Page 47 of Ruthless Court

One sentence where an entire story should have been.

Last year, Stella told me she’d attended a prep school on scholarship before transferring. She said the first place hadn’t worked out and left it there. I never pushed because I understood what it meant to enter a building where everyone else had paid for the right to belong.

I went to the best private school in my state on scholarship money. Coach drove me every morning because no bus ran from my neighborhood to campus.

Being a guy made it easier in some ways.

The girls left me alone.

The boys didn’t.

A shoulder into the lockers when no coach was watching. An elbow during practice that would have drawn a technical in a real game. Fathers in the stands asking why their sons lost minutes to some scholarship kid.

My parents held their heads high.

I learned to do the same.

You grit through it. Work harder. Take the starting spot and hold it until everyone stops pretending you stole it.

It gets lonely near the top.

That was what Stella and I shared.

At least, I thought we did.

Then Vale walked into Stanford carrying generational money, an old name, and a past with her that she never mentioned.

He leaned closer and said something I couldn’t hear.

Stella smiled.

A minute later, she followed him down the beach.

Into the dark.

No explanation.

No glance back.

I watch them disappear beyond the far bonfire and drain what’s left of my beer.

Eli comes up beside me.

“You good?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He looks toward the shoreline.

“No reason.”

“Then quit staring.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Probably.”