Page 3 of Gamebreaker

For a second, something raw and naked flickered across her face. Then it was gone, replaced by this blank, cold mask that was somehow worse than the judgment.

“Whatever, Instagram. I have better things to do with my time,” she said, her voice flat and dead and final, and then she turned and walked away, her long legs carrying her down the tunnel like she couldn't get away from me fast enough.

I stood there, shaking. My chest was tight, my throat was burning, and my stupid, traitorous brain was unhelpfully replaying the way her shoulders had looked when she'd crossed her arms and the way her eyes had gone molten gold with anger and the way her voice had dropped when she'd called me Instagram.

Mia was staring at me with this mixture of concern and exasperation. Isla looked deeply uncomfortable. Laine had her PR face on, the one she probably used when her matchmaking clients had meltdowns. Trish looked like she wanted to sink all six-foot-six of herself into the floor and disappear forever.

"I am so sorry," Trish said quietly. "Cam's really not usually like that. She's been under a lot of pressure this season. I don't know what—"

"Don't care," I said, my voice shaking. "She can be stressed without being a dick to random people. That's, like, basic human decency. Even I managed it, and I've had a terrible two years."

"Harper..." Mia started, reaching for my arm.

"Nope. I'm leaving." I pulled away, already backing toward the exit. "I'll text you later. I just—I need to go."

I didn't wait for a response. I just turned and walked as fast as I could toward the exit, my vision blurring at the edges, my stupid heeled boots clicking against the concrete like a countdown to my total breakdown.

By the time I got to my car, parked in the structure three blocks away because even the universe wanted me to suffer today, the tears were already falling. Angry tears. Frustrated tears. Humiliated tears that I absolutely refused to acknowledge as anything other than rage-crying.

I collapsed into the driver's seat and let myself cry for exactly two minutes, because that was all I was allowing for some judgmental basketball player who didn't know a single thing about me.

Except she kind of did know me, didn't she? She'd taken one look at me on my phone and decided I was shallow and vapid and not worth her time. And yeah, maybe I had been on my phone the whole game. Maybe I was performing for strangers. Maybe she'd seen something true, and I hated her for it.

Or maybe she was just an asshole with a superiority complex and bone structure that could make angels weep.

Both could be true.

I grabbed my phone, intending to text Mia an apology for being a bitch, but my fingers betrayed me and I opened Google instead.

Cameron Russo

The search results exploded across my screen like a betrayal. Articles, highlight reels, stats, interviews, fan pages, forum threads analyzing her every move. I clicked on the first video—some championship game compilation with dramatic music—and watched her move across the court like she was born to be there.

She was extraordinary. Even I, a person who knew literally nothing about basketball and cared even less, could see that. Commentators spoke of the way she read plays before they happened, threaded passes through impossible gaps, defended like her life depended on every possession. She moved with this fluid, controlled grace that was mesmerizing. Like watching a predator hunt. Beautiful and terrifying and completely captivating.

There were more videos. So many videos. I watched her hit a buzzer-beater to win a championship, watched the way she barely smiled afterward, like winning was just expected. I watched her give a post-game interview with that same controlled intensity, her voice low and measured, every word chosen carefully. I watched her interact with teammates, serious and focused, until someone made her laugh and her whole face transformed.

I watched until my phone hit fifteen percent battery. I watched until I'd memorized the scar down her temple, the way she touched the championship rings hung on her neck only during interviews, the exact shade of gold in her eyes when she was concentrating, the way her shoulders moved when she ran.

I watched until I had to face the horrible, humiliating truth: I'd just spent two hours obsessing over a woman who thought I was a waste of space.

A woman who was also, unfortunately, maybe the most attractive person I'd ever seen in my life.

A woman who hated me.

"This is fine," I told my empty car, my voice echoing pathetically in the silence. "This is totally fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine. I'm so fine, I'm going to go home and eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s and definitely not think about her stupid fucking bone structure."

My phone buzzed. Mia.

Mia

Are you okay?

Harper

I'm spectacular. Living my best life. Definitely not having a crisis in a parking garage.

Mia