Page 28 of Break Point
“I’m not sure,” I reply, watching as Drew’s back-to-back notifications flood my lock screen. I don’t know if I want to look at the pictures of Liam he just sent me. But I know I’ll end up looking anyway. “I guess I’m about to find out.”
I unlock my screen and brace for impact.
It’s a bunch of paparazzi photos of Liam at the US Open from two days ago. Apparently, he sat next to a pretty redhead. There are shots of them arriving together, sitting close, laughing, and whispering. They look … cozy.
What a great way to use the tickets I got him.
I toss my phone on the bench and let out a heavy sigh.
“Is that your Hollywood boyfriend?” Henry asks.
He must’ve seen the photos as I scrolled through them, so he knows it’s Liam.
“Ha-ha. Not anymore.”
I’m beyond annoyed, jealous, and seriously tempted to text him, even though I know I shouldn’t. At least I’m aware of my areas of opportunity.
Henry looks at me with slightly narrowed eyes but says nothing.
Let’s go,” I say, jumping to my feet, resisting the urge to grab my phone and do something impulsive I’ll regret later. “We need to hit the gym.”
“You need to pick up after yourself before we leave, Freeman,” Henry commands in a playful tone, taking another long sip frommywater. “It’s the least we can do after Jasper let us borrow his courts, don’t you think?”
“This piece of crap court?” I say, waving a haphazard hand at it.
This is how I operate. I redirect my anger at the nearest target, and inthis case, I’m acting out because of this uncontrollable need to talk to Liam and ask about that girl. I’m already thinking the worst. I know most of Liam’s friends, and he’s never mentioned this redhead before.
My insecurities are flaring up, whipping up theories so fast I can’t think straight. I’m zero percent in the mood to pick up balls, even though I know it’s the right thing to do. But this urge to call Liam and demand answers is blazing through my veins.
I can’t believe I’m debating whether to call him or not when the answer is simple: I shouldn’t. But I still want to, even if Drew made me promise I wouldn’t. Twice.
“Easy,” Henry says, standing up, his body towering over me. He’s so big now, his broad back and lean, powerful, military stance would intimidate me if I hadn’t known him since I was running around in diapers.
I still want to know what happened to his face. The scar slicing through his eyebrow gives him a rugged edge, but he’s still so ridiculously handsome.
And now his face is distracting me from the subject at hand.
“Jasper’s not only a good guy, but a good friend of mine, so pick up the balls and put them in the bucket.” The playfulness is gone from Henry’s tone now that he’s noticed my attitude. “We won’t leave until it’s done.”
Henry couldn’t be more annoying right now. I’m obviously going to clean up after myself, but it’s the authoritarian way he’s addressing me that makes me feel attacked. I hate being told what to do, especially when I’m already planning on doing it.
“Sure, Coach,” I reply, grabbing a ball by my feet. I hurl it toward the empty basket, missing it and hitting the metallic mesh dividing courts two and three instead. That’s when I spot a group of kids looking our way, their small fingers gripping the other side of the fence. Luckily, the ball didn’t go anywhere near them.
Cálmate, Belén?1 …
“They’ve been watching you train for the past half hour. Hadn’t you noticed?” Henry says, picking up a few ballsaround us.
I hadn’t.
“People look up to you now. Kids included. You need to set an example of what it means to be a professional athlete. You’re in a position of influence, whether you like it or not. That includes being mindful of the things you say and do. You can’t be a brat.”
Taking a deep breath, I try not to think about Liam and that redhead sitting next to him on the bleachers—or about Henry calling me a brat. The worst part is I know he’s right. But I can already feel the spiraling heat intensifying and creeping up my spine.
I’m not holding a grudge against Henry. I’m gripping it, clutching it, digging my nails into it. I want to keep my mouth shut, but my mind insists on crafting a reply to every single thing that’s said to me. I don’t know how to keep quiet. It feels compulsory to always have the final word.
“You’re asking me to be mindful when you left five years ago without a single word about it?”
There … I said it.
