Page 30 of Gamebreaker

"Because Mia made her."

"She stayed. She helped. She made those kids laugh." Trish paused. "She made you laugh."

I had laughed. Multiple times. Harper had this way of saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right time, cutting through tension with sarcasm that should've been irritating but somehow wasn't. She'd called me Captain like it was both an insult and an endearment, and I'd wanted to hear her say it again, wanted to know what my name would sound like in that beautiful, clever mouth.

Wanted to know what that mouth would feel like against mine.

"I need to shower," I said abruptly, heading for the locker room.

"Practice isn't over."

"Tell Coach I'm sick."

"Cam—"

I was already gone.

The gym in my house had everything I needed. Free weights, treadmill, pull-up bar, medicine balls, resistance bands. I'd spent a fortune outfitting it, told myself it was necessary for maintaining peak performance, for having control over my training schedule.

Really, it was so I could punish myself in private when my discipline failed.

I changed into workout clothes, started with the heavy bag. Wrapped my hands, slipped on gloves, and hit it until my shoulders burned and my knuckles ached through the padding. Focused on technique, on the snap of my hips, the rotation of my core, the satisfying thud of impact.

Tried not to think about Harper's body pressed against mine.

Failed.

Moved to weights. Bench press until my chest felt like it might split open. Shoulder press until my arms shook. Deadlifts until my legs threatened to give out. Push-ups, pull-ups, planks, burpees, anything that would exhaust me enough to stop the loop playing in my head.

Harper tilting her chin up to look at me. Harper's dark eyes flashing with irritation and amusement. Harper's waist under my hands, warm and curved and real. The sound she'd made, breathy and surprised, when I'd adjusted her stance and my chest had pressed against her back.

The way I'd wanted to pull her closer. Turn her around. Kiss that smart mouth until she stopped talking and started making other sounds.

I dropped to the floor, breathing hard, sweat dripping onto the mat beneath me. My muscles screamed. My lungs burned. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to escape the cage of my chest.

None of it helped.

I grabbed my phone from where I'd left it on the weight bench, told myself I was checking team emails. Told myself I wasn't opening Instagram. Told myself if I did open Instagram, it wouldn't be to look at Harper's profile.

Lied to myself on all counts.

Her latest post was of the clinic. A photo of one of the kids mid-shot, their face turned away for privacy, ball leaving her hands in perfect form. The caption read: "Teaching kids basketball. I understand approximately 40% of this sport now. The other 60% is still vibes and chaos."

I smiled before I could stop myself. That was so perfectly Harper—self-deprecating and funny, acknowledging her ignorance while also documenting the moment with genuine affection. You could see it in the way she'd framed the shot, catching the girl's determination through her body language, the undeniable focus that said she was trying her hardest.

Harper had cared. Despite not knowing basketball, despite being voluntold by Mia, despite our fights and our awkwardness and everything between us that made no sense, she'd cared about those kids.

I stopped smiling. Put my phone face-down on the bench. Stared at the ceiling and tried to understand what was happening to me.

This was attraction. Pure, uncomplicated, physical attraction to a woman who drove me crazy in every possible way. That was all this was. Bodies responded to bodies sometimes, didn't care about personality conflicts or poor timing or the fact that Harper and I had approximately zero compatibility.

Except.

Except I'd been attracted to women before. Plenty of them. Beautiful women who wanted me, who I'd taken home or brought to mine, who I'd slept with and forgotten by morning. Attraction, I understood. Attraction was biological, manageable, contained.

This felt different.

This felt like Harper had somehow gotten under my skin during that clinic, burrowing past my defenses with her terrible basketball knowledge and her quick wit and the way she'd looked at me when I was teaching the kids, like she was seeing someone I didn't know existed.