Page 202 of Ruthless Court

The concourse is packed.

Everyone wants food before the second half, so I spend ten minutes wedged between a family ordering enough nachos to feed a small country and two students arguing about whether Stanford should switch every screen.

By the time I leave the counter, I’m carrying a bucket of popcorn, two Diet Cokes, and a fresh box of Twizzlers pressed against my chest.

I turn.

Krista stands behind me.

Up close, she is even more intimidating. Sleek dark hair. Killer tan. Legs built to outrun most men on campus. Her fitted red top leaves no question that she spends more time training in one week than I have in my entire life.

Her gaze lands on the food.

Then my glasses.

Then my face.

“You’re in my seats.”

I adjust the drinks before one tips.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I glance toward the arena entrance, then back at her.

“That’s strange.”

Her expression hardens.

“What is?”

“The tickets in my account came directly from Kane. I would pull out my phone, but both hands are occupied, and I’m not sacrificing fifteen dollars’ worth of popcorn to win an argument.”

Krista folds her arms.

“He always left those seats for me.”

“Then his organizational skills have slipped.”

“You think this is funny?”

“A little.”

Her lips part, but another voice cuts in before she answers.

“Hannah,” Stella calls from behind her. “Get me extra napkins too.”

Krista’s entire body goes still.

Stella walks toward us without hurrying.

She doesn’t need to.

People shift out of her path before she reaches us.

Her gaze travels from Krista to me, then settles on the drinks tipping dangerously in my arms.