I was halfway there when Tristan reached Drew first.
Or maybe Drew reached Tristan.
It didn’t matter.
They ended up near the keg table, faces close, bodies squared. Jace stopped mid-laugh. Dante’s hand went still on his cup. A couple basketball players noticed from the other side and started drifting closer like storms had their own gravitational pull.
I could not hear the first words.
Just saw Drew smile.
Bad sign.
Drew’s real smile was crooked and devastating.
This smile was flat.
Mean.
Tristan said something.
Drew’s jaw ticked.
Then beer went flying.
Not a lot. Just one red cup knocked hard enough that amber liquid splashed across the keg table and onto the sand.
Every conversation in a ten-foot radius faltered.
Drew shoved Tristan in the chest.
Hard.
Tristan stumbled one step back.
Then came forward with a fist already cocking.
“Tristan!” Stella’s voice cut through the noise.
Basketball boys grabbed him first—Kane from one side, another guy from the other, both catching his arms before he could swing clean.
Drew lunged anyway.
It took Jace, Dante, and three linemen to get hands on him.
Five men.
Five.
And Drew still moved them two feet through the sand like they were trying to hold back weather.
“Drew!” I shouted.
He either didn’t hear me or ignored me.
His eyes were locked on Tristan, wild and bright and furious in the firelight.
“You had your chance, Vale,” he snapped. “You fucked it up. Tristan strained against Kane’s arm across his chest, face dark. “What do you care about Isa’s love life now?” Drew snarled.
