Break Point Read online

  “Yeah, I know. I meant, think you can hold your own with that crowd? In general?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m looking forward to it,” I lied. I wasn’t looking forward to dealing with them. Not today. Not tomorrow.

  Though, now that I was in the presence of Coach King—up close and personal, outside, shouting, coaching, wearing shorts—I was more excited than before. His forearms fascinated me all over again. They rippled with strength when he moved, making me wonder what they would look like braced over me.

  I pulled my hair back into a messy knot at my nape, allowing the breeze to hit my heated neck. “Thanks for asking me to come and watch.”

  “I’ll let you know when we play in that charity event over the summer, and you can come and meet the team.”

  “Call the house,” I reminded him as I walked away.

  Yep, I was still living at home.

  Which was a good thing considering how attracted I was to my new so-called mentor.

  In July, I formally met the girls—and quickly forgot who was who—at some posh club hosting a doubles tournament for charity. King made them all do it for community-service hours. It looked good for the tennis program, for Hafton University, and for him. Mostly, I thought, for him.

  Especially when he changed into a navy-blue blazer and skinny khakis for the cocktail reception. He was every bit the country-club boy—private schooled, well heeled—a former tennis protégé who blew out his knee and was now forced to coach. He probably had a long line of tennis bunnies waiting for him outside his apartment . . . or wherever he lived.

  I was grateful he didn’t ask me to play in the charity thing.

  A, I didn’t do doubles. Ever.

  B, watching him work the event gave me more time to stare at him as he wandered from court to court, schmoozing and smiling.

  I was even more grateful none of the other girls asked for my number.

  I needed time to deal with that one.

  Jules

  I shoved my bike into the rack outside school, slipping the lock around the bars without bothering to lock it up. It was official . . . I was the new chick on campus. Well, only for classes. At the end of the day, I went back home to my mom’s place.

  Smoothing my jean shorts and straightening my mess of a bun, I walked confidently into the lecture hall. Psychology was first on the menu, followed by Statistics later in the day. Of course, several of my teammates were in Psych; it was one of those cupcake courses taught by a fan of the tennis program. In other words, an easy A that kept the team’s average GPA nice and inflated.

  “Toast is nice,” my old coach used to say. Nice means nothing in a world of excellence, but fuck it. They want me to get nice As; who am I to argue?

  When no one from the team asked me to sit with them, I looked toward an empty seat in the corner. Did I even expect them to? Why would they?

  These girls looked like they could have been together since toddler gymnastics, or their collective first periods and long-gone virginities. While I was the fiery-red-haired newcomer, the transfer from another school. The unknown.

  I grabbed my tablet and readied myself to take some notes, or at least look like I was busy paying attention while searching the Internet, when the professor entered the room. Crawford was her name, and she looked about as loose as a nun on Sunday. Tight bun, buttoned-up blouse, pencil skirt to the knees, patent-leather pumps, pantyhose. Well, at least I knew she wasn’t sleeping with the coach.

  No, he gave off a freakier vibe, and I wasn’t going to lie, it was one that had kept me up late into the night. On many nights in my lilac bedroom, wishing I knew where he slept.

  Lost in a web of visions of King over me, me under him, us in a sideways position with scissored legs, his hands rough and calloused and mine tied behind me, I didn’t hear one word of class until, “Class dismissed.”

  “Hey, Juliette,” one of the blond crew said to me as I left the auditorium.

  “Um, hey . . .” I squinted, trying to rack my brain. Which one was she?

  “Hilary,” she said helpfully.

  The infamous Hilary.

  There she was in all her glory. Five seven or so, tanned, blue-eyed, corn fed. I’d bet she was from the Midwest. We had a lot of those here at Hafton U in Ohio.

  Christ, I’m from the Midwest.

  Clearly, I hadn’t made much of an effort during the summer to remember anything about these girls, let alone their names.

  “How’s your first day?” She eyed me curiously, careful not to be too obvious by occasionally looking at her smart phone.

