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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Stella

The whispers start before the match even ends.

Not loud.

Not obvious.

Just… there.

Like static.

Like something crawling under your skin that you can’t quite scratch.

I hear it when I rotate to the back line.

I feel it when I step up to serve.

Quick glances.

Half-smirks.

Phones tilting just a little too casually from behind our bench where the student athletic trainers sit, snickering while looking at their phones.

I don’t ask anyone.

I don’t need to.

I already know.

“Cortez, it’s your serve.”

Coach’s voice cuts through everything.

I step to the baseline.

My fingers tighten around the ball.

One bounce.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Always five.

My ponytail is high today — tight, sleek, pulled so clean it lifts my cheekbones. No bow. No softness.

Armor.

I inhale.