Page 368 of Bad Prince
Adjusts.
Tracks.
Responds.
Like she’s part of the court whether I want her to be or not.
I shoot again.
Swish.
Clean.
Controlled.
It should prove that I’ve got this handled. That I meant what I said.
That I’m choosing myself. But it doesn’t.Because no matter how locked in I get—no matter how clean the shot—no matter how loud the gym—she’s still there.
And I’m starting to realize—that wanting her might be the one thing I don’t know how to control.
“Note to self, don’t date other athletes,” I mutter. I already dodged Isa in the training room earlier.
My dorm room was a disaster—mini-fridge humming like it was on its last breath, clothes I meant to put away still on my bed. I sit at the desk by a single window overlooking the narrow path that cuts between the athletic buildings and the main quad.
I was supposed to be studying for my accounting midterm. Numbers. Rules. Debits and credits marching in perfect, soulless columns across the page. My pencil moved on autopilot, but my brain was somewhere else entirely.
I glanced up for the hundredth time, just a quick check out the window while I stretched my neck. A flash of motion caught my eye—long tan legs striding down the path, dark ponytail swinging with every step like it had its own rhythm. My heart slammed once, hard. The pencil in my grip snapped clean in two.
Not her.
Stella was probably in the library right now with that little crease between her brows, hair twisted up, completely unaware that I was out here losing my mind over a stranger’s ponytail.
I stared at the broken pencil, then at the empty path. She was everywhere and nowhere. Every swing of hair, every set of legs, every flash of red in the distance—my eyes hunted for her now without permission. I’d catch myself doing it between classes, in the cafeteria line, even in the damn locker-room mirror. Pathetic.Obsessed.
Completely screwed.
I shoved the textbook aside, stood, and dropped onto the couch. The cushions were lumpy, the room too quiet except for the low hum of the mini-fridge and the occasional laugh drifting up from the hallway.
My brow furrowed as I tried to drag my focus back to the spreadsheet on my laptop—columns of numbers that refused to line up, rules that felt like they were written in another language. My eyes burned.
My shoulders ached from morning practice. I was so damn tired. Tired of fighting it. Tired of pretending I could keep her out of my head for even five minutes.
My eyelids got heavier. The numbers blurred. And then…
I’m deep in it—pulling from thirty, nothing but net—when I catch the flash of her near the doorway.
She’s there.
Leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching.
Not close enough to speak.
Not far enough to ignore.
Just… there.
My next shot rims out. First miss all day.
