Page 18 of Break Point

He guides my arm upward, coaxing my elbow straight and stretching what feels like the culprit of my pain. I shift my focus to the wall straight ahead. It’s covered in muscle charts and last year’s media day posters for Cordon’s various teams. I zero in on the one featuring the tall quarterback with light-brown hair tossing a football at his side and eventually decide to swallow my curiosity for the time being. Aaron’s right in some regards. I don’t know Bryson Moss’s full story. In fact, like most people at Cordon U, I’ve barely cracked the cover.

Chapter 8

Bryson

I’m not sure whether to be frustrated that my bank sent me a fraud alert for the charge I made to pay Jaden’s tuition payment or to be glad they’re looking out for me. It has been a full three days since I made the charge, so it’s not like their financial forensic team is that on point, but I guess it’s good to know that if my accountant decides to gamble away my money one day, I’ll be alerted to it before it shows up in the tabloids.

I press the link in the text, and it opens a window displaying the details of the charge. I just want this thing to go through before it becomes a problem for Jaden. The last thing I need is this situation blowing up into a full display of Moss family dysfunction and the lengths we’ll go to just to keep my father out of our business, literally and figuratively.

“Earth to Bryson. Yo, are you even hearing me?”

I shake my head from my clouded thoughts and peel my gaze away from my phone screen in time to catch Ashton waving his hand as we approach the crosswalk leading to the stadium.

“Sorry, fraud alert,” I say, holding up my phone like a visual aid.

“Damn, everything good? You were about to step into rush hour traffic,” he says, dramatically sweeping his hand in front of us as a male student kick pushes along the bike path on a longboard. It’s six in the morning, so campus traffic is light—aka nonexistent. We both chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Probably just an error,” I say, tucking my phone into the front pocket of my hoodie. “They flagged it.”

I don’t elaborate because other than bar tabs and my truck, I haven’t had to pay for much since coming to Cordon. I’m not really into shopping for flashy shit like some of the other guys with big NIL deals. Probably because I grew up surrounded by the latest gadgets, designer clothes, and gold-plated . . . everything. That stuff doesn’t feel special to me. I also haven’t exactly brought Ashton up to speed on my side gig with my sister . . . or Jaden. If I start the story with the fact that I paid her tuition, I’m never going to hear the end of it. He already thinks I’m obsessed with the girl because I’m constantly eyeing her from across any room we’re both in.

“All right. Maybe I should check my balance, though. You know, just in case there’s a team-wide scam going on, or—” He already has his phone out and his bank app open. Ashton grew up in my town, but middle class. Shiny new toys and a decent-sized balance in his bank account carry more weight for him.

“Phew.” He swipes his screen and pockets his phone, seemingly relieved.

Ashton and I are likely the first guys here this morning, so we’re not exactly sprinting to get into the locker room to dress out and start running up the stands. Maybe it’s the leisurely walk to practice that’s got me more alert to my surroundings than usual, or perhaps the universe is nudging me. Whatever the draw, I find myself veering off course on our way to our workouts, chasing the continual thwap of tennis balls on concrete. I pause just outside the tennis complex, the player obscured by the windscreens that wrap around the fencing.

“Does tennis always practice this early?” I squint in the sun as I look to my friend.

Ashton shrugs. “I don’t think so. Can’t say I’m ever awake enough to pay attention, though.” He steps up onto a nearby retaining wall, then lifts on his toes, craning his neck to catch a glimpse.

Rather than joining him to peer through the fence like a couple of creepers, I tug at his pant leg and head toward the open gate that leads to the stands. I stop hard when I see Jaden. Her red hair, all wild curls despite her attempt to tame it with a hairband, slaps across her face as she slings her racket across her body and belts out a grunt.

“Oh, I get it now,” Ashton says over my shoulder as he steps up behind me.

“Psssshhh, there’s nothing to get,” I grumble. If I want to truly sell my disinterest, I should probably turn around right now and head to practice. But something has me locked on this concrete step that overlooks Cordon’s center court.

“Take a picture, lover boy. It lasts longer,” Ashton says as he slaps my chest and chuckles.

“Shut up,” I groan.

I sense Ashton walk away, but I linger for a few extra seconds. The vivid blue court is sprinkled with bright-green balls, dozens of them. Only a handful remain in the machine methodically shooting them across the court toward Jaden. I glance over my shoulder and note Ashton several steps away before pulling my phone from my front pocket and focusing the camera on the blur of raw power and passion on the court. I manage to snap a pic just as Jaden crushes a ball across the net. I take off before I get caught, but I zoom in on my screen while I’m still catching up to Ashton. It’s her expression that strikes me most. Her gaze is mean, her mouth pulled tight, the flex in her jaw indicating the clench of her teeth. I may be decent at throwing a football, but Jaden Johnson? She’s an athlete. I’m not obsessed with her. I envy her. And yeah, it bugs the hell out of me that she dislikes me so much.

We hit the locker room just as Garrett, our strength and conditioning coach, shows up, and since Ashton is still fighting to keep his slot as the number one receiver over the hotshot sophomore transfer we got in, he’s dressed and ready to get his sprints in before I even have my feet in my shoes.

“Dude, just go without me. I’ll be right there.” I wave him off, and he mutters something about how nice it must be to be Coach’s darling quarterback. I chuckle to be polite.

I know Ashton is kidding, but there’s a little bite to his words despite the laughing way he uttered them. I feel like I’ve proven myself with the team. Our playoff run last season and my passing-yard records are evidence that I have what it takes to lead a team like Cordon. But the whispers are still there. It’s part of the stigma of being a Moss. My father’s money opens a lot of doors, but it also makes people question whether you deserve to walk through them.

I take advantage of the small window of alone time to pull up the fraud link on my phone again, looking for a place where I can verify the charge with a simple click, but the only option is calling some eight-hundred number. I don’t have time for that, so I eat the stress knot forming in my throat and hope I can deal with this before it becomes Jaden’s problem . . . again.

I’m about to tuck my phone into my locker when it buzzes in my palm with a message from my sister.

Amelia: 24 hours to launch! Lunch is on me at Storm Slices. I need to get some candid video of you and Jaden. It’s the only open time she has today.

I ruminate for a moment on how I’m going to ditch Ashton and head to his favorite lunch spot without him after practice. Eventually, I resign to the fact that he’s going to find out about me being a part of this app launch with Jaden, so I’ll invite him along. I may as well distract him with free beer and wings to keep the teasing to a minimum.

Me: Congrats, sis! I’ll be there!