Page 13 of Break Point

Her smirk is back. Maybe it never left.

I shake my head and get up from my bed so I can change into my practice clothes. Taryn basically lives in hers—the same gray, extra-baggy sweatpants and oversize team T-shirt. She has four sets of the same thing. She’s already wearing her tennis shoes, so I gather she’s ready to go.

“He didn’t show up for me, so get that fantasy out of your head. He’s helping his sister with the launch. We’re both, sort of, I don’t know . . . the faces of the app?”

I’m starting to see why my mom was confused. This isn’t easy to explain.

“Okay, so like . . . are you sample profiles or something? I mean, I can see how having a Bryson Moss profile up for dibs will drive a lot of campus females to the app. Though, I’m pretty sure the entire cheer team has already dated him. Some of them twice. And the volleyball team. And—”

“Our profiles aren’t open. They’re just there, like samples. Like you said. And we’ll be in the social media for Score.”

“Wait, wait, wait . . . Score?”

Taryn’s reaction mirrors mine. I grimace when our eyes meet.

“It sounds bad, huh?” I hold her gaze while I pull a fresh pair of socks out of my top drawer. She seems to ruminate on the brand for a moment before her nose scrunches up and her eyes squint.

“It does sound a little like a sex app. You know, for hookups?” she says.

I groan as I stuff my feet into my clean socks, then slip them into my slides. Too bad these things aren’t padded enough to wear around campus. Or rain ready for the regular drizzles that greet me most mornings.

“Great! Now everyone is going to think I’m just another Bryson Moss conquest. One more name on his long list. Gah!” I flop onto my bed and peer upside down at the space underneath. Spotting my practice shoes, I stretch an arm into the dusty depths to snag one of the laces.

“Why would people think you’re hooking up with Bryson? Unless you’re fake dating. Wait . . . are you? No!”

I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a sigh before pushing myself upright to look at my friend. She’s all wide eyes as I brush the dust bunnies from my arms, and she covers her mouth in a terrible attempt to suppress her amused laugh.

“We are not fake dating, Taryn. It’s a modeling gig,” I argue. Clearly, I’m going to have to treat her like my parents and downplay this whole thing. That’s the only way I’ll be able to survive this eight-month contract. If I have to endure constant matchmaking attempts for real, I’m never going to make it.

“Right, modeling. But also, you’re totally fake dating, aren’t you? Like in the movies. And you’re going to have to spend time together, and then he’s going to say something nice, and you’ll be like, ‘Hmm, maybe Bryson Moss isn’t such an asshole after all.’”

She giggles through her words, and I do my best to let things roll off my back while I weave my hair into a braid that I twist up and pin against my scalp. Maybe she’s still high from that blunt I smelled wafting from the kitchen window as I walked up our apartment stairs.

“You’ve really thought this whole thing out, haven’t you?” I glance at her and scoff before snagging my keys from the top of my dresser and urging her to follow me out the door.

“What can I say? I love love.”

I grit my teeth but avoid turning around.

“Well, then, maybe you should be the one fake dating the campus playboy,” I retort, holding our front door open for her before locking up and starting our walk to the tennis center. Taryn doesn’t even date. She hooks up with her brother’s best friend every few months, then never talks about it. And God forbid I bring it up.

We get to the corner, and I assume the subject is finally dead, but Taryn holds on to things like a teething puppy.

“So, you are fake dating, then?” she finally lets out.

I glance at her briefly and give in to the frustrated laugh.

“Sure, Taryn. I’m fake dating Bryson Moss. Now can we drop it?”

Her mouth snaps shut, but her grin only gets bigger as she nods. I pick up my step when the walk sign lights up, and I don’t look my friend in the eyes the rest of the way to the courts.

Chapter 6

Bryson

Ashton and Walker, our third roommate, are at the tail end of a heated game of Mario Kart when I step into our apartment, and I manage to intercept the controller midair when Walker tosses it across the room.

“Dude, you need to chill. It’s just a game!” My eyes dart to Ashton, and we exchange a silent WTF about our hotheaded roommate. He hasn’t been himself lately.