Page 5 of Gamebreaker

Instead, I picked up my phone and searched her name again.

"You," I told my phone, "are a problem. We," I told myself, "are going to have a serious talk about this tomorrow."

Tomorrow-Harper could deal with whatever this was. Tonight-Harper was going to watch basketball highlights and feel feelings she absolutely did not want to examine.

This was going to be a problem.

A big, tall, amber-eyed problem with shoulders that could carry the weight of the world.

Fuck.

2

Respectfully... Shut Up

Cam

I'd been waking up at 5:30 AM for twelve years. Same routine every day: espresso, gym by six, five hundred free throws before anyone else arrived, film study, practice, more film study, pre-game meal at exactly 3 PM on game days. I'd won two championships with this routine. Made ten All-Star teams. Built a career on discipline and control and never letting anything throw me off my game.

So I had no explanation for why I'd just lost my cool on some random woman in the tunnel.

I walked away from Instagram, as I'd called her, like I was twelve fucking years old—and headed straight for the locker room, my jaw so tight I could feel my teeth grinding. The adrenaline from the win was gone, replaced by this churning irritation I couldn't name.

Trish arrived at her locker a few minutes later, unlacing her shoes, her signature electric blue box braids tied back by a thick elastic band. I looked up when she came in, and I watched her expression shift, careful and guarded.

"Who was that?" The words came out razor-sharp.

"Harper." Trish's voice was flat. "Mia's best friend."

"Mia. Laine's girlfriend?"

"Yeah." Trish pulled off her shoes, still not looking at me. "That Harper."

The silence stretched between us, wrong because our silences never had been. Trish and I had played together for six years. She knew my tendencies on the court better than anyone, could read my passes before I threw them. Off the court, we grabbed dinner after games, texted frequently, hung out with the same social circle, and had each other's backs.

But right now, she was pissed at me. I could feel it.

"I shouldn't have said those things," I said finally.

"No." Trish looked up at me then, her dark eyes serious. "You really shouldn't have."

I waited for more, but she just went back to unlacing her shoes. The disappointment was worse than if she'd yelled.

"She wasn't watching the game," I said, and even I could hear how defensive I sounded. "Courtside seats, and she spent the entire time on her phone."

"And?" Trish stood, started pulling off her JACKSON 22 purple and teal Fashion City Fangs jersey. "Since when do you care what people in the stands are doing?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

"Cap, you're one of the best point guards who has ever lived, and I’m proud to play beside you and with you. You're a great leader. A great teammate." Trish's voice was quiet but firm. She still knew I was her captain, but we were close enough for honesty. "But what you did back there? That wasn't you."

The words hit hard. "I know."

"Do you?" Trish grabbed her towel. "Because from where I was standing, you just tore into Mia's best friend for no reason. Harper's been through hell, Cam. Her ex-fiancé betrayed her trust in the worst way. She lost her entire family when she came out two years ago. She came tonight as a favor to Mia, even though basketball isn't her thing. And you made her feel like garbage for it."

My stomach dropped. "I didn't know."

"I know you didn't. But that's kind of the point." Trish's expression softened slightly, but the disappointment was still there. "You didn't ask. You just judged."