He wasn’t wrong.
When I left home early that morning, I thought for sure getting some practice time in with AJ would help steer my mind clear of…things—divert me from all the shit I’d fled. Time on the field, be it practice or game time, often cleared my headspace, supplied that decampment we all crave.
Not that day.
Instead, I’d been reflecting, recalling Macy’s words, her personal convictions splattered over the internet like mud.
Was her proclaim-to-all an accident or intentional?
Why the hell didn’t she tellmehow she felt?
Those queries made my jaw stiffen, my discombobulated heart bleed.
And when her text message hit my phone with “Hey, where are you,” I stood on the field, contemplating it, blind to the fact AJ’s ball was soaring toward me—the tenth, or twentieth throw I’d failed to catch that morning.
“Sorry, man. Just got shit on the brain.” I slid my cell inside my short’s’ pocket, choosing to ignore Macy’s text. “Let’s call it and go grab breakfast?”
“Pancake Shack, but only if you’re buying.”
Inside the car, I attempted to avoid the forthcoming inquisition by blasting Drake. But I knew it was only a matter of time before the commencement of Q&A.
AJ reached over to lower the volume, abandoning that unspokennever touch the driver’s musicrule.
“So…” He drummed his long fingers along the middle console. “What the fuck is up?”
Blunt and always straight to the point. It was a respectable attribute.
Most times.
Pondering whether or not to come clean, I said nothing. Still, there was only a matter of time before questions would stream in.
AJ scoffed, openly annoyed by my reserve. “What? You have it out with Macy?”
I snapped my head in his direction, my regard bouncing between him and the road. “Why would you assume it’sMacyand not someone like Harper?” I felt blood in my veins simmer at his presumption, more so due to its untimely truth.
“Because…Macy…”
“Because Macy, what?” I grumbled, wondering if my question was daft since AJ eyeballed me like there were three dicks strapped to my face.
“Dude”—he shook his head, abruptly shifting his view out the passenger side window—“maybe it’s time you ask yourself that question.”
What. The. Fuck?
Halting at a red light, my thumbs rapped the steering wheel, its repetitive sound and motion keeping me calm, relaxed, allowing for time to breathe, to ease past the lump of irritation shearing my throat. “And by that you mean…?”
AJ shifted, plucking his cell phone from the pocket of his sweatpants. “Never mind.” The three-syllabled retort was chased by an eye roll right before his finger flicked the phone screen, parading him through profiles of friends he followed on the campus app called UCChat. “None of it really fucking matters considering you chose Harper.”
An intrusivebeepfrom a red minivan in back of us swallowed the moment, a white-haired old lady behind the wheel fussing at me to get going.
Her feisty spirit brought out a chuckle. “Okay, lady. Thanks for letting me know the light turned green.”
Gunning the accelerator, I didn’t know the best way to respond to AJ’s comment without sounding like a bitch. He’d never been a member of the Harper Kingston fan club. Looking back, none of my friends had been—although I never understood why.
Harper was great on paper.
Marriage material with brains, beauty, and an incredibly fierce body that launched her into a triple-threat sphere.
Plus, being Coach K’s daughter—yep, the coach’s daughter—meant she’d come from respectable lineage.
