Chapter 8 Bryson
Bryson
I’m not sure whether to be frustrated that my bank sent me a fraud alert for the charge I made to pay Jaden’s tuition payment or to be glad they’re looking out for me.
It has been a full three days since I made the charge, so it’s not like their financial forensic team is that on point, but I guess it’s good to know that if my accountant decides to gamble away my money one day, I’ll be alerted to it before it shows up in the tabloids.
I press the link in the text, and it opens a window displaying the details of the charge.
I just want this thing to go through before it becomes a problem for Jaden.
The last thing I need is this situation blowing up into a full display of Moss family dysfunction and the lengths we’ll go to just to keep my father out of our business, literally and figuratively.
“Earth to Bryson. Yo, are you even hearing me?”
I shake my head from my clouded thoughts and peel my gaze away from my phone screen in time to catch Ashton waving his hand as we approach the crosswalk leading to the stadium.
“Sorry, fraud alert,” I say, holding up my phone like a visual aid.
“Damn, everything good? You were about to step into rush hour traffic,” he says, dramatically sweeping his hand in front of us as a male student kick pushes along the bike path on a longboard. It’s six in the morning, so campus traffic is light—aka nonexistent. We both chuckle.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Probably just an error,” I say, tucking my phone into the front pocket of my hoodie. “They flagged it.”
I don’t elaborate because other than bar tabs and my truck, I haven’t had to pay for much since coming to Cordon.
I’m not really into shopping for flashy shit like some of the other guys with big NIL deals.
Probably because I grew up surrounded by the latest gadgets, designer clothes, and gold-plated .
. . everything. That stuff doesn’t feel special to me.
I also haven’t exactly brought Ashton up to speed on my side gig with my sister .
. . or Jaden. If I start the story with the fact that I paid her tuition, I’m never going to hear the end of it.
He already thinks I’m obsessed with the girl because I’m constantly eyeing her from across any room we’re both in.
“All right. Maybe I should check my balance, though. You know, just in case there’s a team-wide scam going on, or—” He already has his phone out and his bank app open.
Ashton grew up in my town, but middle class.
Shiny new toys and a decent-sized balance in his bank account carry more weight for him.
“Phew.” He swipes his screen and pockets his phone, seemingly relieved.
Ashton and I are likely the first guys here this morning, so we’re not exactly sprinting to get into the locker room to dress out and start running up the stands.
Maybe it’s the leisurely walk to practice that’s got me more alert to my surroundings than usual, or perhaps the universe is nudging me.
Whatever the draw, I find myself veering off course on our way to our workouts, chasing the continual thwap of tennis balls on concrete.
I pause just outside the tennis complex, the player obscured by the windscreens that wrap around the fencing.
“Does tennis always practice this early?” I squint in the sun as I look to my friend.
Ashton shrugs. “I don’t think so. Can’t say I’m ever awake enough to pay attention, though.” He steps up onto a nearby retaining wall, then lifts on his toes, craning his neck to catch a glimpse.
Rather than joining him to peer through the fence like a couple of creepers, I tug at his pant leg and head toward the open gate that leads to the stands.
I stop hard when I see Jaden. Her red hair, all wild curls despite her attempt to tame it with a hairband, slaps across her face as she slings her racket across her body and belts out a grunt.
“Oh, I get it now,” Ashton says over my shoulder as he steps up behind me.
“Psssshhh, there’s nothing to get,” I grumble. If I want to truly sell my disinterest, I should probably turn around right now and head to practice. But something has me locked on this concrete step that overlooks Cordon’s center court.
“Take a picture, lover boy. It lasts longer,” Ashton says as he slaps my chest and chuckles.
“Shut up,” I groan.
I sense Ashton walk away, but I linger for a few extra seconds.
The vivid blue court is sprinkled with bright-green balls, dozens of them.
Only a handful remain in the machine methodically shooting them across the court toward Jaden.
I glance over my shoulder and note Ashton several steps away before pulling my phone from my front pocket and focusing the camera on the blur of raw power and passion on the court.
I manage to snap a pic just as Jaden crushes a ball across the net.
