Page 107 of Bad Prince

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I worked too hard to become Stella Cortez the athlete — the one who earns minutes, earns grades, earns respect.

And tonight I feel like that insecure high school girl again. The one standing in a gym pretending she didn’t care whether the popular boy noticed her.

Is that what I’ve been reduced to?

Attention.

God, did I get attention.

By the time I’m in the car, my phone won’t stop vibrating.

Texts from teammates.

Friends from home.

Unknown numbers.

Mentions.

The narrative evolves in real time:

Are they dating?

Is she playing both?

Open relationship?

Three-way vibes?

Starting lineup AND starring in a three-way?

My face burns hotter.

I didn’t come here for this.

I came here to play volleyball.

The call from Mamá comes fast.

Too fast.

My sister must’ve seen something.

I answer because ignoring her would make it worse.

Her voice hits in rapid Spanish — sharp, worried, frustrated. Words layered over each other like she’s trying to catch up to a story she doesn’t understand.

She says Tristan’s name.

Royal Oaks.

My chest tightens.

“Mamá, it’s not?—”

She switches to English.

That’s when I know she’s really upset.

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