Page 33 of Break Point

Bryson sets his half-eaten bagel on the open lid of his box before ripping into a bag of chips and propping his feet up. The way his body is turned leaves him facing me, and I feel the heat of his stare as I muscle my way through another bite of my sandwich.

“Why are you looking at me?” I give him a sideways glance, covering my mouth as I chew. “You’re making me self-conscious.”

He merely sways his crossed ankles side to side and tilts his head.

“Why business?”

I stop mid-chew and flit my gaze to him again, my shoulders slumping as I realize he’s not going to let me off the hook, nor is he going to let me eat without the intensity of his stare. All I can think about is how I’m sure my mouth is circled in mayo from my sandwich, or my teeth are speckled with pepper bits. I toss what’s left of my sandwich into the wrecked cardboard box and dust away crumbs as I exhale.

“My parents own a restaurant. It’s their dream, and they’ve worked really hard keeping it open while raising my brother and me. And, I don’t know, I always thought it might be cool to make it the family business. I think I could help them. They don’t have college degrees, and they’re always struggling with the taxes and keeping up with paperwork.”

I shrug and pull my mouth in tight, not sure what else to say about it. It’s been my plan for as long as I can remember.

“Help my parents and become a tennis legend. One of those things feels easier than the other, and there are days I’m not sure which one,” I say through a breathy laugh.

“It’s the tennis one, for sure.” Bryson’s response is almost automatic, and it makes me sit up taller and narrow my gaze on him to check if he’s being serious or simply trying to goad me the way he has in the past.

“You think so?” I squint as I hold his gaze.

He nods and shifts to sit upright, turning to place both feet on the ground.

“I know so.”

He gathers his trash, then offers to take mine. I snag my chips and soda can, then wave off the rest.

An anxious laugh teeters on the edge of my lips. I play the role of confident young woman well, but deep down, I have self-doubts just like anyone. And for some reason, being around Bryson on my own, without the pretense of battling him in some way, makes me feel extra unsteady.

“Why do you find that funny?” He stops with his feet squared to mine, one arm stretch away from taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. I’m equally disappointed and relieved when he drops his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“How do you know so? You’ve seen one practice. And according to the tennis experts commenting on our last post, I’m a hack.” I drag my backpack close before he has a chance to take it again, then stuff my chips into the side pocket.

“First, those trolls don’t know shit about tennis. And I’ve seen more than one practice, Jaden. I’ve watched you play. You’re special.”

There’s something about his tone, an earnestness, that hits me hard, and I don’t think I could get my chin to lift to meet his gaze if my life literally depended on it right now. Even without looking, I know he is. I sense it, the softness that comes with his glare lately. And I don’t want to confront what that means.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, swinging my backpack around my body and sliding my arms through the straps. I get to my feet and brush the front of my shirt for crumbs.

“I know. You’re that good. Just . . . own it. The world needs that girl, the one who declared herself number one the first time I met her. What happened to her?”

A lot has happened to her, but I don’t want to walk him through my struggles more than I already have. Three years of watching my parents leverage their dream to pay for mine and the constant stress of wondering how I’m going to scrounge up enough to cover my senior year have made it tough to keep my focus on the court and nothing else. Finances have a way of demanding to be dealt with. And I think the stress has inched its way into my health, though I’m not quite ready to face that yet. I just feel so damn tired. And I catch myself spacing out more than I’d like. Sometimes I feel like I’m sleeping with my eyes open, getting the rest where I can. But he doesn’t need to hear all of that.

“She’s in there. Just you wait,” I say instead.

“There’s that swagger. It looks good on you.”

This time, I have to look. And when I meet Bryson’s waiting gaze, I’m struck by how rare it is to see all the usual bravado stripped away. I could get used to this guy. Dare I say, I kind of like him.

Chapter 12

Bryson

I’m not sure when I dozed off, but thankfully Walker and Ashton decided to stop by our apartment before heading to practice. I’m even all right with their harsh awakening skills, though the cup of water tossed at my chest was right up to my line.

“Did you even make it to class today?” Ashton teases, kicking my feet from the armrest of the couch and forcing me to sit up.

I rub my fists in my eyes while I do a quick mental check—did I go to class?

“Yes, asshole. I had a quiz in anatomy. Aced it, by the way. I’m sure you were worried,” I say in a snarky tone.