Chapter One #2
"Performing?" I let out a laugh that could've stripped paint.
"That's rich coming from someone who literally plays in front of thousands of people for a living.
But sure, I'm the one performing. Tell me, do you practice that brooding intensity in the mirror, or is it just natural talent?
Because it's giving 'emotionally constipated superhero,' and I'm here for the commitment. "
"I win championships," she said flatly. "What do you do? Take pictures of coffee?"
I gasped, pressing my hand to my chest in mock offense. "Excuse me, I also take pictures of my lunch. And occasionally my shoes. It's called having interests, Captain Miserable. You should try it sometime. Might make you less..." I gestured vaguely at all of her, "whatever this is."
"Whatever this is," she repeated slowly, "is someone who actually showed up and paid attention. You spent two hours on your phone instead of watching one of the best games of the season. So either you're incredibly rude, or you just don't give a shit about anyone's time but your own."
"Bold of you to assume I can't be both." I took a step closer, which was a terrible idea because now I could smell her—something clean and sharp, like expensive soap and determination—and my brain was short-circuiting.
"But you know what? At least I'm not going around acting like the basketball police.
Do you have a badge? Should I see some credentials?
Because right now you just seem like someone who's weirdly obsessed with how a stranger spends her time. "
Her nostrils flared. I'd gotten to her. Point for Team Harper.
"I'm stating facts. You wasted and took a courtside seat from someone that actually cares about basketball."
"And you're wasting and taking oxygen that someone with a personality could be breathing, but here we are." I smiled sweetly. "See? I can state facts too. It's fun."
"You're—" She cut herself off, visibly trying to maintain control. It was fascinating, watching her struggle. Like watching a pressure cooker trying not to explode. "Some people waste their lives chasing validation from strangers online."
"And some people waste their lives being judgmental assholes to strangers they don't know, but at least my way gets likes.
" I shrugged. "Tell me, Captain Miserable, is this how you make friends?
Because I'm getting real 'peaked in high school' energy from you, and I'm not sure that's the vibe you want to project. "
Something flashed in her eyes. Hurt, maybe, or fury so deep it looked like pain. For a second, I almost felt bad.
Almost.
Mia must’ve finally realized what was going on because she was suddenly at my side.
"Harper went through a really difficult breakup, Cam," Mia interjected, her voice bright and terrible and oh my God, I was going to murder my best friend. "Please don’t rip into her. She's been having a hard time lately."
The humiliation was instant and crushing.
My face went nuclear. My hands clenched into fists.
This was not happening. This was not Mia, sweet, well-meaning, absolutely infuriating, making me sound like some kind of broken bird who couldn't defend herself.
I was not fragile. I was not some sad sack of shit who needed excuses made for her.
I'd ended my engagement two and a half years ago, had come out to my entire family, lost everyone except my brother Jordan, and I was still standing. Still fighting. Still here.
"I don't need excuses," I snapped, whirling on Mia with more venom than she deserved. "And I definitely don't need them from you. I'm not a charity case, Mia. I can handle one judgmental basketball player with a superiority complex all by myself, thanks."
Then I turned back to Cameron, at Captain Miserable with her stupid title and her stupider face and those shoulders that should be illegal, and leveled her with my most withering glare.
"I don't need lectures from you about how I spend my time or what I find interesting.
Maybe if the game was actually worth watching, I would've watched it.
But it wasn't. So I didn't. Wild concept, I know, but not everyone finds watching you throw a ball around fascinating.
Some of us have actual lives that don't revolve around a gym and protein shakes. "
For a second, something raw and naked flickered across her face. Then it was gone, replaced by this blank, cold mask that was somehow worse than the judgment.
“Whatever, Instagram. I have better things to do with my time,” she said, her voice flat and dead and final, and then she turned and walked away, her long legs carrying her down the tunnel like she couldn't get away from me fast enough.
I stood there, shaking. My chest was tight, my throat was burning, and my stupid, traitorous brain was unhelpfully replaying the way her shoulders had looked when she'd crossed her arms and the way her eyes had gone molten gold with anger and the way her voice had dropped when she'd called me Instagram.
Mia was staring at me with this mixture of concern and exasperation.
Isla looked deeply uncomfortable. Laine had her PR face on, the one she probably used when her matchmaking clients had meltdowns.
Trish looked like she wanted to sink all six-foot-six of herself into the floor and disappear forever.
"I am so sorry," Trish said quietly. "Cam's really not usually like that. She's been under a lot of pressure this season. I don't know what—"
"Don't care," I said, my voice shaking. "She can be stressed without being a dick to random people. That's, like, basic human decency. Even I managed it, and I've had a terrible two years."
"Harper..." Mia started, reaching for my arm.
"Nope. I'm leaving." I pulled away, already backing toward the exit. "I'll text you later. I just—I need to go."
I didn't wait for a response. I just turned and walked as fast as I could toward the exit, my vision blurring at the edges, my stupid heeled boots clicking against the concrete like a countdown to my total breakdown.
By the time I got to my car, parked in the structure three blocks away because even the universe wanted me to suffer today, the tears were already falling. Angry tears. Frustrated tears. Humiliated tears that I absolutely refused to acknowledge as anything other than rage-crying.
I collapsed into the driver's seat and let myself cry for exactly two minutes, because that was all I was allowing for some judgmental basketball player who didn't know a single thing about me.
Except she kind of did know me, didn't she? She'd taken one look at me on my phone and decided I was shallow and vapid and not worth her time. And yeah, maybe I had been on my phone the whole game. Maybe I was performing for strangers. Maybe she'd seen something true, and I hated her for it.
Or maybe she was just an asshole with a superiority complex and bone structure that could make angels weep.