Page 7 of Gamebreaker

Isla

Dinner tomorrow. My place. 7pm. You're coming and you're apologizing to Harper. Not negotiable.

I stared at the message. Of course Isla was involved. Of course this was turning into a production. Trish hadn’t been lying.

Cam

I'll be there.

Isla

And you'll be NICE.

Cam

I'm always nice.

Isla

Cameron. I'm SERIOUS.

I didn't respond. Set my phone down, finished my beer, and told myself I was going to bed.

Instead, I picked my phone back up and opened Instagram again.

There was a video from a few months ago. Harper and Mia at some kind of Pride event, both of them laughing, flags painted on their cheeks. Lesbian flags on Mia, bisexual flags on Harper. Her laugh was bright and genuine, the same sound I'd heard in the arena when she'd been looking at her phone.

Another photo: Harper in that leather jacket I'd seen tonight, mirror selfie. Confident. Unapologetic. Bold.

I scrolled further back. Found a photo of her with some guy, both of them dressed up for what looked like a formal event. The photo was from three years ago. Before she'd come out. Before she'd lost everything.

Her smile in that photo was different. Tighter. More performed.

She looked happier in the photos after she came out. Even with that guardedness in her eyes, even with whatever pain she was clearly carrying, there was something more real about her now.

I closed Instagram. Opened my game footage instead, because apparently I was a glutton for punishment.

Found the fourth quarter. Watched myself thread that behind-the-back pass to Trish, watched her drain the three, watched our lead stretch.

And there, when the camera panned across the crowd: Harper. Looking down at her phone, that leather jacket, those high-waisted jeans, completely oblivious to what was happening on the court.

I'd been tracking her even then. In the middle of the game, some part of my awareness had been on her. Noticing when she laughed. When she touched her earring. When she took a sip of her drink.

Why?

I set my phone down, rubbed my hands over my face. This was ridiculous. I had early practice tomorrow. I needed sleep. I needed to stop thinking about some random woman who thought I was an asshole.

I climbed into bed, stared at the ceiling in the dark.

My mind kept replaying the interaction. The way Harper's eyes had flashed when she'd looked up at me. Dark brown, almost black, hard-edged and furious. The way she'd tilted her chin up, refusing to be intimidated even though I had nearly a foot on her. The way her voice had dripped with sarcasm when she'd called me Captain Miserable, the nickname landing in my gut like an elbow I hadn't seen coming.

The way she'd looked when Mia had made excuses for her. Raw. Humiliated. Real.

I'd had a hand in that. I'd hurt her.

And the worst part was that I couldn't even explain why I'd cared so much in the first place.

"Just guilt," I said out loud to my empty bedroom. "You feel bad because you were an asshole. That's all this is."