Page 307 of Bad Prince
I nod, force a smile, but my eyes are already drifting back up one last time.
Tristan’s gaze hasn’t left me. Issa’s hand is now curled possessively around the back of his neck, but his stare is lockedon mine—dark, frustrated, starving. Like he’s mentally peeling that jersey off me right here in front of everyone. Like he’s one bad decision away from standing up, walking down those stairs, and dragging me somewhere private regardless of who’s watching.
Isa follows his line of sight. Her eyes narrow when they land on me. The smile she gives me over his shoulder is all sugar and venom—final warning.
I turn away first this time. Heart hammering. Thighs tight. Skin too hot for the cool-down air of the gym.
Media waits. Cameras. Questions. The performance of “focused athlete” I have to nail.
But every step I take toward the tunnel, I feel his eyes on my back. Feel the ghost of that almost-kiss Issa just laid on him. Feel the ache low in my belly that says this is nowhere near over.
I don’t hunt him tonight. Not yet.
I let the moment with my dad stay pure. I let the media swallow me whole. I let Issa think she just won the round.
But the second I’m done answering the same recycled questions for the tenth time?
The hunt begins.
Because he saw me. I saw him. And neither of us is going to be able to pretend that look never happened.
Not for much longer.
Music crashes through the gym speakers, bass thudding so hard I feel it in my ribs.
“Stella! Quick interview!”
I swipe the towel across my face, press it against the back of my neck, trying to cool the heat still running through me. My pulse hasn’t come down yet. Not even close.
“Stella, incredible performance tonight—what was going through your head during that final serve?”
I smile.
Not fake.
Controlled.
“I trusted my training,” I say. “Same routine, same focus. Just executed.”
“Your father was in the stands tonight—did that add pressure?”
There’s a flicker in my chest at that.
I glance up, instinctively.
He’s still there.
And even from here, I can see it—that look.
Pride.
My throat tightens just slightly. “Not pressure,” I answer. “Motivation.”
By the time they’re done with me, the gym has started to thin out.
Not empty—but softer now. The sharp edge of game energy fading into something looser, more scattered.
I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head toward the exit tunnel.
