Break Point (Cordon University #1)

Chapter 1 Jaden Johnson

Jaden Johnson

The morning sun slices across the north end of the court as the Pacific Ocean breeze drifts over the rolling hills behind the stands. The Oregon coastal air smells sweet. I can hear my fans, even though they aren’t real. They’re chanting my name.

Jaden, Jaden, Jaden.

“Take it in, ladies. One of you will be on this court next spring in front of the biggest crowd in college tennis. Give yourself a minute to really think about that. Close your eyes.”

I do as Coach Kelsey instructs, but I don’t need to work my imagination too hard.

I practically hear the pop of the ball before my serve zings across the net, then clips the inside corner for an ace.

I’ve envisioned this court—my time—since I was ten years old.

A member of Cordon University’s storied Mighty Storm women’s tennis team.

Home of my tennis idol, Kathrine Maltese, four-time Wimbledon champion, youngest women’s Grand Slam titleholder in history, and namesake of center court in Cordon’s tennis complex.

“You’re smiling.”

I crack an eyelid and glance to my right, where the voice came from. I recognize Taryn Wombach from the group chat Coach started for the incoming freshman players. My mouth twitches up on the side closest to her.

“That’s going to be me,” I say.

She snickers, then blinks her focus to the still net.

“Center court? As a freshman? Pfff. Maybe next year,” she says softly.

My smile stays put, and I shake my head.

“This year.” It’s a promise.

There is no room for doubt. In my own head, Jaden Johnson is a phenom. In the real world? I’m a walk-on scraping together every penny to be here. No scholarship and no sweet NIL deal . . . yet.

“All right, grab your things. We’ll meet in the Memorial Union in fifteen minutes for your orientation and to get to know your fellow athletes, and remember . . . you represent Storm Tennis now. Everything you do reflects on us.”

Coach Kelsey claps through her words. She’s not the warm-fuzzy type, her hard eyes rimmed with a permanent tan outlining the shape of her Oakleys and spiked blond hair always framed inside a Cordon U visor. I can’t wait to play for her.

I pull my gear together and follow the upperclassmen through the tunnel that leads to our lounge and locker room.

Rich, dark wood is paired with leather loungers and lush, deep-gray carpeting.

This space is nicer than my family’s apartment.

I find my locker quickly, the first one right inside the door.

It’s a tight spot, and if I’m not careful when I change, I’m going to give anyone in the hallway a show.

The door flings open, nailing me in the hip, as that thought crosses my mind.

“Sorry.” Taryn cringes when our eyes meet.

“It’s fine. Better I learn the hazards with a smack on my ass than a knot on my head.” I rub the spot where the door clipped me. It’s going to leave one of those black-and-yellow bruises. I can tell.

I stuff my equipment into the locker as Taryn pivots, eyeing the names on the doors until she comes back to her own.

“Looks like we’re neighbors.” I push my locker shut and lean against the wood, out of the door’s path.

Her bleached blond hair is woven into dozens of tight braids, the metal ends of her septum ring poking out.

I’m surprised she didn’t just push the tips up to hide it.

I’m sure it’s why Coach spent five minutes listing the types of jewelry she will not allow during match play. Septum rings? Number one.

“We’re gonna be tight, me and you.” Taryn’s raspy voice has that tinge of coastal salt air that comes from growing up on the beach.

I’ve researched everyone in my incoming recruitment class.

Two girls from Minnesota, one from a small town in upstate New York—she was ranked fourth in the nation for our year—and Taryn, a Southern California native who can’t play the net but serves like a machine.

I feel solid about my head-to-head challenges against anyone in my class, and our upperclassmen haven’t been the strongest competitors the last two seasons, so despite Taryn’s scoffing at the idea, I’m confident I’ll be able to crack the starting squad this year.

I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth as I study my neighbor, a chain hooking a wallet into the back pocket of her baggy jeans, her well-worn canvas shoes torn in places that look intentional.

She’s California cool, ripped right from a longboard ad.

I’m not good at making friends—I see everyone as competition—but maybe we can be allies. For a while. Until I need to beat her.

“You want to walk over to the union together?” Taryn gives her locker an extra bump with her hip, stuffing her oversize bag inside, and I nod.

The juniors and seniors on our squad are probably already there.

The wonder and newness of Cordon’s campus has probably worn off for them.

Taryn seems less awed than I am, likely because she grew up in a place where moss grows on everything and misty clouds paint the sky at dusk and dawn.

When you come from the tumbleweeds and gravel landscapes of Phoenix like I do, anything green wows the soul.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be tired of life here.

Taryn holds the tall glass door open for me as I enter the massive mission-style building. The intense smell of buttered popcorn assaults my nose the second I step onto the tiled floor.

“I guess we know what they meant by snacks,” I joke.

Both of us tilt our heads up and to the left, following the scent. My mouth waters instantly.

“You want some? I’ll grab two,” she says, spotting the vendor on the opposite end of the room.

“Please.” Okay, maybe we’ll be good allies.

As Taryn skips away, I scan the sea of tables in search of my teammates or an area marked for tennis.

I wander up a few steps to my right, hoping to get a better view.

In my distraction, I smack headfirst into a broad and incredibly hard chest, which knocks me off balance enough for my foot to slip from the edge of one of the steps.

