Page 55 of Never Your Girl

Except for the fact that Bridger is only a couple feet away, changing in the same room.

I slip the tank on and glance over my shoulder, intending to grab my discarded clothes, but my eyes land on him instead. His back is turned toward me. He’s stripped off both his hoodie and jeans, giving me an unobstructed view of his body. His broad shoulders taper into a trim waist, and his navy boxer briefs cling to him like a second skin. Heat rushes to my face, and I quickly look away, hoping he didn’t notice.

“See something you like?” A teasing quality fills his voice.

I whip my head around to find him facing me, his brows raised and a smirk pulling at his lips.

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

After a few silent seconds, I manage a hasty, “No! I mean, I wasn’t?—”

“Relax, Tate,” he says, clearly enjoying my flustered state. “I’m just messing with you.”

I mutter something under my breath and busy myself with folding my jeans. It’s only when he clears his throat that I force my attention back to him. His expression has softened, the smirk replaced by something that can only be described as uncertainty. It’s an odd look on him. He usually seems so self-assured. And here I am, so discombobulated that I can’t even enjoy it.

He clears his throat. “So, we’ve got a game tomorrow,” he says, his tone deceptively casual as his eyes search mine.

I blink, unsure where he’s going with this. “Okay?”

He scratches the back of his neck before shifting. “I, uh… got you something.”

When I remain silent, he reaches into his backpack and pulls out a jersey before thrusting it in my direction.

I stare at it, the orange and black colors bright against his hands. “What’s that for?”

“It’s for you,” he mumbles. “I picked it up at the school store today. You’ll need it for the game. You know, since you’re my girlfriend now.”

The word girlfriend hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of everything it doesn’t mean. I force myself to close the distance between us and take the jersey, running my fingers over the thick material.

“Fake girlfriend,” I murmur, unable to help myself.

“Well, yeah,” he says quickly. “That’s what I meant.”

Something tightens in my chest at the way he says it, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. I fold the jersey carefully and set it on his dresser before slipping beneath the covers of the bed. After turning off the light, he crawls in on the other side. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he settles in beside me.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He turns his head to look at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light that filters in through the window. “You’re welcome.”

The space between us feels charged, like it’s holding something neither of us is ready to name.

“Why don’t you drink?”

I glance at him, startled by the question. For a second, I consider brushing off the inquiry and lying, but I’m too tired to come up with something convincing. “My mom,” I admit. “She’s… not great with alcohol.”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Yeah.” I pause, then ask, “How’d the meeting with your dad go?”

His jaw tightens as he stares at the ceiling. “The way it always does.”

I shift onto my side, watching him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

His gaze slices to mine. And for a moment or two, it looks like he might say something else. “Nah. But thanks for the offer.”

Then he rolls onto his back, and the silence stretches between us. Even though I close my eyes, sleep doesn’t come easily.

Not with Bridger so close.

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