Not the kind of boy a woman like her mother would point across a room and call smart.
But I come from money and spent summers in Miami in a six million dollar house that’s now worth sixteen. But I won’t dangle dollars for love. That’s not how I ever want to roll.
So, I smile. “Your type’s got a problem,” I retort.
Her brows pull together.
“What?”
I glance toward the basketball gym in the distance.
Then back at her.
“You’ll figure it out. But I’m sure you have already, baby. Denial is a word you’ll need to digest.”
That wipes the smugness off her face for half a second.
Good.
I step backward.
Hands up.
Easy.
“See you tomorrow, Texas.”
“I hope not.”
“Liar.”
She looks like she wants to throw a cleat at my head.
Then she turns and stalks off toward the dorms, bag bouncing against her hip, all that attitude packed into one furious little exit.
I watch her go because she’s the best view. And because I’m me, I say it out loud to the empty path once she’s too far away to hear it.
“You’ll say yes later.”
The next afternoon I’m in the training room getting my wrist taped because apparently catching passes all day at full speed is “wear and tear” now and not a badge of honor.
Soft world.
The room’s busy in that pre-dinner hour way—track girls on the bikes, a baseball pitcher icing his elbow, two swimmers arguing over shoulder bands, trainers moving fast and tired and unimpressed.
I’m sitting on the edge of a table while Eddie wraps tape around my right hand when the air shifts.
I don’t need to look up right away.
I know the feeling now.
Something electric entering a room.
When I do look, Stella Cortez is standing near the far counter with her bag over one shoulder and a roll of tape in one hand.
And Tristan Vale is walking straight toward her.
Not casual.