I take off before I get caught, but I zoom in on my screen while I’m still catching up to Ashton.
It’s her expression that strikes me most. Her gaze is mean, her mouth pulled tight, the flex in her jaw indicating the clench of her teeth.
I may be decent at throwing a football, but Jaden Johnson?
She’s an athlete. I’m not obsessed with her.
I envy her. And yeah, it bugs the hell out of me that she dislikes me so much.
We hit the locker room just as Garrett, our strength and conditioning coach, shows up, and since Ashton is still fighting to keep his slot as the number one receiver over the hotshot sophomore transfer we got in, he’s dressed and ready to get his sprints in before I even have my feet in my shoes.
“Dude, just go without me. I’ll be right there.” I wave him off, and he mutters something about how nice it must be to be Coach’s darling quarterback. I chuckle to be polite.
I know Ashton is kidding, but there’s a little bite to his words despite the laughing way he uttered them.
I feel like I’ve proven myself with the team.
Our playoff run last season and my passing-yard records are evidence that I have what it takes to lead a team like Cordon.
But the whispers are still there. It’s part of the stigma of being a Moss.
My father’s money opens a lot of doors, but it also makes people question whether you deserve to walk through them.
I take advantage of the small window of alone time to pull up the fraud link on my phone again, looking for a place where I can verify the charge with a simple click, but the only option is calling some eight-hundred number.
I don’t have time for that, so I eat the stress knot forming in my throat and hope I can deal with this before it becomes Jaden’s problem . . . again.
I’m about to tuck my phone into my locker when it buzzes in my palm with a message from my sister.
Amelia: 24 hours to launch! Lunch is on me at Storm Slices. I need to get some candid video of you and Jaden. It’s the only open time she has today.
I ruminate for a moment on how I’m going to ditch Ashton and head to his favorite lunch spot without him after practice.
Eventually, I resign to the fact that he’s going to find out about me being a part of this app launch with Jaden, so I’ll invite him along.
I may as well distract him with free beer and wings to keep the teasing to a minimum.
Me: Congrats, sis! I’ll be there!
I tuck my phone inside my locker and mentally kick around the tangle I’m weaving. Normally I use the grind of football practice to bury my mental shit, but the universe seems hell bent on me dealing with things directly today.
Literally.
Jaden is standing in the center of the tunnel as I walk out, her hands on her hips and her tennis gear bag slung over her back like Johnny Cash’s guitar.
She must have marched straight from the tennis court here, which probably means she saw me watching.
The embarrassment at that thought sinks in my gut for a moment.
I could sprint by her now, but there’s no way to pretend I don’t see her.
Besides, I have a feeling I know what this is about.
“I can explain,” I start, holding my hands out partly to obstruct any random object she may decide to throw at me. Thankfully, she doesn’t use projectiles. Instead, she flashes her phone screen in my face, the alert that her student account has been frozen zoomed in on those words only.
“Is this app thing even legit? Was that even really your daddy’s credit card you used? Was this all some scheme to rope me into free publicity? You have five seconds before I dial your sister and tell her I’m out!”
I can tell by the way her toe is tapping at roughly one-second intervals that she’s in fact counting. She’s already at three.
“My dad refused payment!” I blurt out, deciding dishing out the truth is better than concocting more lies. Maybe I’m growing.
Jaden flinches a tick as her brows draw in.
“I’m taking care of it, though—”
“Uh, doesn’t look like it!” She holds her phone up again and taps on the screen.
I drop my hand over hers to coax her to put her phone down, and she recoils, stepping back. One of the guys passing by on his way to the locker room clears his throat, and I raise up a hand. He gives me a quick nod, then heads in.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you. I just need you to give me a minute,” I plead.
“Five seconds,” she repeats.
I laugh, which makes her scowl.
“You keep using that arbitrary time. I can’t explain anything in five seconds, so just . . . gah!” I hold out my open palms in frustration.
Jaden purses her lips but tucks her phone against her side as she crosses her arms over her midriff. I try not to stare at the short, pleated skirt barely covering her thighs. And I fail.
Jaden snaps her fingers.
“Focus, Bryson!”