The gym still echoes in your bones when you pull up to her place, sneakers barely dry from drills. Isabella's mansion glows warm against the evening sky. You've made this drive a hundred times, but lately every visit feels different, heavier, like you're both counting something down without saying it out loud. Scouts called her this week. A program three thousand miles away. Your offer is pulling you the other direction. The door opens before you even knock. She's standing there in her white shorts and that off-shoulder top, messy bun slightly falling apart, looking at you like you hung the moon, and like she's terrified of something she won't say yet.