Page 568 of Bad Prince
“Good.”
Her brows lift.
I keep my eyes on the court.
“Put me in front of a mic.”
She goes quiet.
Then, carefully, “You want to answer it.”
“Yes.”
She studies my face.
Then nods once.
“Okay.”
The game is loud from the start.
Pac-12 rivalry night.
Packed house.
Student section feral by warm-ups.
The kind of electricity that makes the floor feel thinner under your shoes.
I find Stella in the stands during introductions before I can stop myself. She’s there in dark jeans, my hoodie, hair up, face composed.
Too composed.
That alone tells me the article got in.
Her season may be over, but athlete face isn’t.
It never leaves for long.
I hold her eyes across the noise for one beat.
Then two.
She doesn’t smile.
Not because she’s angry.
Because she’s holding the line.
I tap my fist once over my chest without thinking.
The smallest flicker crosses her face.
There.
That’s enough.
Then the lights cut, the announcer loses his mind, and basketball takes over.
