7. Chapter 7

A little over a week has passed since I moved to Texas. It still feels a little surreal that this is my life now. The guys have been busy with football to the point where I never see them. But it's okay. I didn't move here to be dependent on anyone. I moved here for a fresh start and to rediscover myself.

This is why I stare up at the Central Texas Athletic Center. The large brick building is home to the university's gym, sports, and recreational facilities for students. The main entrance is for those attending sporting events, graduations, concerts, and other events at the main gymnasium. The back of the building is the entrance for students. This is where all the recreational activities take place. However, the main wellness center with weights and cardio machines is inside the Union.

Climbing the stairs, I swipe my ID card and enter the student entrance. It's a generic space with a long, minimalist hallway with signs directing you to whichever space you want. A large bulletin board hangs underneath a TV where flyers are placed. Walking toward the board, I notice a signup sheet for intramural basketball, which is precisely what I'm looking for.

I might have hung up my shoes on playing competitively, but the love for the game still runs deep. There's a number listed to send a text to sign up, which I quickly do as I make my way down the hall to the open gym.

The sounds of shoes squeaking against the polished hardwood floor and dribbling basketballs echo off the walls, filling the space with a cacophony of rhythms that is my version of a symphony.

Spalding and I walk into the doorway as I take in the massive gym made up of four basketball courts with a walking track suspended in the air above the courts. Only one of the courts is occupied by a group of guys playing two-on-two. Not wanting to be bothered, I head to the vacant court in the far corner.

Placing the few items I brought with me on the bleachers, I lean down to lace my well-loved basketball shoes before tightening the ankle strap. A tingle runs through my veins; it's the same feeling I always get when I'm in a gym. With the determination to pour my sweat out onto the hardwood, I let the thrill pulse through my veins. Some people get the rush of adrenaline by jumping out of planes or riding bulls. I feel it between the painted lines—the need to push my body to the limit and test my endurance.

With a flick of my thumb, my workout playlist begins with the thrumming beat of a popular hip-hop song whose beat matches the pulsating in my veins.

Jogging onto the court, I start with a few warm-ups, allowing my muscles to push and pull in that delicious feeling one can only feel when stretching. Each movement is slow and deliberate as I focus on warming up my cold muscles to prevent any sort of injury. I've had my fair share of strained muscles, and I'm not looking for a new ache right now.

Once my body feels like it's ready for the battle I'm going to put her through, I stand on the out-of-bounds line underneath one of the baskets as I prepare for my first cardio session. Jogging to each end of the court, I slowly build up my pace before I sprint each line as I reach down and touch the foul line, half-court line, opposite foul line, opposite end line before returning. The sound of my shoes squeaking mixes with my music in a perfect melody that only spurs my confidence to run faster and be more precise with my movements.

Sweat pours down my face as my ponytail swishes with each movement. With my heart rate pounding and breathing heavy, I move on to the next challenge of my workout. Starting at the lower block, I shoot ten baskets before moving to the next hash mark. I continue the routine until I make my way around to the opposite block. The bumpy grip has been worn off my trusty Spalding basketball, but my movements are still as fluid as ever. Each shot is simple as I let the ball roll off the tips of my fingers. The sound of the net swishing is drowned out by my music, but I can still envision the sound filling my ears.

Shot after shot, I find my rhythm and move to the three-point line, where I start in the corner and make my way around just like I did with the key. The added distance is a welcome challenge as I find my confidence to hit shot after shot like I did when I played the shooting guard position from junior high through high school. After each shot, I jog to the net to retrieve the basketball before returning to the line.

Muscle memory takes over, and I relish how my body remembers the routine of lining my fingers up to my sweet spot as I bend my knees and allow my ankles to work their magic by jumping off the floor. My arms hang perfectly as the ball arches in the air.

Swish. Over and over again.

As I make my way around the arc, the stresses of life start to slip away. My mind evaporates everything that is causing me problems. No thoughts of my parents or brother. No thoughts of Crew and the way his lips felt against mine. No thoughts of my haunted past that had me running nine hundred miles. Only the strain of my muscles and the thrill of hitting shot after shot fill my mind.

Basketball has always been my sanctuary, my safe space. A place where I can blast music, clear my mind, and reconnect with myself. It's different from the meditation I do every morning. Meditation allows me to sit in silence before the day's chaos takes over. It's a time to surround myself with a calm environment where I connect with my inner self as I sift through my thoughts and emotions. I can let go of chaos and noise as I find clarity in the moments of stillness. Meditation is my mind's way of hitting the reset button to find a sense of peace and strength that I carry with me throughout the day.

