Not friendly.
Not “hey, how’ve you been?”
Locked in.
A lot of people in the room notice.
Nobody says anything.
That’s the thing about athletes. We can smell drama from three fields away and still act like we’re all above it.
Vale stops in front of her.
Too close.
She says something first—short, low, controlled. I can’t hear the words over the training room noise, but I can read tone. She wants distance. Wants caution. Wants him not to do whatever it is he came over here to do.
He doesn’t listen.
Of course he doesn’t.
He steps in until he’s got her half backed into the edge of the supply counter, one arm braced beside her shoulder, the other planted to the other side so that from where I’m sitting it looks exactly like what it is—a cage.
The room doesn’t fully stop.
But it changes.
Even Eddie notices, because the tape goes tight around my wrist for one second and he mutters, “Oh, boy.”
No kidding.
Stella tilts her face up at Vale with that cool, cutting volleyball queen expression like she’d rather die than let anybody know she feels a thing.
He looks down at her like he’s one wrong breath from saying something ruinous.
The look that passes between them is not flirtation.
It’s not a crush.
It’s not old chemistry.
It’s combustion under pressure.
Contained only because there are too many eyes in the room and too much season left to waste.
Now I’m pissed.
Not because of Stella.
Not really.
Because I know what I’m seeing.
And because Isa doesn’t.
Stella says something else, sharper now.
Vale answers.