  “Uh, good so far. First class. I have a break now. And it’s Jules. No one calls me Juliette except for my mother.” And me when I chastise myself.

  “Oh, good. Come with us. We’re going over to the gym to grab a quick workout and check out the schedule for the fall tournament.”

  I didn’t want to go, but like a kid drawn to an ice cream truck, I was compelled to see the coach. And I had to work out eventually today.

  “All right.”

  “Come on. Lulu has a car.”

  Lulu. I’m not shitting you.

  I walked out into the late-August heat as Hilary ran off at the mouth about some football party coming up. In a meadow, twinkly lights, some guy named Pierce she was obsessed with . . . it all blurred together. The basketball team ruled the school. Hafton was all about its top-level sports, especially the ones that brought in the big bucks.

  “Lu, this is Jules, the new girl. Remember meeting her at the club over the summer?” Hilary said. She opened the front passenger door and slid in while I crawled into the backseat like it was death row.

  Lulu, her hair with its expensive highlights slicked back in a low ponytail, turned her gaze on me. Her dark green eyes bore into mine. “Yep, where’d you come from again?”

  “I was playing out in California. Didn’t work out, so I came closer to home.” It was mostly the truth.

  The two of them might as well have been twins in their olive-green short-shorts and white tanks, and Tory Burch flip-flops on their feet. My cutoffs felt less-than, like me.

  We pulled out of the parking lot, and Lulu spoke to me in the rearview.

  “King’s got a major hard-on for you. All he talked about was the new singles player he was getting. Stacia was getting kind of pissed. She used to be his shiny star. Though, I’m pretty sure she tried to get in his pants and it was a big fat N-O, so now she ignores him.”

  “I prefer to keep a low profile. I’ll have to tell Coach not to run off at the mouth so much.”

  Thankfully, Hilary embarked into more of her football-party ramblings for the rest of the ride. Staring out the window, I tried to figure out how to tell King to shut the hell up.

  Inside the tennis complex, I found my locker and tossed my school bag inside. Lulu dropped her shorts like she was being paid by the second, her pink thong encrusted in red crystals staring me in the face.

  “Sorry ’bout that, but no shame here. We’re all gonna see each other’s junk soon enough.”

  I nodded, looking away.

  How could I be so close to home, yet had never felt farther away?

  Jules

  We did some core work and light weight lifting before each of us stole thirty minutes of cardio. Luckily, I was the only one who opted for the treadmill, doing a funky dance routine on the belt we did at my last school. Lulu, Hilary, the aforementioned Stacia, and a girl named Libby hit the elliptical machines like ducks in a row.

  One by one, they plugged into their phones and tuned one another out while I tried to focus on the alternative music playing in the gym. I sashayed to the side for two minutes, ran backward for another two, and then walked up a hill before rinsing and repeating, only taking my eyes off the display in front of me when I was going backward.

  After the workout/bonding session, I quickly showered and tried to get out of the building before being noticed.

  “Hey, Jules, where you off to now?”


  No such luck.

  “Statistics in a bit.” I mentally chided myself for not asking Hilary where she was going; I needed to fit in.

  “Want a ride?” Lulu followed up behind Hilary, both of them back in their matching outfits.

  “No thanks. I’m going to walk and grab a coffee.”

  Lord only knew, detailed dreams of the very same coach who peeked his head in during our workout kept me up late into the night.

  “Why don’t you give me your number so we can text you this week before workouts?”

  “Um . . .” I pulled my bag higher on my shoulder, searching for the right words. “I don’t have a phone, but I’ll be here.”

  “What?”

  “What did you just say?”

  Their high-pitched squeals overlapped and merged into a painful shrieking in my head.

  “No phone.” I shrugged and turned to go.

  Sensing my agitation, the others got the message and moved along, brushing past me, whispering their way toward the doors to freedom.

