Page 113 of On the Breakaway

I’m pressed against Grayson on the dance floor, his hands on my hips, my face tilted toward his while the crowd blurs around us. The sight of it sends a strange rush of heat through me. I hadn’t realized how obvious we’d looked.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“A teammate.”

I look back at the picture. At Grayson, and the way he’s looking at me. It’s like no one else even exists.

Then I force my attention back to Damon.

“So?”

His eyes flash. “Quit pretending to be dense, Avery.”

My patience evaporates. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“You wanted me to see this.”

“No.” My voice sharpens. “I didn’t.”

He scoffs. “As if you weren’t thinking about me.”

I just stare at him.

Six months ago, he would’ve been right. Back then, every decision I made somehow traced back to him. Every guy I met was compared to him. Every conversation eventually circled back to him.

Hell, when I first met Grayson, Damon lived in the back of my mind constantly.

Every time Grayson was kind, I wondered what the catch was because Damon had taught me that kindness always came with conditions. Every time Grayson showed up for someone, I compared it to all the times Damon hadn’t shown up for me. For months, being around Grayson was like a splinter keeping Damon’s wounds open just enough that I couldn’t truly heal.

But standing here now, looking at the two of them from opposite sides of my life, I realize that when I’m with Grayson, Damon doesn’t cross my mind at all anymore.

Not when Grayson makes me laugh. Not when he’s annoying the hell out of me. Not when he’s kissing me.

Somewhere along the way, Damon stopped being part of the equation. The realization settles into my chest with surprising clarity.

“I wasn’t thinking about you.”

Damon lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head as if I’ve just confirmed something he’d suspected all along.

“You’re exactly the same.”

I roll my eyes and move to step around him again. He reaches out to grab me, but then glances around, remembering we’re not alone. Instead, he keeps talking.

“Still dressing like a slut. Still spending your nights in clubs and chasing attention from whoever happens to be willing to give it to you.”

The words land exactly where he intends them to, but I’m too angry to let him see it.

“Fuck off, Damon.”

“No, seriously,” he says, looking me up and down with obvious disgust. “I almost forgot what you’re like. Some whore who wants to bag a hockey star.”

My jaw clenches. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Why not?” he asks. “You’ve clearly got a type, Avery.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I?” His eyebrows lift. “Or am I just the only person willing to say it? Has no one else in your life told you that the only reason anyone wastes their time with you is because you walk around putting on one hell of a show? Tell me, did he fuck you as good as I used to?”