a second. He dropped his bag and swung.
The right hook came fast — I barely got my head out of the way in time. His fist grazed my jaw instead of connecting clean. I was already turning, ready to put him through the nearest wall, when two of my teammates grabbed me from behind and one of his grabbed him.
“Yo, chill?—!”
“Travers, stand down!”
“Vale, what the fuck, man?!”
I didn’t fight the hands holding me back. Just stared at him over their shoulders, breathing hard, jaw throbbing where his knuckles had grazed me.
Tristan looked ready to murder me.
Good.
Let him.
Because while he was busy swinging at ghosts and choosing himself, I’d had her in my arms. I’d had her coming on my tongue. I’d had her falling asleep wearing my shirt.