  I leaned against the wall, trying to keep the panic at bay. I let it funnel around my ankles, but snuffed it out before it made its way up my spine.

  “Jules? You okay?” a deep voice said.

  I hadn’t realized that my eyes were clamped shut. When they opened, there he was—the man of my dreams—his hair mussed, curling around the ears. Eyeglasses framed his face, the large, black-framed kind only models and actors could carry off.

  “I’m fine. Just adjusting.”

  “It’s going to take some time, especially after what you went through. Do you want to talk?”

  My mind said no but my body said yes, forcing my head to nod.

  “Come on. We’ll go to my office.”

  I broke free from the wall and felt Coach King’s hand reach for my lower back, his fingers lightly guiding me, the same ones I’d imagined to be calloused. His touch felt both right and wrong—in equal parts.

  Inside his office, he said, “Have a seat. Want a drink? Water? Powerade?”

  “Water, please.” I gulped the cool liquid he offered me, hoping it would douse the fire raging in my belly simply from his fingers making contact with my shirt.

  “How are your classes?” He sat on the edge of his desk, his arms braced on either side of him.

  “I’ve only had one so far, but good.”

  “And the other girls? They’re reaching out?”

  Rage coiled inside me. “You didn’t say anything?”

  He shook his head, licking his lips, and I focused on every movement. His tongue slid across his lips, pink and slightly cracked, before it disappeared into his mouth. I felt myself mirror his actions, tasting my cherry lip gloss, wanting his lips on me.

  “No,” he said. “It’s your story to tell. But for the record, I think you should be a little more transparent. You’ve overcome quite a bit. You should be proud to be back in the game.”

  “I’ll think about it.” No way.

  “Either way, the others are being welcoming?”

  “Yes, they’re driving me around, filling me in on team lore.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that. “Do tell.”

  There it was again. The spark of something between us. His mouth lifted into the most delicious smile, and never before did I wish to lick something so badly.

  “Apparently, you talk about me a lot. Too much. And Stacia didn’t take too kindly to it.”

  “Stacia has . . . had a thing for me. But I’m a coach and she’s a student, and not my type.”

  I focused my eyes on the floor, embarrassed by my own big mouth. Stupid girl, was I an idiot?

  “That’s why I’m hoping the girls are being nice to you.” His voice lowered a bit, his tone turning confidential as he said, “I find it hard to be around you without crossing a line. I don’t know how much of this I can do; one on one, I mean. Since I sat in your mom’s kitchen, to be honest.”

  This time, my gaze flicked up toward his. Did he just admit what I think he did?

  “What I mean is, it’s frowned upon for a coach or teacher to care for a student in the way I’ve found myself thinking about . . . coming to care for you. Shit.” He ran his hand along his forehead. “This is coming out all wrong. You just remind me so much of me. The passion. The concentration.”

  I didn’t know why I did it.

  It could have been because it had been so long since someone genuinely cared for me other than my mom.

  It could have been because I was extra vulnerable, or needed to hear something complimentary so freaking bad.

  Or maybe, just maybe, I was that fucking attracted to my coach.

  I pushed up from my seat, walked toward him, and ran my shaky hand along his cheek. “I know what you mean. There’s a connection here. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but when I’m near you, there’s something.”

  “It’s not smart to discuss this, but hell, Jules . . . I want to.”

  I took a moment and stared into his eyes, seeing my reflection in his crystal-blue irises. His pupils dilated, signaling his hunger for me, and I was pretty sure mine widened as well.

  For someone who felt like they’d left their ego back in California, I was surprised to find it had apparently flown back across the country.

  His hand lifted and mirrored mine, running the length of my cheek and then dipping behind my neck. He tugged my hair from its messy bun and smoothed it down my back before his lips landed on mine.

  “Fuck it, I can’t keep my head straight when it comes to you,” he murmured into my mouth.

