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She was stupidly attractive. Like, offensively so. The kind of attractive that felt like a personal attack. All sharp cheekbones and an incredible jaw that could probably cut glass, and these amber-brown eyes that were currently looking at me like I was gum on the bottom of her very expensive sneakers. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail that had somehow survived an entire basketball game without a single strand out of place, which felt like witchcraft. She had this scar cutting down her right temple that should've looked rough but instead just made her look more intense.

And her shoulders. Jesus Christ, her shoulders were ridiculous. All defined muscle and strength, the kind of shoulders that could probably bench-press me and my entire Instagram following.

I hated everything about the fact that she was hot, actually, because she was also clearly the worst person in this tunnel, possibly in this arena, maybe in all of Fashion City, California.

Or maybe I was just being dramatic. Whatever.

"Oh wow," I said, tilting my head and giving her my brightest, most toxic smile. "Did you rehearse that line, or does the judgment just flow naturally? I'm genuinely curious about your process."

Her eyes narrowed. They were really pretty eyes, actually, with these little flecks of gold that—nope. Not going there. She was the enemy.

"I'm Cameron Russo," she said, like she was announcing the arrival of royalty. "Team captain."

I blinked. Then I laughed. I couldn't help it. "Oh my God. Team captain. Do you introduce yourself like that everywhere? Like, at the grocery store? 'Hi, I'm Cameron, team captain, and I'd like to purchase these organic bananas'? At the DMV? 'Team captain here, I'll need that in a flattering photo, thanks'?"

Her jaw tightened, and okay, that was a really good jaw. Strong. Defined. Probably looked incredible in profile. I wanted to throw my phone at it just to see if it would leave a dent or if the phone would shatter first.

"If you're going to waste courtside seats," she said, her voice flat and controlled in a way that suggested she was internally counting to ten, "the least you could do is pretend to care about the game."

"Some of us," I said, crossing my arms and wishing desperately that I was at least six inches taller, "have lives beyond watching people throw balls into goals. Riveting as I'm sure it is."

"It's a hoop," she corrected, and I could see a muscle jump in her jaw. "And at least I'm passionate about the sport I dedicate my life to instead of performing for strangers online."

Oh, she wanted to go there? Okay. Game on, Captain Miserable.

"Performing?" I let out a laugh that could've stripped paint. "That's rich coming from someone who literally plays in front of thousands of people for a living. But sure, I'm the one performing. Tell me, do you practice that brooding intensity in the mirror, or is it just natural talent? Because it's giving 'emotionally constipated superhero,' and I'm here for the commitment."

"I win championships," she said flatly. "What do you do? Take pictures of coffee?"

I gasped, pressing my hand to my chest in mock offense. "Excuse me, I also take pictures of my lunch. And occasionally my shoes. It's called having interests, Captain Miserable. You should try it sometime. Might make you less..." I gestured vaguely at all of her, "whatever this is."

"Whatever this is," she repeated slowly, "is someone who actually showed up and paid attention. You spent two hours on your phone instead of watching one of the best games of the season. So either you're incredibly rude, or you just don't give a shit about anyone's time but your own."

"Bold of you to assume I can't be both." I took a step closer, which was a terrible idea because now I could smell her—something clean and sharp, like expensive soap and determination—and my brain was short-circuiting. "But you know what? At least I'm not going around acting like the basketball police. Do you have a badge? Should I see some credentials? Because right now you just seem like someone who's weirdly obsessed with how a stranger spends her time."

Her nostrils flared. I'd gotten to her. Point for Team Harper.

"I'm stating facts. You wasted and took a courtside seat from someone that actually cares about basketball."

"And you're wasting and taking oxygen that someone with a personality could be breathing, but here we are." I smiled sweetly. "See? I can state facts too. It's fun."

"You're—" She cut herself off, visibly trying to maintain control. It was fascinating, watching her struggle. Like watching a pressure cooker trying not to explode. "Some people waste their lives chasing validation from strangers online."

"And some people waste their lives being judgmental assholes to strangers they don't know, but at least my way gets likes." I shrugged. "Tell me, Captain Miserable, is this how you make friends? Because I'm getting real 'peaked in high school' energy from you, and I'm not sure that's the vibe you want to project."

Something flashed in her eyes. Hurt, maybe, or fury so deep it looked like pain. For a second, I almost felt bad.

Almost.

Mia must’ve finally realized what was going on because she was suddenly at my side.

"Harper went through a really difficult breakup, Cam," Mia interjected, her voice bright and terrible and oh my God, I was going to murder my best friend. "Please don’t rip into her. She's been having a hard time lately."

The humiliation was instant and crushing. My face went nuclear. My hands clenched into fists. This was not happening. This was not Mia, sweet, well-meaning, absolutely infuriating, making me sound like some kind of broken bird who couldn't defend herself. I was not fragile. I was not some sad sack of shit who needed excuses made for her. I'd ended my engagement two and a half years ago, had come out to my entire family, lost everyone except my brother Jordan, and I was still standing. Still fighting. Still here.

"I don't need excuses," I snapped, whirling on Mia with more venom than she deserved. "And I definitely don't need them from you. I'm not a charity case, Mia. I can handle one judgmental basketball player with a superiority complex all by myself, thanks."

Then I turned back to Cameron, at Captain Miserable with her stupid title and her stupider face and those shoulders that should be illegal, and leveled her with my most withering glare. "I don't need lectures from you about how I spend my time or what I find interesting. Maybe if the game was actually worth watching, I would've watched it. But it wasn't. So I didn't. Wild concept, I know, but not everyone finds watching you throw a ball around fascinating. Some of us have actual lives that don't revolve around a gym and protein shakes."