Chapter 6

Bryson's POV

She didn't even glance at me when she said it. Just kept her eyes fixed on her pathetic excuse for a lunch, her posture radiating a kind of defensive tension that reminded me of a cornered animal. For a second, I almost walked away. Almost let her win this weird standoff we'd somehow fallen into.

But something about the whole situation pissed me off. I'd just gotten Sofia off her back—dealt with my ex's desperate attempts to rekindle something that had been dead for months—and this girl couldn't even spare me a simple "thank you"? What was her problem?

I pulled out the chair across from her and sat down anyway, ignoring her clear dismissal. "I helped you back there. The least you could do is acknowledge it."

Now she looked up, and I found myself caught off guard by the sharpness in her dark eyes. She wasn't pretty in the way girls like Sofia were pretty—no carefully applied makeup, no artfully styled hair. But there was something arresting about her face, something in the set of her jaw and the directness of her gaze that made it impossible to look away.

"I didn't remember I asked for your help." Her voice was quiet but cold, each word precisely enunciated. "You think you're some kind of savior? Is that it?"

I felt my jaw clench. "Sofia was humiliating you. I was just—"

"She's always doing that." She cut me off without raising her voice, which somehow made the interruption more effective. "This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last. I don't need you swooping in to prove you're better than your ex-girlfriend."

The accuracy of her assessment hit harder than I expected. Was that what I'd been doing? Trying to prove something? I pushed the thought away, focusing instead on my growing irritation. "Fine, I was trying to be decent. My bad for thinking that deserved basic courtesy."

"Decent." She repeated the word like it tasted bad. "You want a gold star for basic human decency? Congratulations, you managed to tell your ex-girlfriend to back off. That must have been so hard for you."

Her sarcasm was razor-sharp, and I felt my temper starting to fray. "What is your problem? I don't even know you, and you're acting like I personally offended you."

"You don't know me," she agreed, her expression not changing. "And you don't need to. So why don't you go back to your teammates and your perfect life, and leave me alone?"

Something about the way she said "perfect life" made my chest tighten. If only she knew how far from perfect everything actually was. If only she understood that beneath the football star image, I was barely holding it together, that my father's voice was a constant presence in my head telling me I wasn't good enough, that I'd never be good enough.

But she didn't know any of that. To her, I was just another privileged jock, someone whose biggest problem was an annoying ex-girlfriend.

"You think you know me?" I leaned forward, my voice dropping lower. "You think you've got me all figured out based on what—the fact that I play football?"

"I just think," she said slowly, her eyes never leaving mine, "that you live in a world where people fall over themselves to thank you for doing the bare minimum. And I think you're not used to someone refusing to play along."

She was right. Indeed, she was right, and that made it so much worse. I'd spent my whole life surrounded by people who praised me for things that shouldn't require praise—showing up to practice, making good throws, being "such a good son" to a father who was slowly destroying me from the inside out. And she almost saw through all of that in the span of a single conversation.

"You don't know anything about my life," I said, and even I could hear how weak it sounded.

"And you don't know anything about mine." She picked up her sandwich, her message clear: this conversation was over. "So let's keep it that way."

"Are you on the debate team?" The question came out more accusatory than I'd intended. "Because you argue like someone who's had practice tearing people apart with words."

"Does it matter?" She took a bite of her sandwich, chewing slowly before swallowing. "You're not actually interested in my extracurriculars. You're just trying to figure out why I'm not grateful for your heroic intervention."

Every word out of her mouth was a precisely aimed dart, and I was starting to feel like a pincushion. "I wasn't trying to be a hero. I was just—" I stopped, frustrated by my inability to articulate what I'd actually been trying to do. "Look, I saw Sofia giving you shit, and I told her to stop. That's it. I wasn't looking for thanks or praise or whatever you think I want."

"Then why are you still sitting here?" The question hung between us, simple and devastating.

Why was I still sitting here? Why did it matter so much that this random girl—this nobody who existed on the complete opposite end of St. Pellan's social hierarchy—refused to acknowledge what I'd done? I didn't have a good answer, which only made me angrier.

"You know what?" I pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor. "You're right. I don't know you, and clearly, you don't want to be known. Enjoy your lunch."

I wanted to say something cutting, something that would wipe that cool, composed expression off her face. But my brain felt sluggish, weighed down by the realization that she'd managed to get under my skin in a way no one else ever had.

I walked away before she could say anything more, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. Around me, the cafeteria had returned to its normal chaos—students laughing, trays clattering, the hum of a hundred different conversations—but it all felt distant, muffled, like I was moving through water.

I'd barely made it halfway across the room when Zack materialized at my side, a knowing grin on his face. "So. How'd it go?"

"How'd what go?" I kept walking, not looking at him.

"Come on, man. I saw you sitting with Linnet Mellor. Did she agree to tutor you?"

I stopped walking so abruptly that Zack nearly crashed into me. "What did you just say?"

"Linnet Mellor." Zack looked confused now, his grin fading. "The girl you were just talking to. That's her. Did you not know that?"

The cafeteria seemed to tilt sideways. That girl—that sharp-tongued, hostile, completely unimpressed girl—was Linnet Mellor? The supposed genius who could save my academic career? The person Zack had assured me would be grateful for the opportunity to earn some extra money?

"Bryson?" Zack waved a hand in front of my face. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"That was Linnet Mellor," I repeated, more to myself than to him. "That was her."

"Yeah, dude. I literally just said that." Zack glanced back toward the corner where she sat, still eating her lunch with the same focused indifference she'd shown throughout our entire disastrous conversation. "What happened?"

"No big deal." I ran a hand through my hair, a hysterical laugh building in my chest. "It's just I completely destroyed any chance I had of getting her to help me."