him.
He shakes his head, placing the bowl of popcorn on my lap. He’s home for the week, and when he found out Trevor was out quoting jobs after hours, he offered to come over so I wouldn’t be home alone. “No,” he says, “It’s got bits of your personality all over the place.” He grabs a blanket from behind us and places it over his lap. “Like this.” He rubs the blanket between his fingers. “It’s very… boho.”
“You mean homeless?”
With a chuckle, he throws his arm on the couch behind me and gets comfortable. “So, Ava. Tell me everything. What’s been going on with you?”
“Same old, really. Just counting down the days until school’s over.” I hit play on the remote, but keep the volume muted.
“You’ll miss high school when it’s over,” he tries to assure.
I scoff. “I think your version of high school and mine are very different, Peter.”
“Yeah, I guess.” After grabbing a handful of popcorn, he asks, “You still friends with that Rhys kid?”
Nodding, I stare at the opening scene of the horror movie he’s got us watching.
“Is he still helping you out at school? Getting you notes for your missed classes?”
“Yeah,” I reply through a slow exhale.
On TV, a blonde girl climbs the stairs toward the killer.
“Good,” Peter says, nodding. Then adds, “He’s a good guy, Ava. He’s just not good enough for you.”
“Okay,” I mumble because it doesn’t really matter what he thinks.
“Ava?” Peter asks, his leg brushing against mine. He’s closer than he was only minutes ago, and discomfort swarms in my veins, beating against my flesh.
I manage a “Yeah?”
The warmth of his breath floats against my cheek as his heated fingers brush along the skin of my shoulder. It’s not the first time he’s acted like this. It won’t be the last. And it would be so easy to use him this way, to be with someone who understands without explanations, who forgives without excuses.
I swallow, nervous. “If Trevor knew what you were thinking right now, he’d kill you with his bare hands.”
Chapter 8
Connor
The way Stephen Curry puts his defenders off balance with a simple behind-the-back crossover is history-making. He’s proven that a killer jump shot can make or break a team’s final score, making him arguably the best ball handler in the NBA.
Me?
I can’t even catch the fucking ball when it’s thrown directly at my chest.
It’s the day after Ava tore me to shreds, and I’m in the locker room following another pathetic practice, staring down at my hands trying to reason with them. For years, I’ve lived and breathed this sport. I dreamed about it even when I was awake. The amount of shit I’ve broken in the house because I couldn’t stop thinking about it is enough to fill a whole other house. Every lawn I mowed to earn money to replace those things—worth it. Every grounding—worth it. Every single hour I spent watching game tape or studying plays or fantasizing about what it would be like to play at Madison Square Garden was worth it.
But here? Now? I’m second-guessing it all.
“You ever watch that movie Little Giants?” Rhys asks, flopping down on the bench next to me. I thought I was the only one left in the locker room, but apparently, I was wrong.
I slam my locker shut and face him. “That one with the reject kids playing football?”
He nods. “There’s this line in it that I always think about whenever I have bad days. Football is 80% mental and 40% physical.”
I glare at him, my brow bunched in confusion. “That makes no sense.”
He taps at his temple. “Get out of your head,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “The rest will follow.” I force out a breath as he comes to a stand. He adds, “You know Miss Turner?”
“No.”
“She’s the school psychologist.”
I shake my head. Is this kid serious? “I’m fine.”
“I’ve made an appointment for you after school tomorrow.”
Frustration knocks on my flesh from the inside. “Dude, I don’t need—”
“Trust in the process,” he cuts in, and I’m reminded of Ross, of my dad, of the weight of expectation balancing on my shoulders.
He starts to walk away but stops just by the door. “And hey. Not that I’m assuming this has anything to do with you sucking—because you might just be a shitshow—but the whole Ava thing? Try not to take it personally, okay?”
Try not to take it personally.
It’s 3:00 a.m., and Rhys’s final words are plaguing my mind. Like a scratched record stuck on repeat. Over and over.