Chapter One #3
Both could be true.
I grabbed my phone, intending to text Mia an apology for being a bitch, but my fingers betrayed me and I opened Google instead.
Cameron Russo
The search results exploded across my screen like a betrayal.
Articles, highlight reels, stats, interviews, fan pages, forum threads analyzing her every move.
I clicked on the first video—some championship game compilation with dramatic music—and watched her move across the court like she was born to be there.
She was extraordinary. Even I, a person who knew literally nothing about basketball and cared even less, could see that.
The way she read plays before they happened, threaded passes through impossible gaps, defended like her life depended on every possession.
She moved with this fluid, controlled grace that was mesmerizing.
Like watching a predator hunt. Beautiful and terrifying and completely captivating.
There were more videos. So many videos. I watched her hit a buzzer-beater to win a championship, watched the way she barely smiled afterward, like winning was just expected.
I watched her give a post-game interview with that same controlled intensity, her voice low and measured, every word chosen carefully.
I watched her interact with teammates, serious and focused, until someone made her laugh and her whole face transformed.
I watched until my phone hit fifteen percent battery. I watched until I'd memorized the scar down her temple, the way she touched the championship rings hung on her neck before free throws, the exact shade of gold in her eyes when she was concentrating, the way her shoulders moved when she ran.
I watched until I had to face the horrible, humiliating truth: I'd just spent two hours obsessing over a woman who thought I was a waste of space.
A woman who was also, unfortunately, maybe the most attractive person I'd ever seen in my life.
A woman who hated me.
"This is fine," I told my empty car, my voice echoing pathetically in the silence. "This is totally fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine. I'm so fine, I'm going to go home and eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s and definitely not think about her stupid fucking bone structure."
My phone buzzed. Mia.
Mia
Are you okay?
Harper
I'm spectacular. Living my best life. Definitely not having a crisis in a parking garage.
Mia
I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that about Henry.
Harper
It's fine. I'm fine. I'm going home to eat ice cream and forget this night ever happened.
Mia
For what it's worth, Trish says Cam's not usually like that. She's been really stressed about the season.
Harper
Cool story. She can be stressed without being a dick to random people. Revolutionary concept.
Mia
Also Trish says Cam asked who you were.
I stared at that message for a full thirty seconds, my brain buffering like a bad internet connection.
Harper
...why the hell would she ask that?
Mia
No idea. Trish said she seemed… bothered? Like, more bothered than the situation warranted?
Harper
Good. I hope I ruined her whole night. I hope I ruined her whole week. I hope every time she closes her eyes she sees my face and feels shame.
Mia
You know, for someone who claims not to care, you seem very invested in this.
Harper
I'm not invested. I'm vindictive. There's a difference.
Mia
If you say so. Love you. Call me if you need me.
Harper
Love you too. Tell Laine I'm sorry I was a disaster at my first basketball game. I'm sure she's thrilled.
Mia
She thinks you're hilarious, actually. Direct quote: "I knew I always liked her energy."
That startled a laugh out of me. Of course Laine would say that. The woman made her living understanding people, and apparently she understood that my entire personality was "chaos held together by spite and good hair."
I tossed my phone into the passenger seat and drove home on autopilot, replaying the interaction in my head and coming up with seventeen better comebacks I should've used. That's always how it goes, isn't it? You think of the perfect response six hours and a self-led shower argument too late.
When I finally stumbled into my apartment, I poured the biggest glass of wine legally allowed by the state of California, grabbed an entire pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie and collapsed on my couch, still wearing my jacket because taking it off felt like too much effort.
I should've been over it. I should've been able to brush off one interaction with one rude, judgmental, stupidly attractive basketball player and move on with my life like an adult.
Instead, I picked up my phone and searched her name again.
"You," I told my phone, "are a problem. We," I told myself, "are going to have a serious talk about this tomorrow."
Tomorrow-Harper could deal with whatever this was. Tonight-Harper was going to watch basketball highlights and feel feelings she absolutely did not want to examine.
This was going to be a problem.
A big, tall, amber-eyed problem with shoulders that could carry the weight of the world.
Fuck.