Page 84 of Break Point
“This was before I saw you again.” He exhales deeply, his gaze locking into mine with those haunting blue eyes I can’t seem to shake whenever he’s not around. “I wasn’t expecting … this.”
“What?”
“To feel this way.”
“How?” I press, my voice raw with frustration.
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Then don’t just stand there on the verge of wanting to tell me.”
I know he has feelings for me. And I’m sick of this half-assed friendship where I’m the only one opening up. Where I’m the only one risking anything.
And yet, whenever I get angry or need a moment to lash out, he swoops in to comfort me. But never in the way I need him to.
I want more of him. And I’m finally done pretending I don’t.
But for some reason, he still won’t trust me with the big stuff. Not completely.
“Bells, we can’t have this conversation right now.” Henry weaves a hand through his perfect dark hair with exasperation. “We’re at the AustralianfuckingOpen. I’m not going to mess this up for you.”
I try to take a step back, but I’m met with the wall.
As if afraid I’ll flee, Henry catches my arms and leans in, pressing his forehead against mine.
“Just answer my goddamn question,” I grit out.
Silence.
At least he’s not looking away, but his refusal tosayit is maddening. I’m done with him trying to be noble, with this constant self-sacrificing act. It’s exhausting.
“Water’s ready.” I escape from his grasp and turn off the faucet as a precaution in case I can’t get Henry to leave. The steaming bathtub is filled at that perfect level, and the water is scorching hot, as my fatigued muscles prefer it after a match.
I scurry away, hoping he will follow me as I head straight for my suite’s entrance. He does.
“I think it would be best if you leave,” I say, waving a limp hand at the door.
“I don’t want to leave like this,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
“Oh, Henry …” I snort out a derisive laugh. “You would rather eat a family-sized pack of Twizzlers than talk to me right now.” He loathes them. “But if you’re feeling chatty, how about you tell me the real reason you stopped playing tennis? Or why you avoid carrying heavy stuff with your right arm and massage your right shoulder after hitting rally warm-ups with me when you think I’m not watching?”
Henry’s expression is sheer terror. He doesn’t seem to know what hit him. He thinks he’s so good at keeping things to himself, but I notice everything. I always have.
We train. Talk. Laugh. Rest. Read. Study. Eat together. All while stealing glances, pretending we don’t notice. We sleep under the same roof, breathe the same air, and feel the same way about each other, whether he wants to admit it or not.
So why, in God’s name, is he so surprised?
“Are you injured?” I push. “Is that it?” There’s no other reason I can think of for him to renounce his lifelong dream.
“What?” he yells back, appalled. “We’ve talked about this.”
Bullshit.
He didn’t deny it, though.
“Take off your hoodie,” I say, my voice shaking with anger. “And the T-shirt, too. Let’s take a look at that shoulder.”
“I’m not playing this game.”
