Page 391 of Bad Prince
Nothing happened.
That’s the sick part.
Nothing happened, and somehow that’s worse.
Nothing happened except him stepping into the half-lit gym like a storm in an oversized black hoodie.
Nothing happened except him ending things with Isa.
Nothing happened except him pinning me with that wrecked, hungry stare and telling me it was me.
Nothing happened except his forehead almost touching mine, his thumb brushing my lip, his voice low and rough and promising everything without fully taking anything.
Nothing happened except the flirty texts that went from R to X rated in hours.
And I have been on fire ever since.
“Earth to Stella,” Lila says, waving a hand in front of my face.
I blink.
“What?”
She snorts.
“Whatever’s going on in your head, bottle it. We might need it in set four.”
I would laugh if my pulse weren’t already running too hot.
“Trust me,” I mutter. “Nobody wants what’s in my head.”
That earns me a bark of laughter as she jogs away.
I roll my shoulders once, twice, and look up toward the lower section of the stands.
Emmanuel is here again wearing dark jeans, a navy sweater, expensive watch with posture like he was born in rooms people don’t get invited into. He doesn’t blend anywhere, least of all in a college gym with folding bleachers and sticky floors and students in face paint.
My father.
Even now the word still lands strangely.
His phone is angled in his hand, and when he notices me looking, he lifts it a fraction so I can see my mother’s face on the screen. She’s emotional already, obviously. She presses her fingers to her lips and blows me a kiss through the tiny rectangle.
My chest squeezes.
Emmanuel doesn’t smile.
He just gives me one short nod.
And because my life enjoys piling one emotional crisis on top of another, Tristan’s voice slides into my head right on its heels.
Play angry while I’m gone.
My grip tightens around the ball.
Fine.
I can do that.
