Page 58 of Bad Prince
“Okay.”
I start down the bleachers.
“Stella.”
I pause but don’t turn fully.
“I’m not chasing you because I’m bored,” he says. “I’m chasing you because I never stopped wanting to.”
My stomach flips.
I hate that it does.
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“No,” he answers. “I’m sure of you.”
That is not fair. Cocky vale is hot AF.
I jog toward the track before I can soften.
Before I can agree to coffee and maybe more…
By midweek, campus stops feeling empty.
It starts humming.
Athletes arrive in waves — duffel bags, foam rollers, protein shakers, the constant rhythm of sneakers squeaking across floors that never really sleep.
Football shows up first.
Then soccer.
Field hockey floods the dining hall in packs, loud and sunburned, lacrosse follows like a traveling party, tennis in crisp white, golf somehow already tan and relaxed.
The athletic dorm turns into a small, overachieving country.
A mini Olympic village.
Energy everywhere.
Music leaking from open doors. Laundry rooms full at midnight. Recovery tubs constantly occupied. Someone always laughing too loud down the hall.
And the rumors.
God, the rumors.
At breakfast.
At lunch.
In the training room.
In the weight room.
Who hooked up.
Who almost hooked up.
