Page 22 of Break Point

“Let’s eat!” Ashton bellows.

I’m not sure why Bryson seems to be in such a rush suddenly, but he is right. My time is limited. His sister flags down a server, and we order two large pizzas and a basket of wings. Once our pitcher of beer is set on the table, and Ashton and Bryson have poured themselves glasses, Amelia ushers us to the cornhole game set up adjacent to our table.

“No beer for you, Crash?” Ashton teases.

Bryson bristles, but before he can debate my nickname again, I interject, “I can’t show up to class tossed.”

“Ah, come on. You can show up with one beer.” Ashton’s hard sell hits me heavier than peer pressure normally does. Maybe it’s the fact that Bryson doesn’t seem interested in our conversation at all, assuming I’m not going to break any rules because I’m . . . what did he call me? Pious?

“Sure, maybe just one,” I relent.

“Ah, there she is.”

Ashton dashes to the pitcher and fills a glass for me. He hands it to me, then holds his out for us to toast, and we clank our pints. I take a small sip, but Ashton guzzles down nearly a third of his. My attention moves to Bryson next, and it’s as if he was waiting for me to watch as he takes a long but moderated gulp before setting his glass down on the nearby ledge. His gaze lingers for a moment, and I swear there’s a lift to his lip.

I think he’s baiting me.

While his sister sets up a small ring light in the corner, I pick up two of the beanbags for cornhole and toss one to Bryson. He catches it against his chest.

“What do you think, quarterback? Can you handle me?”

That tug at his lip? It’s higher now. Not quite a smirk, but it’s getting there. Bryson picks up his beer and takes another sip, eyeing me over his glass.

“I can handle you . . . Crash.”

Full smirk deployed.

He’s going down. So down.

The inside of my cheek ensnared between my incisors, I let a confident chuckle slip out as I divvy up the beanbags, then gesture for Bryson to go first.

“Oh no, I see your strategy. I’m not going first. I’ll take second.” He crosses his arms over his chest, two bags gripped in each fist at his sides.

My eyes dim as I cross my arms and match him toe to toe.

“Flip for it,” Ashton pipes up after a few quiet seconds of our standoff.

“Okay,” I say, dropping all the bags but one, which I toss in my palm. “The side with the Slices logo is heads, and the blank side is tails. You call it.”

He blinks a few times as his eyes study me. I think he’s trying to work out how I’ll cheat. What he doesn’t know is that I am going to wipe the floor with him whether I go first or last.

“Tails,” he says with a slight nod.

I look to Ashton.

“You heard that, right?” I confirm.

“Sure did,” Ashton responds, leaning back in his chair and cradling his beer in his hands.

I pinch the corner of the beanbag, then toss it in the air with a flick, forcing it to spin wildly until it plops on the ground a few feet away from us. We both rush over to evaluate. My luck—it’s basically perfectly smooshed on its side.

“That’s totally tails,” Bryson proclaims.

My hands fly to my hips as my eyes flash to his. I might not care who goes first, but I do care that he seems to want to cheat. Same old Bryson Moss!

“There’s no way!” I point to the obvious fifty-fifty split displayed before us, and Bryson drops his chin and gnaws at his lower lip.

“Ash.” He calls his friend over with his hand, and Ashton leaps to his feet after putting down his beer.