Page 31 of Break Point

“Maybe so. Or perhaps it’s all the Bryson Moss exes banding together to root for me to take you down on the court.” I know that’s not the case, and I’ve now read many of the comments lauding us as a couple. A real couple.

“I don’t doubt there are a few women out there who wouldn’t mind seeing your serve zero in on my crotch, that’s for sure,” he laughs out.

“Next time,” I add, turning my attention back to the mirror so I can concentrate on my eyeliner instead of him.

“It’s a date. I think I might surprise you too. I’m ready now.” The clank of metal on metal echoes in the background, and the background chatter sounds like he’s in the locker room. He must be finishing up his morning practice.

“You know I took it easy on you, right? If I play you for real, you’re not taking a single set.” I drop my towel and step into my clean underwear, then switch which hand is holding the phone as I work my arms through my bralette’s straps.

“It’s on, Crash. And if I take one set, you owe me . . . hmm.”

I’m sweating again.

“Dinner?” I suggest.

“A favor. Any favor I may need. One I can cash in anytime I choose. Like, maybe it’s four a.m., and I’m at the frat house wasted, and I need someone to get my ass home. You’re the call.”

“I don’t have a car,” I point out, my stomach cramping at the thought of having to schlep a drunk Bryson home from a party I wasn’t invited to.

“Okay, so no desperate rideshare calls, but everything else is fair game. If I take a set from you and I need a tutor for my bio final, you’re obligated to be the flash card queen.”

I’m not sure he’d want me as a study partner. I suck at science. But sure, if that’s the kind of favor he’s looking to cash in, I’m game.

“Deal. And if you don’t take a set, you stop with the Crash for good, and you buy me a new pair of shoes.” I slip my T-shirt over my head and move into my bedroom under the attentive surveillance of my roommate, who is on my heels.

“I’m working on the Crash part, I swear. But shoes, huh? That’s an odd—oh.”

“Yeah, someone ruined my favorite pair. And no, there will be no cheaping out. I get to pick whatever brand I want. And you have to take me out shopping and wait while I try on lots of things.” I’m trying to make it sound as torturous as possible.

“Honestly? I love shopping.”

Of course he does.

“All right. How about in a few weeks, then? Or will you be too banged up from your last game to hold a racket?” I let my teasing come through a little more than normal. I’ll give Bryson this, he’s good at goading my competitive spirit.

“Crash, I’ll fit you in during halftime. That’s how not worried I am.”

I laugh out loud but cut it short when I turn around and come face-to-face with my grinning roommate.

“It’s a deal. Hey, I gotta go.” I’m careful not to use the word date in front of Taryn. I’m also cautious about lingering on the line with him. I end the call first without a goodbye. I need to keep some reminders in place of what this really is between Bryson and me. If I blur those lines too much, my roommate will surely blend them into disappearance. And I don’t need to disillusion myself over any of this. It’s a sponsorship deal. A modeling gig to pay my tuition. We aren’t actually dating.

I open one of my social apps and am instantly hit with a new round of comments about how below Bryson Moss’s usual standards I am. So much for turning the tide of public opinion. I stare at the words for several seconds, letting the sting of judgment from strangers brand itself in my chest for just a moment. If anything, it’s a good reminder of what this thing with Bryson really is: pretend.

I make it to my finance class with thirty seconds to spare, giving me just enough time to set my laptop up to record our professor’s lecture. I’m not great at remembering spreadsheet formulas, so I plan on spending my next several study halls re-creating everything he’s reviewing in class today. With a little luck, by the end of the week I’ll be calculating internal rates of return in my sleep.

The professor stretches a few minutes past the end of our class, and I don’t dare shut down my laptop until it’s captured every last sentence. By the time we’re excused, my stomach is roaring hungry. I hate that most of my classes are clustered around the lunch hour, but that’s the only way I can fit in workouts and practices.

I’m the last one out of the classroom, and my head is down when I step into the busy corridor. I travel at least a dozen steps before I notice the set of feet syncing up right next to me.

“So, you’re a business major.”

I jump at Bryson’s voice, my brain taking a few extra seconds to connect the familiar voice and face with the body that’s been stalking alongside me. I end up pushing him into two men in suits walking the other way. I’m pretty sure one of them is the dean of the business school.

“Wow, sorry, sir! Tripping over my own feet. Guess it’s a good thing I’m more coordinated on the field,” Bryson says with a chuckle. Both men grin like fans, because everyone is a Bryson Moss fan, and tell him not to get injured as they bump his fist and head toward the admin offices.

“Unbelievable.” I huff out a sharp laugh as I adjust my backpack over my shoulder and march in the opposite direction.

“What can I say, Crash? Some people find me charming,” he muses, racing around me to hold the door open as I exit.