Page 72 of Ruthless Court

I glance toward Evan.

He is practicing the layup footwork by himself.

Right step.

Left step.

Knee up.

Finish high.

“Tonight.”

On the bus back to Stanford, Dad’s old jersey lies folded in my lap.

For years, basketball meant waiting while he invested everything in boys who might go somewhere.

Tonight, seven of them looked at me as if Caitlin Clark had walked into their gym and agreed to stay.

I thought leaving Chicago meant leaving the game.

Instead, it found me again.

But this version might be one I can live with.

Seven

KANE

Kristais still in my bed when Tristan Vale posts the picture.

Not a soft launch.

Not one of those blurry hands-across-a-table shots people use when they want attention without admitting they want attention.

Full confirmation.

Stella stands between his legs on a hotel balcony somewhere cold and expensive. His arm is locked around her waist. Her hand rests against his jaw. Both of them are smiling like the last year ended exactly where it was always headed.

The caption is worse.

My beginning. My ending. Everything between.

I stare at it long enough for the screen to dim.

Krista rolls onto her stomach beside me, dragging half the sheet with her. Sleek dark hair spills across my pillow. Her tan runs from her shoulders to the tips of her toes without a single strap line.

Georgia sprinter.

Long legs.

Fast hands.

Over fifty yards, she can beat me by nearly a second and will remind me of it any time I start feeling too impressive.

Her kisses are wild. No hesitation. No patience. She kisses like the starter pistol already fired and she refuses to finish second.

It worked for a while.