Page 124 of Bad Prince

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Now it’s choice.

And I don’t know which one scares me more.

Kane, steady and safe.

Or Tristan, fire and history.

Coach’s voice echoes in my head:

You don’t get to be both at half power.

Fine.

Then I won’t be.

But that doesn’t mean my heart gets the memo.

The bleachers are still wet with dew.

5:27 a.m.

The stadium lights hum faintly overhead, casting everything in a pale, artificial glow. The sky is just starting to lighten — that soft gray that feels like the world hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet.

I like this hour.

No phones.

No whispers.

No boys.

Just steps.

I start at the bottom. It’s familiar torture that calms my brain and helps me focus.

My calves burn fast.

By the fifth set, my lungs are working hard enough that my thoughts thin out.

By the eighth, I hear footsteps behind me.

Steady.

Measured.

Not rushed.

Not performative.

Just there.

I don’t turn.

I don’t need to.

Kane.

He doesn’t say anything.

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