  It was gentle at first. His lips on mine, exploring and tender, then punishing. He devoured me, his tongue swiping inside my mouth. A moment later, or maybe it was hours, his lips turned gentle again as he kissed me with a closed mouth. His lips ghosted over mine, promising me more.

  “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.” He tossed his glasses on the desk and they tumbled over the loose papers, clattering to a stop.

  “Jules, I want you more than anything. All of you. Everything about you. More than any other woman I’ve ever wanted. It’s a force . . . deep inside me.”

  I stood there silent, taking in his every syllable, warmth spreading in my veins and heat circling my heart.

  “I gotta check this need at the door, but I can’t shake it to save my fucking life.”

  He dived back in full force, his kiss rough and bruising. His lips exploded along mine, taking, giving, and making love to me in a way I’d never experienced.

  But then he tore away, leaving me panting and wide-eyed as he moved behind his desk, hiding, running his hand over his forehead and scraping through his hair. All this made him even hotter.

  “Christ, I don’t know what overcame me. I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, held it at bay. I keep talking in circles. I want you, but I know I can’t have you. I thought I had it in check, but clearly, I didn’t. I don’t.” His head hung in defeat.

  I moved toward him, making my way around the desk, but he backed away as I rounded the corner of it.

  “Do you forgive me?” he asked. “If you want to report me . . .” His eyes blazed heat, fear, and more heat. Want and passion dueled with his anxiety over wanting me.

  “I wanted it, Coach . . . King. I’m not going to report you.” I plopped on the edge of his desk and took in a deep breath before letting it out with a whoosh.

  Like I reminded myself daily, I was in charge these days. Always. Forever in charge. I forbade myself to allow him to take control.

  “Don’t . . . don’t call me Coach. Doesn’t seem right after what just happened. Even though it can’t happen again.”

  “Okay, King, have it your way.”

  “Drew. Andrew, but mostly I’m Drew.”

  I watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple moving up and down his throat.

  “That shouldn’t have happened,” he said. “You already have so much on your shoulders. I’m supposed to be making your life easier.”

&n
bsp; “What if I wanted it to happen?” I shoved my hair back and twisted it into a bun again, feeling his cold, hard rejection all the way to my toes.

  He hung his head, staring at the floor, his tanned hand still plunged into his hair. God, he had no idea what those actions did to me.

  “It can’t. It really can’t.”

  I nodded for fear of what kind of pleading would come out of my mouth. He said he got me, understood me, gave me a second chance.

  “I’m glad the girls were nice to you today,” he said, still not meeting my eyes. “You should go meet up with them now. Do fun things, enjoy college life.”

  And like that I was dismissed from King’s office and his mind.

  Sadly, he was still the focal point of mine.

  Drew

  Fucking Christ, I swore in my head as I headed toward the men’s room. This girl was going to be the goddamn freaking death of me.

  Since I lost my mind with her in my office that day, she’d spent the better part of the last month ignoring me. All I got from her was, “Yes, Coach. No problem, Coach. Of course, Coach.” Just to interact with her, I found myself coming up with random shit to tell her.

  Her swing was damn near perfect. She rarely lost, no matter who I put her up against. She’d just slayed the second fall tournament this past weekend, crushing everyone who came up against her. Yet I continued to bark at her.

  “Adjust your grip. Widen your stance. Your shot is half a second too late.”

  No wonder they hated her at her last school. The other girls. Her teammates and supposed friends. It still didn’t excuse what they did, but shit . . . she was amazing on the court.

  And off. I wish I could tell her.

  As I leaned over the sink, I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about how I was no stranger myself to shame. My mom had done a bang-up job of shaming me.

  “Drew, I hope they brainwash the naughty clear out of you at prep school,” my mom would say every time I went back to school. Her idea of naughty was my not agreeing to date my stepsister. Yep, my blue-blooded Southern mama saw nothing wrong with me courting my stepsister, her dumbass third husband’s daughter. She wanted school to polish me up and send me home ready to acquiesce to all of her demands.