I yelp and flail, grabbing hold of Mr. Muscular’s backpack strap as I fall.

He tugs on the opposite strap to keep me on my feet, but the bag’s zipper gives way, and I end up on my ass alongside a black Storm Football backpack and a pair of very large sneakers.

“Are you okay, Crash?” the body with the chest and feet says, and the one recruit everyone in this room knows hunches down and reaches out his hand.

My face is hot, and I’m sure it’s as red as the Saltillo tiles, which did very little to soften my fall.

Bryson Moss isn’t just a big deal at Cordon.

He’s the immediate favorite for the Heisman, the heir apparent of a football team coming off the heels of a playoff run, and the guy on my little brother’s cereal box.

I literally stared at his face while I drained a bowl of frosted oats a few days ago before my parents drove me here.

The number one freshman recruit in the country, and he picked Cordon over so many bigger football powerhouses.

I read he was a legacy at Texas Tech, but he chose Cordon knowing he’d get to start his freshman year.

If he’s as good as his reputation, my gut says he’ll hit the transfer portal after showing the world what he can do this season.

I doubt it’s about money for him, given the millions tied to his family name.

My guess is he’s playing for the fame. His family owns oil fields in Oklahoma—more specifically, a few thousand acres of them.

Bryson hasn’t just been the big headline for every media outlet’s sports section.

He’s been trending in the business ones too.

“How funny would it be if my first visit to the athletic trainer was because I injured myself committing a personal foul against our star quarterback?” The words spill out amid nervous laughter, and taking Bryson’s hand only makes my arm go numb as I steady myself back on my feet.

His green eyes and dimples stand out on a face marked by a perfect jaw, a hint of stubble, and a dusting of freckles that span the bridge of his nose.

His sandy-brown hair sweeps to the side but doesn’t lie quite flat, and the dark-blue Cordon Football tee looks as if it were cut specifically for every curve of his muscles—or simply painted on his skin.

“Probably about as funny as if my first penalty for targeting was because I knocked out the cute girl on our tennis team.”

Cute. That word carries more weight coming from his mouth. Or maybe it’s just because I’m not normally the girl that word is thrown at. Probably a bit of both.

I decide to focus on the tennis part of his compliment instead. “Do tennis players have a certain look or something?”

His gaze drops to my left breast, and my eyes flash wide for about half a second before I tuck my chin and realize he’s reading the logo on my T-shirt.

“Oh.” I tug the silver lightning bolt out a few inches so I can read Cordon Tennis stitched underneath it.

“I leave you unsupervised for one minute,” Taryn teases as she walks up, literally eating popcorn as she takes in the entertainment I’m providing.

I shrug.

“What can I say? You wanted to be friends. This is what you get.” I bend in half to dust off my black leggings and help pull together Bryson’s unzipped bag, its contents strewn around the floor.

I gather up a single slide shoe, a spray deodorant, and an old-school black comb as he rights his bag.

A yellow prescription bottle rolls a few feet to my right, so I lunge for it, snagging it just before his hand covers mine.

“Oh, sorry,” I stammer, peeling my fingers away but scanning the label before he swallows the bottle with his palm. I’m not sure what the medicine was, but the name—Ashton Yasmine—is definitely not his. My brow narrows, and my mouth hangs open. I wonder if I have the guts to ask about the pills.

“It’s fine.” His instant curtness catches me a bit off guard. It’s triggering, too, because I’ve heard those words before, from other people with other pills.

“Uh, yeah it is. She was just trying to help,” Taryn says, stepping in to defend me.

“Which part was you helping? The not-looking-where-you-were-going part?” He chuckles, and to anyone casually listening, I bet he seems charming.

But there’s a smugness to his sudden tone shift.

I know his type. Lots of hype. A real stud when competing against other high school players.

But he’s with the big boys now, and I know where I’d put my money.

If he’s taking someone else’s pills just to manage postpractice pain, or worse, mask an injury, my gut says he’s going to need a lot more than that little bottle after taking a few hits next week.

My two-minute crush dissolves as he swings his bag over a shoulder and edges his way through the rows of tables toward the football team.

“Wow, you really are a disaster,” Taryn quips.

I roll my eyes, a little irked that my pulse is still racing. I’m pretty sure those butterflies in my chest are angry now. In fact, they’re not butterflies at all, but hornets—armed and ready.

“I’m on top of it when it counts.” I take the spare bag of popcorn from her arms and wink before guiding us toward the front of the room, where I recognize a few girls from the morning’s orientation.

I plop into the seat at the head of the table, because that’s where a leader would sit. I spent my summer mastering my mental game, and rule number one for being a champ is acting like one.

My attention is drawn to the stage when our university’s athletic director taps on a mic at the podium, but it starts to wander after a few minutes as he begins to repeat the same code-of-conduct speech Coach Kelsey gave us about thirty minutes ago.

Taryn is picking the chipped silver polish from her nails next to me, and the hulks of muscle wearing Cordon Defensive Line jackets at the table next to ours are mostly staring at their phones in their laps.

Then there’s Bryson, sitting at the head of the table opposite mine.

He’s not on his phone, and he’s not staring up at the stage.

His focus is locked in on me, and the smirk on his lips makes me uneasy.

If he thinks I’m going to look away first, though, he has no idea who he’s flirting with.