Page 540 of Bad Prince
Lila caught it immediately.
“Oh my God.”
I shoved my kneepads into my bag.
“No.”
“That smile should be illegal after the practice we just survived.”
Mari, face down on a mat, lifted one hand weakly.
“Tell Basketball Royalty if he has a brother who specializes in hamstrings, I’m available.”
I laughed under my breath and stood carefully, because my entire lower body objected to verticality.
“He doesn’t.”
“Then what good is he?” Lila called after me.
“Questionable good,” I said.
Then I headed out the side door into the back lot, where the sky was already turning that soft bruised California evening color and the cold air hit my overheated skin like mercy.
Tristan was leaning against his SUV in sweats and a black hoodie, arms folded, looking like the patron saint of very bad self-control.
The second he saw me straighten out of the doorway, his face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that I felt it.
Concern first.
Then understanding.
Then the quiet, athlete-specific assessment of a man who knows exactly what overtraining soreness looks like because he’s lived inside it too.
He pushed off the SUV and came toward me.
“You’re wrecked.”
“Your powers of observation are unbelievable.”
His hand slid to the small of my back as he reached me, warm and steady.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
I let out a breath and leaned into him just enough to feel his body take a little of my weight.
That, all by itself, nearly made me emotional.
No grand gesture.
No drama.
Just the pure relief of someone strong enough to brace against.
