The Jock & The Wallflower

Chapter 12: Avery

Avery’s POV

I was already seated at the corner table in the library when Bryson strolled in at exactly 3:30, looking annoyingly confident. He'd clearly made an effort. His hair was still damp from what was probably a post-practice shower, and he was carrying actual textbooks instead of just his phone.

Small miracles.

"Right on time," he said, sliding into the chair across from me. "I'm impressed with myself."

"Don't be. Being on time is the bare minimum of human decency."

"Harsh." He grinned and opened his advanced chem textbook. "So, what torture have you planned for me today?"

I pulled out my notebook, deliberately avoiding eye contact. "We're starting with molecular geometry. VSEPR theory, electron pair arrangements, bond angles."

"Right. About that." He leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too relaxed. "Shouldn't we figure out what this competition actually involves first? I mean, we don't even know what we're supposed to be doing."

I stopped writing and looked up at him. "Were you not paying attention when Mr. Kevinson explained it?"

"I was paying attention to other things."

The way he said it, with that hint of suggestion in his voice, made heat creep up my neck. "Well, maybe if you'd focused on the actual class instead of whatever you were doing—"

"I was watching you take notes."

My pen stilled on the page. "What?"

"You bite your lip when you're concentrating. Did you know that? You've done it since we were kids."

"Bryson—"

"And you still tuck your hair behind your left ear when you're thinking hard about something."

I forced myself to meet his eyes, ignoring the way my pulse had quickened. "Are we here to study chemistry or we here to study me?"

"Can't we do both?"

"Shh!" The sharp sound came from Mrs. Piedmon, the librarian, who was glaring at us from her desk.

I glared at him, lowering my voice to barely above a whisper. "If you're not going to take this seriously—"

"I am taking it seriously." He leaned forward, matching my whisper, close enough that I could smell his cologne. "But I'm also not going to pretend we're strangers, Avery."

"We might as well be."

"You don't believe that," he said.

I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already flipping through his textbook, apparently looking for the molecular geometry chapter. When he found it, he scanned the page for maybe thirty seconds before looking back up at me.

"VSEPR theory," he began. "Valence Shell Electron Pair Repulsion. Electron pairs around a central atom arrange themselves to minimize repulsion, which determines molecular shape."

I blinked. "What did you just say?"

"Linear, trigonal planar, tetrahedral, trigonal bipyramidal, octahedral, the basic geometries depending on electron pair arrangement." He tilted his head. "Was that wrong?"

It wasn't wrong. It was completely correct, delivered with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he actually understood what he was saying.

"How did you—"

"I'm not stupid, Avery. Distracted, maybe. But not stupid."

The distinction hit harder than it should have. I'd been operating under the assumption that he needed my help because he couldn't understand the material, not because he wasn't paying attention.

"If you already know this stuff, then why—"

"Because knowing it and being able to prove it in some competition are two different things." He was still leaning forward, still speaking in that low voice that seemed designed to make me forget where we were. "And because I wanted an excuse to spend time with you…But you already knew that."

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. I stared at him, trying to process the fact that he'd just admitted, again,that this whole partnership was about me, and not about the class.

"I missed you, you know," he said quietly.

The words hung in the air between us like a confession, and suddenly the library felt too small, too warm, too intimate.

"I have to go," I said, closing my notebook with more force than necessary.

“What do you mean,” he said, surprise written on his face.

I ignored him as I began packing my things up. Not wanting to admit that I really needed to get away from here…from him.

I felt his eyes watching me. "Where are you going?"

The question was casual, but there was something underneath it that made me look at him more carefully. He was trying to appear uninterested, but his shoulders had tensed.

"None of your business," I said.

"Come on, Avy,” he said. “We just started."

I gave him a look. "Don't call me that. And we've been here for at least twenty minutes."

"Fifteen," he corrected. "And that's not an answer."

He was right. I didn’t have a good excuse for cutting our session short. But I couldn’t stay a minute longer.

"If you must know, I have somewhere I need to be," I said, annoyed, and even though the event wasn’t happening right this second, it wasn’t exactly a lie.

"Somewhere like...?"

"Like none of your concern," I snapped.

He was quiet for a moment, studying my face with an intensity that made me want to fidget. Then something shifted in his expression.

"You have a date.”

It wasn't a question, and the way he said it, flat, almost accusatory, set my teeth on edge.

"What I have is plans," I said, annoyed.

"Plans with who?" he asked.

"Bryson—"

"Is it with some college guy—"

"It's not a date," I interrupted, then immediately regretted giving him any information at all.

But the relief that crossed his face was so obvious, so unguarded, that it made something twist in my chest.

"Then what is it?"

