Page 8 of Bend & Break
I love Luca for many reasons, but the one that stands out the most in my memory is because during preseason freshman year, when I sprained my ankle and was crying outside the locker room door—more out of frustration than pain—he sat next to me on the concrete and offered me half a crushed granola bar and a full breakdown ofLove Is Blind.
It wasn’t the injury that got to me. I’ve played through worse. What broke me was the fact that I couldn’t prove myself in that moment, couldn’t shut everyone up about the new girl from a no-name program with a partial scholarship. I hated that they’d see me as weak, even for a second.
Luca didn’t try to tell me it was fine or that I’d bounce back. He just made me laugh until I forgot I was pissed, which, for someone like me, is basically a medical miracle.
He’s also the kind of person who texts you good luck before every game and always remembers your coffee order. If I ever go to prison, there’s a 75% chance it’s because someone did something to upset him. Or because I was caught with a drive full of incriminating evidence I’ve yet to send to the police, but that’s neither here nor there.
Luca makes it easy to forget that I don’t really let most people in. Most of the time, I keep my guard up, handle my ownproblems, and push through whatever’s in front of me without waiting for backup. But he has this way of slipping past all that without asking permission—like how he’s here right now and will likely be both mineandMads’ saving grace. And maybe that’s why I’d throw hands for him without a second thought.
“You’vegotto be kidding me,” I mutter, already halfway to slamming the door. But I do feel guilty about it, because Luca doesn’t deserve my wrath.
“Hi,” Mads says, annoyingly upbeat. He stops the door from closing all the way with the toe of his shoe. “We’re your court-ordered moving crew.”
“I didn’t ask for help.”
“No, but you need it,” he says, nudging the dolly forward with cocky ease. His eyes flick to the wobbling top box in my arms, and before I can tighten my grip, he slides the dolly under the bottom one and steadies the stack without breaking stride. It looks casual, effortless—like he’s just being a pain in the ass—but the way he shifts his body between me and the doorframe tells a different story. If I trip, I’ll hit him first. If the boxes slip, he’ll take the weight. And he does it without saying a word about any of it.
I’m about to push the way he makes me falter somewhere down deep, and tell him exactly where he can shove that dolly, when Luca hits me with a small, awkward smile—half-cringe, half-wave. “Hey, Blake,” he says gently, like I’m a skittish cat and not a girl holding a clothes hanger in my free hand like a weapon. “He tried to use his captain daddy voice to rope half the team into this, but I figured it would be safer for him and more bearable for you if only I supervised.”
Goddamn it.
I can’t be mad when Luca is here being all nice and helpful. That would be morally wrong.
“Fine,” I mutter, stepping back. “But if either of you so much as sideways glance at my underwear drawer, I’ll set you on fire.”
“Understood,” Luca says. “I vow to avoid eye contact with anything even remotely lacy.” He tosses me a box that has the wordssoccer related shitwritten on the side in green Sharpie. “I labeled all the boxes. And color-coded them. I hope that’s okay.”
I’m going to bake him cookies. Or knit him a thank-you scarf. Or legally adopt him. I haven’t decided yet.
“No promises,” Mads mutters as he brushes past me and starts stripping my bed of its linens.
I should stop him. I should saysomething.But my brain is too busy trying to process the fact that he’s about to put his gross man hands on my pillowcase.
“You don’t evenwantto know how fast I can snap one of these hangers,” I warn. “And I am fairly confident I could effectively shank you with the broken plastic.”
Mads holds up both hands in surrender, but the smirk on his face says he’s not actually sorry. “Relax,” he says. “We’re just here to help.”
He grabs a box off the top of my nightstand and rips the drawer open with all the delicacy of a toddler high on Capri Suns.
Everything happens in slow motion.
The half-finished iced coffee I thoughtlessly left sitting on top wobbles. Teeters.Topples.
Directly into the open drawer.
The drawer.
The drawer.
I let out a strangled noise as cold, sticky coffee pours over my truly impressive collection of silicone and shame.
This is so much worse than him seeing my underwear.
Mads goes stock-still. His eyes flick to mine, then back to the drawer, then back to mine again.
“Wow,” he says slowly, “remind me to never underestimate your stamina.”
I bend over and pick up a cleat from the pile of shoes next to where I’m standing, and launch it at his face.
