Page 141 of Bad Prince
By three weeks in—the rumors about me and Stella have cooled.
People move on fast when you stop feeding the fire.
Now it’s all preseason projections and NIL deals and freshman hype.
Which is how I end up paired withher—the rookie soccer forward.She’s a freshman in my International business analytics class where the professor talks like he’s narrating a documentary.
“Partner up,” he says.
Seats shuffle. I glance to my right. She’s already looking at me.
Long legs crossed at the knee, tan skin glowing under the overhead fluorescents. Brown hair that falls in soft waves past her shoulders — not quite dark, not quite blonde. Caramel. There’s a warmth in it that catches light.
Her eyeliner is subtle but precise.
Lipstick a muted rose that somehow makes her white teeth look even brighter when she smiles.
Which she does. Isabella Reyes Callaway—Isa for short. She’s a firecracker. We’ve met at a few parties. Flirted a bit. She’s light. Fun.Trouble.
“Looks like we’re partners,” she says, that Texas drawl curling around the words like honey.
I nod once. She laughs lightly.
I arch a brow. She grins.
She smells faintly like vanilla and sunscreen.
It’s subtle.
Clean.
Not heavy.
We exchange numbers for the project.
Professional.
Simple.
This is fine…
It starts innocently.
She walks with me out of lecture.
Her stride is confident — not rushed, not trailing.
Matching.
“You always sit in the front?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Overachiever.”
“Prepared.”
She laughs again.
