Page 197 of Bad Prince
I don’t look in.
I absolutely do not look in.
And because the universe has a sense of humor, I hear his voice before I clear the corner.
Low. Easy. Laughing at something Kane says.
I stop anyway.
Just out of sight.
But I can’t make my feet move.
Through the glass I can see only part of the court.
Kane on the wing.
The coach with a clipboard.
A manager rebounding.
And Tristan.
At the free-throw line.
The ball spins in his hands once.
Twice.
That stupid lock of dark hair falls over his forehead and he shakes it back without thinking. His calves flex when he bends his knees. His shoulders roll. His watch is gone. Just sweat, tape at one finger, black practice shorts, and those ridiculous hot pink Nikes he insists on wearing like he likes being underestimated.
He lifts the shot.
Swish.
Clean.
He turns at something someone says and laughs.
And I just stand there, hidden and stupid, with an ice sleeve melting down my arm, knowing more than I wanted to know.
He doesn’t know any of it.
He doesn’t know she plotted.
Doesn’t know her mother built a campaign around his transfer.
Doesn’t know I know.
And if I tell him?
What do I sound like?
Bitter.
Jealous.
Desperate.