But basketball? Now, that's a whole different kind of therapy. As soon as I lace up my sneakers and step out on the court, I'm immediately transported to my oasis. The instant I feel the smooth leather as I dribble the ball, everything else melts away. The game's energy, the rhythmic thud of the basketball hitting the floor, and the swish of the net—all of it grounds me. It's an active form of therapy that allows me to channel as much energy as I need to express my feelings and release tension through physical activity.

Before I know it, an hour and a half passes as my phone's alarm alerts me through my headphones, nearly giving me a heart attack. My arms feel like jelly as I return to the bleachers to gather my things.

I'm halfway to my Jeep when someone behind me yells out, "Yo! Nice moves back there."

Turning around, I take in the two guys coming out of the building. I recognize them as two of the four from the opposite court. Much like every guy I seem to come into contact with at CTU, these two are tall—a few inches taller than me—with athletic builds. Was this a prerequisite for getting into CTU?

"Thanks!" I say with a jerk of my head .

"You looking for an intramural team to play on this fall?" the taller of the two asks. His dark ebony skin glistens in the sun from the sheen of sweat he accumulated in his game of two on two.

Brushing a loose strand of hair out of my face, I hitch Spalding higher on my hip as I cradle it between my elbow and hip. "Yeah, actually, I just texted the number on the board."

"Cool. My buddy is in charge of setting the schedule up. If it's cool with you, we could use another player on our team."

"Count me in." The guys move closer and the slightest surge of uneasiness washes over me. I hate that I have this reaction to strangers. It has nothing to do with these two guys, it's the fact that trauma surges whenever I'm alone.

"I'm Kyrie, and this is Dylan. How have we not seen you in the gym before? Your shooting skills are unreal."

"Thanks, I'm Bret. I transferred in this semester."

Dylan stretches his phone toward me. "Care if we grab your number?"

"No problem." Taking the phone from him, I type in my number and send myself a text. "I sent myself a text, so I have yours too. I've gotta get to class, but thanks for inviting me to join your team."

"See ya around, Bret." As I slide into the driver's seat, the guys wave and go their separate ways.

Once the door is shut and locked, I reach for my gym bag and pull out a case of cleansing wipes. Rubbing the damp fabric down my arms and armpits, I give myself a quick cloth bath before applying fresh deodorant. The clean fragrance from my extra-strength deodorant fills the space.

Reaching for the gearshift, my phone dinging has me pausing. Pulling it out of the cup holder, I smile at the name across the screen.

Liv: I just tattooed a butterfly on some girl and now I'm depressed.

Liv: I miss you, bitch.

Me: ?? I miss your face.

Liv: How's life in Texas? Boring and miserable?

Me: Totally. I mean, I'm living with three hot guys. It's downright miserable.

Liv: Such a horrible life.

Me: They are great to look at, especially when they cook shirtless, but it's not like living with you.

Liv: I hear you. Maybe I should come for one of your dad's games. Check out Daddy Campbell and these men in your life.

Me: Gross. Don't call him that.

Me: But let's plan something. Maybe for Halloween?

Liv: My favorite holiday. Count me in.

Liv: Gotta run. My next client is here. ??

Shaking my head, I toss my phone back in its designated cup holder as I shift the car into drive and head toward campus.

One thing I've learned in my twenty years of life is how hard it is to make friends, especially growing up the way that I did. We moved whenever Dad got the call that something bigger was taking shape. I never resented him for that because I think it's essential for parents to keep chasing their dreams even after having kids. The one thing that always sucked about moving was leaving behind friends and the struggle to make new ones.

But when I arrived in Arizona, Liv was the first person I met in our dorm. She was on the same floor as me, and we had roommates we didn't relate to. Which meant the two of us became fast friends. Her unique personality encouraged me to get out of my comfort zone. She hung out with people who I wouldn't have necessarily gravitated toward. They were more of the loners who smoked pot in the quad with their skateboards tucked under their arms. There isn't anything wrong with the skater lifestyle. I wasn't accustomed to it, especially living in the Midwest, where the farm boys constantly surrounded me.

Liv taught me how to see color in a black-and-white world, how to get out of my shell, and how to experience life. Best of all, she taught me what it was like to have a real, genuine friend—the kind of friend who picks you up off the bathroom floor and cries with you.

Olivia Reed is one of the good ones, and I can't wait to introduce her to my people.

It's a little after seven when I'm leaving my last class for the day. The campus is blanketed in beautiful golden hues as the sun slowly descends for the night. My body is starting to feel it in my muscles from today's gym session. It's been a few weeks since I've been able to hit the court as hard as I did today. While it felt good at the moment, my body is a little angry with me.

