Stella had not stolen Tristan. He had never been mine to steal. She had not made him look at her like that. She had not forced him to choose her by simply existing with long legs and tragic eyes and whatever quiet spell she apparently had over half the athletic department.
Still.
I hated her.
Or I hated what she represented.
The chosen girl.
The one who made him stop hesitating.
The one who got the version of Tristan I had nearly broken myself trying to earn.
Stella looked over then.
Our eyes met.
Her expression shifted—not smug, not pitying. Concerned.
That somehow made it worse.
I gave her a look sharp enough to peel paint.
Her brows lifted slightly.
Then, to her credit, she did not look away.
Fine.
Volleyball queen had spine.
Good for her.
Across the sand, Drew was at the keg with Dante and Jace. Tristan must have seen him too, because his shoulders changed. Not much. Just enough. The way men did before becoming stupid.
Drew’s head turned.
He saw Vale.
The firelight caught his face at the exact moment the smile left it.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
I pushed up from the chair too fast and pain sparked down the back of my leg. I grabbed the armrest, breathing through my teeth.
Lana would have told me to sit down.
My trainer would have tackled me.
Unfortunately, neither of them was there, and men were about to prove why women lived longer.
I started toward them.
Slowly.
Because sand plus my new brace plus rage was not a graceful combination.
