Page 189 of Bad Prince
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stella
The athletic complex always sounds different in the middle of the day. Mornings are sharp—whistles, sneakers, clipped commands, the clean violence of people trying to earn things before breakfast.
But noon? Noon is softer. Recovery hour.
Bodies limping in and out. Trainers speaking low. Ice machines churning in back rooms. The faint medicinal smell of tape adhesive, muscle rub, and lemon disinfectant settling over everything like a film.
I should be in the library.
I know that.
We’ve got an away match tomorrow, and I told myself I’d spend lunch reviewing film and getting ahead on a stats assignment because if I don’t keep moving, I think too much.
But my shoulder’s been barking all morning, a deep hot ache under the joint every time I swing crosscourt, and Coach gave me a look during drills that meant,don’t be stupid, Cortez.
So now I’m here.
In the training room.
Waiting for an ice sleeve and trying not to make eye contact with anyone.
The room is partitioned into little sections with pale blue curtains that never fully close. The vinyl treatment tables are lined up under fluorescent lights that make everyone look slightly sick. There’s a soft murmur from the front desk. A trainer is wrapping some football player’s wrist. Someone’s getting cupping done in the corner. The TV on the wall is muted but cycling through sports highlights.
I sign my name on the clipboard and head toward the back fridge for ice packs because no one has stopped me yet and I know where everything is.
The floor is cold through the thin soles of my slides.
I’m halfway behind one of the curtains when I hear laughter.
Female.
Light.
Polished.
Not the kind that belongs in here.
I pause.
Not because I’m trying to listen.
Because I recognize one of the voices.
Isa.
I shift the curtain just enough to reach the freezer and keep my eyes down. There are three girls in the curtained section next to me.
I can see shadows through the fabric. Long legs crossed at the ankle. One girl perched on the treatment table, another sitting in a swivel chair, one leaning against the wall with a Stanley cup in hand.
Their voices are muffled at first. Bits and pieces. The soft rustle of shopping bags. The metallic click of a lip gloss cap.
“I’m just saying,” one of them says, “your mother is going to lose her mind if she sees that article.”
Isa laughs.
That laugh.
