Page 147 of Bad Prince
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tristan
Over the next week or so, my life becomes structured again. Which is dangerous. Because structure leaves space for habits. And Isa becomes one of mine as does—Morning lift.
Film.
Classes.
Protein shakes that taste like chalk and discipline.
Then basketball.
The gym smells like rubber and sweat and the citrus cleaner the custodial staff uses on the hardwood at night. I start recognizing the rhythm of the place — the way the air feels thicker after two hours of drills, the hollow echo of balls hitting the floor before sunrise.
Coach Canley notices I’m sharper.
Kane says I’m moving faster.
The guys say the other teams are cooked.
“Vale’s in demon mode,” someone mutters after I drain five threes in a row.
I shrug it off.
Because the truth is simpler.
I just stopped thinking about things that don’t help me win.
Or at least I try to.
Isa slips into the daily routine before I realize.
Coffee after class.
Study sessions in the athletic lounge.
Walking across campus with the late California sun warming our shoulders.
She fits easily into the empty spaces of my day.
That’s what makes it dangerous.
She’s funny in a dry, confident way. Her Texas drawl shows up more when she’s relaxed, stretching certain words like they’re lazy in the heat.
“Y’all basketball boys think you’re special,” she says one afternoon, stealing half my protein bar.
“We are,” I reply.
She laughs.
Her teeth are perfect. Not the artificial Hollywood kind — just straight and bright against warm tan skin.
Her hair is usually down when we’re not training, long waves that bounce when she walks. Sometimes she braids it loosely over one shoulder. Sometimes she pulls it into a high ponytail that swings like a metronome behind her when she laughs.
Her makeup is subtle but intentional.
Mascara.
