The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 330

The afternoon sun filtered through the canopy of sycamore trees on campus, casting dappled shadows across the ground.

Sloane Taylor had just walked out of the aquatic center, her hair still dripping wet. She ran a towel haphazardly over her head, draped it around her neck, and hurried toward the lecture hall with her duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

The back of her swimsuit was still damp, clinging to her skin and sending a shiver down her spine as the crisp autumn breeze swept past.

She was currently gearing up for The Olympic Trials. Her coach had ramped up her training regimen, pushing her to swim nearly ten miles a day until her arms ached so badly she could barely lift them. Even so, she kept a brisk pace—she had a sports physiology lecture coming up, and Mrs. Gable was notoriously strict about attendance. Being one minute late meant losing five points from her final grade, and Sloane had no intention of failing.

"Sloane."

Someone called her name from behind.

It wasn't a familiar voice, nor was it a familiar tone. There was an inexplicable solemnity to it, like someone calling out to a friend they hadn't seen in a lifetime—afraid that speaking too loudly would startle her, but terrified that speaking too softly would mean she wouldn't hear.

Sloane turned around. Three men stood a short distance away.

One was a silver-haired professor in his fifties, wearing silver-rimmed glasses and a navy blue windbreaker, exuding a gentle, scholarly aura.

The second was a young man in his early twenties with sharp features, tanned skin, and a distinct mixed-race heritage. He was staring at her with an intensity that bordered on feverish.

The third was a burly man standing next to the professor, sporting a buzz cut and deeply bronzed skin. He had his arms crossed and gave her a slight nod.

Sloane instinctively pulled the towel from her neck and stood a little straighter.

"Who are you?"

Her gaze swept over the three of them, polite but guarded. "I don't know you."

"Sloane!" the young man blurted out, taking a half-step forward, a bizarre light gleaming in his eyes. "I'm Die—"

Sloane ordered three iced lemon teas for them, then pulled a white thermos from her duffel bag, twisted off the cap, and took a sip.

Diego Solano clutched his cup of lemon tea, took a huge gulp, and then stared curiously at Sloane's thermos. "Are you not going to drink anything?"

Sloane shook the thermos in her hand. "I'm in training, so I can't drink anything outside. I bring my own water."

The professor's gaze fell on the thermos. There was a little cat sticker on the side that had already started to fade.

He stared at it for a long time before speaking, his tone sounding exactly like a professor emphasizing a crucial point in a lecture. "You need to take good care of your water bottle. Don't let anyone else touch it, and don't let anyone drink from it."

Sloane paused, finding the advice oddly specific, but she nodded politely. "It's my own water. I wouldn't share it."

The burly man leaned back in his chair. The plastic cup of iced tea looked comically small in his hands, completely dwarfed by his thick wrists.