Page 16 of Break Point

She winks before heading toward the weight rack, leaving me with yet one more surprising drop of insight from my pot-smoking, longboard-riding best friend. Her perspective on life is my favorite part of who she is.

I cross the hall to the training room, the smell of prewrap spray lingering in the air. It’s supposed to have a citrus scent, but to me it always smells like the classic car paint shop a block away from my parents’ restaurant. I wave my hand in front of my face, as if that will help the pungent smell dissipate, as Aaron exits the back with a fresh roll of tape in his hand.

“Hey, how’s my favorite Storm athlete?”

His wide grin always sets me at ease. A short Black man in his early sixties, he’s surprisingly strong for his age and height. He’s a former college wrestler, and he basically built Cordon’s physical therapy program from the ground up when he graduated from the school four decades ago. He tosses the tape roll to one of his assistants and stretches his right arm out to give me a sideways hug. I grimace with the awkward shift of my arm, and Aaron spots it right away.

“Okay, let’s get a look at that, shall we?” He nods toward the back room, urging me to follow. I trail behind him, stretching my arm on my own again as we walk through a pair of tables where two athletes are getting deep tissue massages toward an open one in the far corner.

Aaron gets the pressure many of us feel to get back to our sports. I think it’s why our school’s athletes trust him to handle injuries. Well, most of us trust him. I can think of at least one Storm athlete who didn’t have faith, and his eyes are locked on mine right now.

“Crash! Can’t get enough of me!” Bryson lifts his arms from the ice bath, the entire thing rattling like a giant cocktail as his weight shifts.

“Crash, huh? There’s a story there,” Aaron says, patting the top of the table as he waits for me to hop up.

“Oh, there’s a story all right,” I say, giving Bryson a sideways glance. The two of us were rarely in here together when he was rehabbing his injury. That was my choice. Otherwise, I’m sure Aaron would have heard my nickname sooner.

Aaron chuckles as he wheels his stool close to me and glances over his shoulder. Aaron knows Bryson and I have history. He’s the one I tattled to about Bryson’s pill abuse, not that it did any good. I’m still a little pissed at Aaron for never reporting things to the AD. As far as I can tell, my confidential conversation with him about it three years ago stayed so confidential it never left our circle of two.

“Damn, it’s icier between you two than that water you’re in, Moss,” he says through a gravelly laugh.

“Sure is, Aaron. I think that’s my cue to leave.” Bryson lifts his soaking body from the oval tub in the corner of the room. His white T-shirt clings to his chest, and his black compression shorts leave very little to my imagination. When he pulls the wet shirt off, I stare a little longer than I should, dropping my gaze to my lap after catching Bryson’s smirk. The flash of the white towel he’s wrapping around his waist tickles my periphery, but I don’t dare lift my eyes to confirm it.

Thankfully, Aaron guides my arm across my body and finds the exact point of pain on his first attempt, providing the perfect pivot away from my soaking-wet fake-boyfriend enemy.

“Yeah, you did yourself dirty all right. You lift too heavy, Jaden?” Aaron winks, knowing me too well.

“I forgot the clip,” I admit, but his “mmm-hmmm” tells me he knows I was probably pushing myself as well.

Aaron’s always preaching form over numbers to us, and mostly, I listen. I may have wanted to prove something today, though. Or work out some aggression. The missing clip was just the final nail.

“Let’s do some stretching and a good deep tissue massage. Maybe some cupping. I’ll be right back,” he says, popping up from his stool and heading back to the front room where a few more athletes have wandered in.

I do my best to ignore Bryson’s dripping wet body about a dozen feet away from me. He’s deep into a conversation with one of his many female fans. I overhear her ask, and I quote, “Which slutty Halloween costume do I look hottest in?” and force myself to tune both of them out with the help of one of Aaron’s taping technique pamphlets. The dry reading does a decent job of distracting me until Bryson forces his way through my invisible barrier.

“I guess we’re all a little banged up at the beginning, huh?” Bryson is suddenly close enough to me that a few droplets of chilly water from his hair land on my shoulder. I flinch, but before I can brush the droplets from my skin, Bryson does it for me, which sets off a totally different physical reaction. I feel frozen in place, a prisoner of the myriad goose bumps that are quickly spreading the length of my arm.

“I’m fine.” Other than the zaps of liquid fire darting up my neck from the pinched nerve and the lava trailing down my arm from Bryson’s touch.

“Yeah, okay, Crash,” he chuckles, lingering as he slips on an expensive-looking watch he took out of the nearby supply cabinet. It looks like a Tag Heuer, probably from his plethora of NIL sponsorship deals.

“Weren’t you about to take your cue?” I remind him, my gaze drifting to his after spending way too long on the glimmer from the platinum band he just snapped into place.

His mouth forms a tight-lipped smile, and he nods.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’ll leave you to it.” He snaps with both hands and points at me as he backs away, like a car salesman leaving me alone on the lot. And I can tell that, like that salesman, he’s not really leaving. He makes it almost to the door before circling back, eyes squinted as he turns to face me again while adjusting the tucked end of his towel.

“It’s just, I thought you and I were good now. At least, yesterday, it seemed like we were. Didn’t we mend some fences? Or did I read that wrong?”

I can feel my mouth agape, and I can’t seem to close it. I puff out an airy laugh and swallow down the dry lump that’s formed in my throat, gathering my thoughts as I avoid making eye contact with the way his stomach muscles curve into the top of that towel, and that trail of hair below his belly button.

“Bryson, I’m not sure why you’re speaking like a cowboy, but sure. We’re good. There’s nothing to mend here.” I shrug and force a smile to really sell it.

“First of all, I am from Oklahoma, so I’m kind of a cowboy,” he drawls. “And yeahhhhh, I’m not buying your answer. You’ve got beef still. So why don’t you let me have it?”

Shit.

I groan as my head falls back. Meanwhile, Bryson hops up onto the training table next to me and begins swinging his legs back and forth with his palms flat at his sides. I roll my head to my right, checking the activity in the front room and hoping Aaron shows up to interrupt us. When I hear him deep in a conversation with another athlete, though, I relent and let out a deep sigh.