Page 58 of On the Breakaway

Though, to be fair, that image already lives there anyway.

I’d forgotten about it hanging in the bathroom until the guys came over after practice the same day to bitch about the previous night’s loss. Liam found it hanging there like evidence at a crime scene.

“We know you have a woman, Shaw,” Wyatt says.

“I do not have a woman.”

If only they knew who the bra belonged to. Actually, that would be worse.

“So what?” Liam asks, eyes gleaming. “The bra was yours?”

“No, you little shit.” I rub a hand over my face, scrambling for an excuse. “It was a one-night stand.”

“You?” Wyatt’s eyebrows raise. “A one-night stand?”

“You wouldn’t come out with me. I got drunk. One-time thing.”

The lie rolls off my tongue with ease, but sinks like a stone in my stomach. I don’t like reducing Avery to that, but I have a feeling that telling anyone she’d been drunk out of her mind would piss her off more. Besides, nothing actually happened, so no one will ever know that the bra is hers.

They accept that answer for now, and Liam launches into a story about some one-night stand he had last month with a wannabe influencer while I drift into my own thoughts.

The truth is, Avery’s been stuck in my head for days in very inconvenient ways.

The image of her sitting barefoot in my kitchen wearing my shirt.

The fact that she’d been blackout drunk alone with some random guy who clearly didn’t care whether she could stand upright or not.

Every time I think about it, irritation flares beneath my ribs.

Not at her.

Okay, maybe partially at her.

Mostly because she’d looked so defensive when I pointed out how dangerous it was, as if my concern felt like control to her. Asking her to care about her own safety shouldn’t feel like crossing a line.

Nathan mentioned Wesley had a game tonight. Which means the whole soccer team would probably be going out afterward.

Would Avery get that drunk again? Would she end up stumbling around with another stranger who didn’t give a shit whether she got home safe?

A wave of unease courses through me.

I pull my phone from my pocket and open her contact. I’d texted myself from her phone that night in case she wandered off or got into trouble.

Because yes, I do think she’s that ridiculous and impulsive.

Me: Are you going out tonight?

Three dots appear right away.

Chaos: Who is this?

Me: The man whose house you left your black bra at while attempting to flee.

Chaos: Hmm… I’m going to need you to narrow it down a bit more.

I stare at the message, annoyance sparking to life the way it always does with her.

“Did you get her number?” Wyatt nudges my shoulder.