Chapter 11 Jaden #2
I jump at Bryson’s voice, my brain taking a few extra seconds to connect the familiar voice and face with the body that’s been stalking alongside me. I end up pushing him into two men in suits walking the other way. I’m pretty sure one of them is the dean of the business school.
“Wow, sorry, sir! Tripping over my own feet. Guess it’s a good thing I’m more coordinated on the field,” Bryson says with a chuckle. Both men grin like fans, because everyone is a Bryson Moss fan, and tell him not to get injured as they bump his fist and head toward the admin offices.
“Unbelievable.” I huff out a sharp laugh as I adjust my backpack over my shoulder and march in the opposite direction.
“What can I say, Crash? Some people find me charming,” he muses, racing around me to hold the door open as I exit.
“Some people do,” I tease, making sure to roll my eyes to add his favorite nonverbal garnish to my expression.
“You find me charming, Crash. You’re just stubborn.” He tugs my backpack strap, and I resist until he levels me with an “I told you so” gaze. I give in and let him play gentleman—he can carry my fairly light bag for however long he plans on bothering me.
“You hungry? I’m starving. There’s a cart by the union with everything.” He cocks his head, his mouth caught in this strangely tempting smile that somehow forces me to mimic him.
“You buying?” I may as well get what I can out of this arrangement.
“Sure. But you have to sit with me while we eat.” His mouth curves into a lopsided grin. Damn it. He is charming.
“Fine, I guess.” I drag my feet playfully, following behind him as we approach the cart.
I order a turkey sandwich with sweet potato chips and a Coke, then step to the side while Bryson orders the most complicated bagel with chives I’ve ever heard of.
It’s the busiest time for this part of campus, thousands crowding into the union for the cafeteria and to nab the comfortable study sofas and beanbags on the second floor, but even amid the rush of bodies it’s hard to miss the occasional sorority girl stopping just long enough to snap a photo of Bryson and me in the same vicinity.
“I think we have fans,” I say, nodding beyond his shoulder as he stuffs his phone and wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.
Bryson cranes his neck in time to catch two blond women with Greek letters emblazoned across their white T-shirts in dark blue. They giggle but keep their phones up, either recording or taking nonstop photos of him. Or . . . us?
“Come on, Crash. Let’s play our parts,” he says, swinging an arm around me without warning.
“Ugh,” I grunt out, clutching the side of his long-sleeve football team shirt with my hand and readying myself to push away from him when my brain sends up a last-second warning signal reminding me what this performance is all about.
I’m selling an app, and part of that sales pitch is being matched with Bryson Moss.
I snuggle into his side instead, and the nearness of his body to mine sends a flurry of tiny fires throughout my stomach and chest.
And then he leans down and drops a soft kiss on top of my head, and those tiny fires turn into a bona fide explosion that renders my own lips utterly useless.
Surprised, I struggle to focus, but I do manage to catch the sneers sent my way by the same sorority girls who were recording us a moment ago. I think they may actually hate me.
“Amelia’s gonna love seeing people post that,” Bryson utters, his voice hitting my ears as if he’s calling to me through a long, narrow tunnel.
“Uh-huh,” I manage to croak.
Bryson squeezes me to his side, then lets go as he retrieves our lunch orders, and my body is instantly irritated at me for not finding a way to keep him close a little longer. I also scan busy sidewalks for more onlookers hating on me. I wasn’t prepared to be judged while ordering lunch.
I swallow hard, still rattled as I follow Bryson to the concrete benches on the other side of the main lawn. He stops me from sitting at first, holding out an arm before fishing a fistful of napkins from his pocket and using half of them to clear my seat of dust and leaves.
“Thanks,” I say, my wavering voice surprising and embarrassing me a bit. I clear my throat and roll my shoulders as I sit, ready to exorcise this giggling, boy-crazy, self-conscious girl who’s suddenly inhabited my body.
I tear into the cardboard box Bryson hands me, busying my mouth with a too-large bite to buy time before I have to attempt speaking again.
Bryson cracks open the tab on my soda can and sets it by my thigh, and I give it a glance as I dive in for another massive bite.
I’m nervous eating now, though I usually only do it before interviews or challenge days on the court.
“You never answered, Crash. You’re a business major?” His full-mouthed question doesn’t disgust me the way it does when my brother Beck talks while chewing.
I nod as I swallow down my bite. It gets caught in my throat for a moment, so I double down on my gulp of soda and pray I didn’t just intentionally choke myself.
I’m relieved when the sandwich knot slides down my esophagus, and my pulse finally seems to be beating at a normal rate, so I test the waters with eye contact.
And damn if Bryson isn’t waiting for me with the most attentive damn gaze and matching set of dimples.
“I was hungry, I guess.” I laugh. “But yes, to answer your question. I’m a business major. Let me guess . . . physical therapy?” I gesture toward him, mostly kidding with my guess because it seems like most male athletes here dream of moving on to become trainers for NFL teams.
“Guilty,” he says with a sheepish smile, and I bunch my lips up into a guilty smirk.
“Oh, well, I mean . . . you probably have an appreciation for physical therapy now, after the rehabbing and all. And I’m sure you learned a lot.” I stuff my sandwich into my mouth again, this time to shut myself up, and Bryson chuckles.
“My mom owns her own practice. She works with injured veterans. I’d like to do something like that.
I mean, sure, an NFL job would be cool, but I’d rather make a real difference for an average person simply trying to do life, if that makes sense.
” He shrugs as he takes a bite, as if what he said wasn’t incredibly modest or profound.
If he’s trying to peel away layers of my negative perceptions, he’s doing a damn good job.
“What if you make the NFL as a player, though? It was a pretty good season last year. You never know.” I’ve read his name in a few articles about potential draft bubble players. If he wants it, my guess is his talent on top of his name brand would open a door or two.
“Nah, I know my limits,” he says through easy laughter.
I shake my head and pause before taking a bite to say, “I don’t think football is a limit for you, but okay.”
He shrugs.
“Football is a means to an end for me, and my end isn’t football. I love playing, but there’s a lot of things to love in life.”