Entering the glass doors of the Union, I notice the groups of students sitting around the tables for dinner. Deciding not to take my chances at home after last week's disaster meal, where I completely screwed up the asparagus, I follow the line of students into the cafeteria. I've spent the last couple of days trying different options, and I've found that the sub station has the best chicken, bacon, and ranch sub.

Once my order is placed, I grab a bottle of Coke from the refrigerator while I wait for my sub. Scanning the people around me, uneasiness washes over me, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. Roaming the faces again, no one with ice-blue eyes catches my attention.

You're safe. He's not here.

"Campbell," the worker calls, interrupting my internal panic. With shaky hands, I reach for the paper-wrapped sub and thank him.

Moving swiftly, I make my way through the checkout line and start to hastily walk down the hallway toward the central area of the Union. As I turn the corner, I run into a muscular chest. Letting out an oof, hands grab my shoulders to steady me.

"Bret?"

Looking up, I find deep emerald eyes that mirror mine. "Dad?"

"Hey, kiddo, what's got you in a hurry?"

Steadying my breath, I paste on a smile. "I'm starving and ready to head home."

His appraising eyes scour over me before he wraps an arm around my shoulder and moves next to me. "Great, I'll walk you to your car. Have you talked to your mom today? "

"Not yet. I saw she texted me a little bit ago, but I've been in back-to-back classes."

"How are you settling in?"

"I really like it here. I can see why you and Grant decided to make this university your home."

"Good, I'm glad you're liking it too. How's the roommate situation?" He grumbles the last part of that question. The guys told me he's been giving them extra shit at practice. It's harmless, but he's making it a point to ensure they're on their best behavior. Which is absurd considering the three I'm living with are probably the best three on the team, excluding Grant.

"Dad, everything is fine."

"Honey, I love you, but you're a terrible liar." He squeezes my shoulder as we walk out of the Union and follow the sidewalk leading us to the parking lot.

"I mean with the guys. The roommate situation is good, and everything else will work itself out. I promise. A girl needs a little room to breathe between you and Grant and now the guys."

"As long as you promise to come to one of us if you really do need some help. No matter how old you are, I'll always be here for you, Bret."

"I know, Dad."

"Okay, good. Now that we have that settled, I want to talk to you about this weekend."

Quirking a brow, I look up at him. "I want you to come with the team to Ohio. Your mother is flying with us, and now that you're here, I want you to join us, too."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have asked you if I wasn't. Plus, we have a surprise for the team. "

"Spill!"

He chuckles. "Not a chance. You live with my team—ew, I didn't like that coming out of my mouth—but no, I can't risk them finding out. Not until we land in Ohio."

"Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. I didn't want to know anyway."

"Liar. Seriously, you would think years of teenage angst would have made you a better liar."

"What can I say? I hate lying to my old man."

He gasps, and it's my turn to chuckle. "Who are you calling old?"

"I mean, you are looking a little gray, Dad."

"It's stress from dealing with two children plus an additional hundred and fifty college kids who act more like children than the adults they're supposed to be."

"Whatever you say, Dad." Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my fob. The Jeep's headlights blink as the doors unlock.

Before I have a chance to open my driver's side door, I rotate until I'm pulling my dad in for a giant hug. His arms instinctively wrap around me as I'm smashed into his front. Since our height isn't that far off, my nose smashes into the crook of his neck, where I inhale his sweet, citrusy scent from the Old Spice aftershave he's used all my life. He squeezes me tight before pulling away.

"I love you, Bretster."

"I love you, too, Dad."

Dad reaches past me and opens the door. He waits as I toss my backpack into the back seat before climbing inside. Sitting my sub on the passenger seat and my bottle of Coke in the cup holder, I start the engine.

"Spalding still treating you well? You know I can always get you a new one."

I gasp. "Don't speak such cruel things. Spalding is perfect. "

I've had this basketball since my freshman year of high school. It's one my dad bought me for my birthday right before I started playing high school ball, where I was one of three freshmen to make varsity. This basketball has seen all the hours in the gym where I've worked my butt off to perfect my jump shot and where I'd shoot free throw after free throw until I couldn't lift my arms. I can't imagine heading to the gym without my trusty sidekick.

The Bluetooth connection activates, and the last song I listened to starts blaring from my speakers, interrupting my train of thought and startling me back into the present.

Dad shakes his head. No matter how often he's tried to tell me that I need to lower the volume before turning off my car, I've never listened. I'm always in too big of a hurry and want to jam out for as long as I can.

"Drive safe, and I'll see you later this weekend on our flight to Ohio."

I wave goodbye as Dad shuts the door before stepping away and waving back.

Shifting into reverse, I back out of my spot and tap the horn twice before sliding into drive.

What kind of surprise could my dad possibly be planning?