I should have left it there. Should have grabbed my things and walked away. Instead, I heard myself saying, "It's a soccer game."

Surprise flickered across his face. "Soccer?"

"Gabe Castellanos invited me to watch the team play Central," I told him.

The change in Bryson's expression was immediate and dramatic. The casual confidence disappeared, replaced by something darker, more guarded.

"Gabe Castellanos," he repeated slowly.

I crossed my arms. "Yes."

"Since when do you care about soccer?" he asked.

I gave him a look. "Since someone invited me to go."

"Right." He sat back in his chair, jaw tight. "And this invitation was purely educational, I'm sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I said.

"It means Gabe Castellanos doesn't invite girls to soccer games to teach them about sports, Avery."

The possessive edge in his voice made my temper flare. "Not that it's any of your business, but Gabe is a friend."

"A friend who asked you out," he said dryly.

I rolled my eyes. "A friend who invited me to a game."

"Same thing."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "It's not the same thing, and even if it was, what I do with my time is none of your concern."

"Everything about you is my concern.”

The words came out harder than he'd probably intended, and we both sat in the resulting silence for a moment. I could feel Mrs. Piedmon's disapproving gaze on us, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

"No," I said finally, keeping my voice low but firm. "It's not. You lost the right to have opinions about my life two years ago."

He flinched, but recovered quickly. "Maybe. But that doesn't mean I stopped caring."

"Well, you should," I said,

I stood up and started packing my things, very aware that he was watching every movement.

"What time does the game start?" he asked.

"Seven,” I responded before I could stop myself.

He looked at his watch. "It's only four now. We could finish this session—"

"We're done for today," I said firmly.

"Avery—"

"I'll see you in class." I slung my bag over my shoulder. "Try to pay attention next time."

I was halfway to the library exit when I heard him call out, just loud enough for me to hear:

"Have fun on your date."

I didn't turn around, but I could feel him watching me leave.

~0~

Two hours later, I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror, changing my shirt for the third time. I'd started with something casual, jeans and a sweater, but it felt too much like I wasn't making an effort. Then I'd tried a sundress, but that seemed like I was trying too hard.

I finally settled on dark jeans and a soft blue top that Tara had insisted brought out my eyes. Casual but put together. Friendly but not flirty.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The soccer field was more crowded than I'd expected. I found a spot in the bleachers and looked around for Gabe, finally spotting him during warm-ups. He was in the middle of the field with his teammates, and when he caught sight of me, his whole face lit up. He jogged over to the sideline.

"You came," he said, grinning up at me.

"I said I would."

"I know, but I wasn't sure..." He shook his head. "Anyway, I'm really glad you're here."

"Me too."

"I'll introduce you to some people after the game, if that's okay? Sarah and Emma, their boyfriends are on the team too."

I ignored the potential implications of his words. "That sounds great,” I smiled.

A whistle blew somewhere behind him, and he glanced back toward the field.

"I should get back," he said. "But watch for number twelve, that's me."

"I'll try to keep up."

He laughed and jogged back to his team, and I settled into the bleachers to watch the game begin.

I'd been telling the truth when I said I didn't know much about soccer, but it was easy enough to follow. The pace was fast, constant motion, and there was something almost hypnotic about watching the players move across the field.

Especially Gabe.

He was good.Really good. Fast and graceful, with the kind of natural athleticism that made everything look effortless. When he had the ball, he moved like he was dancing, weaving between defenders with a confidence that was genuinely impressive.

But as I watched him play, my mind kept drifting to the library. To the way Bryson had looked when I'd mentioned Gabe's name. The flash of something raw, something possessive that he'd tried to hide behind sarcasm.

Everything about you is my concern…

The words shouldn't have affected me the way they did. I shouldn't have cared about the jealousy in his voice, or the way his jaw had tightened when I'd said Gabe's name.

But I did care. Despite everything, despite two years of silence and hurt and everything that had happened, some part of me had responded to the idea that Bryson still thought of me as his.

Even though I wasn't. Even though I'd never really been.

On the field, Gabe scored a goal, and the crowd around me erupted in cheers. He looked up toward the bleachers, found me, and pointed in my direction with a grin that was so genuinely happy that it made my chest tight with something that felt suspiciously like guilt.

Because here was this amazing guy,smart, kind, attractive, who was interested in me, and instead of focusing on him, I was thinking about someone who'd hurt me. Someone who'd chosen himself when it mattered most. Again.

I forced myself to cheer for Gabe's goal, to smile when he looked my way, to focus on the game instead of the conversation in the library.

But even as I watched him play, even as I appreciated the way he moved and the obvious joy he took in the sport, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was in the wrong place.

That maybe, despite everything, the person I really wanted to be watching wasn't the one on the field.