Page 3 of Break Point

“Hey, you want to just move to that table?” Ashton’s knee knocks into mine, jostling me from my thoughts.

The screech of metal chairs sliding across terrazzo floors is deafening, and suddenly everyone at our table—and in the entire room—is on their feet. I blink a few times and scan the room for the copper-haired tennis player I was staring at just a minute before. I was so distracted by my panicked thoughts I somehow completely missed her leaving.

“What are we doing?” My brow furrows with confusion, but I grab my shit, not wanting to leave my bag around for someone else to find. Hell, with my luck, somehow it will end up in Coach’s hands.

“Pfft, come on. You slept through all of that, didn’t you?” Ashton nudges my bicep with his elbow and nods toward the table to our right. I pull out a chair and sink into it, tucking my bag between my legs as I scoot in and prop my elbows on top.

Ashton and I played together in high school. We committed to Cordon together, despite my father’s disappointment that I didn’t pick an Oklahoma school or, better yet, follow in his footsteps and go to Tech. Ashton’s one hell of a wide receiver, but a way better friend. And he’s been keeping my ass out of trouble for years. I don’t know that I would have passed high school geometry without him.

Football has always been my ticket out from under my father’s control. I know I’m privileged. I’ve got it lucky. My father can pay to send me to any school of my choosing. That doesn’t mean I actually get a choice, though. Anything he pays for comes with a lot of strings, and I don’t want to be an oilman. I want to help people the way my mom does, working with injured veterans to rebuild strength and maintain their dignity. It’s noble work, physical therapy. But of course, my father takes my interest in following in her footsteps as a slight. It was my mom’s choice to end their marriage, and therefore, her influence is doubly tainted. Everything’s a competition in his eyes, and his way is the only way. Or, at least, it’s the right way.

But if I’m playing football, he’ll give me a pass . . . for now. I can study what I want as long as I’m throwing touchdowns, because as much as me being an oilman fits his vision for me, me going pro is his ultimate. It’s what he couldn’t do. And it’s a great brag to his rich friends. I’m not sure what he’s going to do when I step away from the game after college. But by then, I’ll have my bachelor’s degree. And maybe, with time, he’ll see me as more than his trophy.

“Now what?” I mutter to my friend.

“It’s some team-building game with other athletes. They’ll tell us more in a minute. Maybe listen this time.” He huffs out a short laugh, and I mimic him, but internally, I’m still obsessed with the pills he gave me. I slip my right hand down to feel the top of my backpack between my knees, checking the zipper.

It’s closed.

I exhale and drop my face into my open palm, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. For a few seconds, I convince myself that I’m being paranoid. Then the sound of metal scraping along the floor in front of me draws my attention, and I’m instantly met with a pair of brown eyes that seem to be locked wide open as they stare at me.

“Unbelievable.” The word slips out as my right eye twitches.

“What’s unbelievable?” Ashton asks. I open my mouth, ready to dismiss it, but I’m quickly interrupted.

“Eh, more like mediocre.” Her long hair slips over her shoulder as she shrugs, and her plain lips lift up on one side as if she’d just tasted cold soup. I can’t help the breathy laugh that leaves me. I’ll give Crash this—she’s ballsy.

I lean forward, threading my fingers together on the table while my best friend laughs into his fist. Nothing brings Ashton more joy than seeing a female put me in my place. I have a lot more luck with the ladies than he does, and he’s a little resentful.

“I take it you’re not a fan?” I quirk a brow, and my redheaded nemesis does the same, emphasizing her indifference to . . . well, I’m guessing to me.

She’s still cute, with that little crinkle that frames her eyes when she talks, pink cheeks, and a pointy chin. It was her smile that struck me the first time, the way her lips seemed to span the width of her face, pushing her cheeks into these round cherries. Her mouth is just as wide now, only it’s flexed into a tight, judgmental line, and the dimming of her eyes hints at her disdain. She probably thinks I’m some doping druggie.

Just you wait, princess. This level of competition isn’t for the weak. I’m willing to do what it takes to stay in the game.

“Okay, Storm athletes!” The mic screeches as the short blond woman dressed head to toe in school-themed apparel bellows into it. She must be one of the sports management grad students charged with amping up cross-sport spirit.

After fiddling with the mic stand and backing up a half step, she continues.

“You have five minutes to get to know your team. Introduce yourself to your table, share where you’re from, what sport you play, and what drew you to join the Mighty Storm at Cordon. Ready? Go!”

Chatter fills the room. Meanwhile, everyone at our table is looking at each other with open mouths and panicked expressions, probably wondering who’s going to go first. I know who—I am.

“All right, guys. I’m—”

Crash cuts in. “I’ll go first.” I chuckle and tilt my head as I stare at her, subtly calling her out for interrupting me, but she gives me zero attention.

“I’m Jaden Johnson, and I have wanted to play for Storm Tennis since I was ten years old.”

I slip my phone from my pocket and begin googling her as she continues.

“I’m from Arizona, so I spent most of my life playing matches on one-hundred-fifty-degree concrete. It made me tough. I plan on winning a national championship. Oh, and my parents own a burger joint. It’s not as exciting as it sounds.”

The other athletes at our table all nod and utter things like “nice” and “you go, girl,” while Jaden’s mouth relaxes into a comfortable smile.

“Okay, I see you! I bet you get there in four years. And I bet those burgers are damn good,” Ashton says, pulling my attention away from my phone, where I’ve pulled up Jaden’s Cordon athletics online profile to do a little fact-finding of my own.

“This year,” she responds, meeting his gaze before flattening her palms on the table and leaning back in her seat, once again turning her eyes to me. “I’ll be a champion this year.”