Page 11 of Break Point
After eating a few slices, talking, and laughing, the front door slides open without warning. The cheerful chatters fade to black as Robbie and my dad walk into the apartment carrying a big cardboard box each.
Shit.
“Off I go,” Liam mutters, standing up. He’ll most likely be asked to leave, and he knows it. Meanwhile, Gemma’s gone mute, which is unsettling.
“Good evening, everyone,” Dad sings the words with a grin.
“Good evening, Mr. Batista,” Liam replies to my dad, offering his hand.
Batista is my last name, but everyone thought it best for me to go by my mom’s maiden name—Freeman. She kept it after marrying my dad for marketing purposes, since she was a tennis pro back in the day. One of the greats.
My dad lowers the box to the floor and shakes Liam’s hand, then greets Gemma and kisses the top of my head while I take a bite of my pizza and try to act casual about having Liam over without his permission.
Nothing’s going on here but pizza with friends.
Friends who kiss … and stuff.
Robbie sets his box on the floor as well and greets Liam with one of those loud clasp-and-pull-in handshakes, followed by a few pats on theback. They’re the same age and they have grown fond of each other over the course of the year.
“Cho!” Robbie shouts, approaching her with a smile. “It’s been a while.”
I can see Robbie’s gaze drifting toward Gemma’s cleavage as he high-fives her, and I don’t blame him. Her boobs are huge andright there. But it grosses me out because she’s practically a sister to him.
Gemma rises from her seat to hug Robbie when a third person rolling a couple of suitcases behind him approaches, and I almost choke on my pizza.
No fucking way …
“You remember Henry, right?” Dad says, stealing a slice of pizza from the box.
Like I could forget.
God knows I tried.
I cough to clear my throat and allow oxygen to fill my lungs because, apparently, I’m seeing ghosts now—tall, lean-but-muscular, dark-haired, blue-eyed ghosts from my past.
Gemma kicks me under the table, and I widen my eyes at her because it’s not like I’m not aware that Henry is physically standing right in front of me.
“Hey, Bells,” he says with his new huskier voice, his features harsh as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. The last time I heard him speak was almost five years ago. I was about to turn thirteen and Henry was sixteen when he and his family unexpectedly left New Jersey and moved to Chicago.
Shock clouds my vision as I dare to take a closer look at him from the corner of my eye, noticing how the new corded muscles in his biceps strain against his simple gray T-shirt.
Mercy.
The pizza in my mouth becomes harder to swallow.
A new scar slices the last third of Henry’s right eyebrow, and his bone structure has changed dramatically. The angles of his face are more pronounced, but his once bright blue eyes don’t shine like they used to.
The way he stares at me, as if he’s all grown up and I’m still a child,makes me uneasy, especially since so much has changed since he left, and we’re both so different from when we last saw each other.
Who knows what the hell he’s really thinking?
Two things remain unchanged: He’s still gorgeous, and I still hate him.
Dad grasps Henry’s shoulders and squeezes them with affection. He flashes me the edge of a smile and says, “Say hello to your new coach.”
CHAPTER 4
YOUR FOOTWORK IS OFF
