Page 17 of Gamebreaker

Harper had walked into Isla's house wearing a black dress that should've been banned in every major nation in the world, fitted to her body like it had been designed specifically to fuck with me. She'd worn it like armor, like a weapon, like a declaration of war against my composure. I'd felt the impact of her the moment she stepped into view—immediate want so excruciating it felt like pain, desire that hit in my chest, my stomach, between my legs, everywhere.

She'd looked like my ruin, deliberate and purposeful.

I'd wanted to ruin her back. Hated myself for wanting it. Wanted her more for hating it.

The dress had shown everything: curves I had no business noticing, smooth dark skin that glowed in Isla's warm lighting, catching gold shimmers from the candles like she'd been lit from within. Her legs in those heels, impossibly long despite the foot of height I had on her. The elegant line of her neck, her collarbones, the suggestion of more beneath fabric that clung and hinted and promised.

She was beautiful. Not the sanitized, acceptable kind of beautiful that made it into magazines and endorsement deals. The deadly kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that made you forget to be cautious, made you want things you'd convinced yourself you couldn't have.

Her hair had been perfect, those wild curls framing her face, natural and unapologetic, the kind of beauty that took no work to look effortless. That dimple in her left cheek when she'd smiled, rare and genuine, like she was letting me see something real beneath the performance. Dark brown eyes, nearly black, that had tracked over me with the same penetrating assessment I'd given her, taking my measure and finding me wanting.

She'd caught me looking. Held my gaze. Hadn't backed down.

I'd wanted her more for it, wanted her defiance, wanted to know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of all that fierce, unapologetic authenticity.

The entire dinner had been exquisite torture. I'd been hyperaware of her across the table, tracking her every movement like I was reading a play. The way she gestured when she was passionate, hands cutting through the air to emphasize her points. The flash in her eyes when she was angry, all molten and fierce. The curve of her mouth when she spoke, the way her lips shaped words like weapons. The way she'd leaned forward to make a point, and I'd had to physically stop myself from tracking the movement, from letting my gaze drop to places it had no right going.

Then she'd called me fake, and I'd gotten angry because she was right and because I wanted her and because both of those things felt impossible to reconcile.

I rolled over, punching my pillow like it had personally offended me.

This was absurd. We'd had exactly two conversations. Two fights. That was it. There was no reason for her to have taken up residence in my head like this, no justification for the way I couldn't stop replaying every word, every look, every moment of that disaster.

Except I couldn't stop thinking about her voice, perceptive and unforgiving: You're hiding who you really are.

Yeah. I was.

And Harper lived out loud. Posted about her coffee and her outfits and her coming out journey. Documented her life like it was worth sharing, like she was worth seeing. Chose honesty even when it cost her her family, her fiancé, everything safe and comfortable and easy.

She'd paid the price I was too afraid to even consider.

I'd kept my career, my endorsements, my carefully managed reputation. All the external markers of success that were supposed to mean I'd made it, that I'd won at life the same way I won championships.

All I'd lost was myself. A fair trade, I'd always told myself. A necessary sacrifice.

Except Harper's voice kept asking: For what?

Being out has consequences that not everyone can handle.

That's what I'd told her, like I was the expert on consequences. Like I was the one who'd actually paid a price. But Harper had lost everything, from her family to her old life, every easy path forward forfeited. And she'd chosen authenticity anyway, chosen to live honestly even when honesty cost her everyone she'd loved.

What had I lost? What had I actually sacrificed?

Just the truth. Just myself. Just any chance at the kind of love that didn't have to hide in shadows and private moments and carefully managed public silence.

Just everything that mattered.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling me out of thoughts that were spiraling nowhere good. I grabbed it, grateful for the interruption.

Trish

You awake?

Cam

Yeah.

Trish