Page 11 of Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

He tilts his head, baiting, and the guys across from him, they bite hard, finally waking up.

“Give me the ball.” This comes from Micah, a guy I’ve had in English class the last few years, who might be the only decent person in this school even if he does only speak to me when necessary in class, but I get the feeling he’s not all bad under his armor of expectation.

Micah takes slow forward steps, and his friends decide to follow.

My heart hammers in my chest as I glance toward Royce, and what I find causes it to beat even harder.

Royce shows no sign of caution or any sort of acknowledgment of a change around him, though we all stood here and witnessed Micah make the first move.

I mean, the first after Royce’s ball thievery and blatant belittlement.

He doesn’t so much as blink at their two-step advance.

No, he holds his cocky boy mode strong, completely unfazed by the mounds of muscle creeping in on him.

I cut a quick glance toward Mac, who seems to have found me in the crowd, and I pointedly look from Royce and back.

Are you going to help him, or what?

The freaking guy grins, crosses his arms and focuses on his friend who clearly has no sense of self-preservation.

Suddenly, Royce stops crossing the ball, now spinning it between his pointer fingers, his palms flattening on it seconds later, elbows out wide.

“Come and get it, pretty boy,” he antagonizes Micah. “I’ll even go easy on you.”

“Fuck you,” the guy behind Micah spits. “We’re district champs.”

“Badass,” Royce mocks, but it goes over their head.

They don’t know the Brayshaw Wolves are reigning state champs. Actually, they might, but they don’t know one is standing in front of them.

Royce’s smirk is slow, and then his upper body goes lax. He bends at the waist, folding over slightly as he sways his hands, the ball loose within them, from right to left.

The guys understand his move, getting into their stances, and Royce nods.

He flies forward, dribbling, and cutting right, only to spin left, and hop up, making the basket with ease.

He chuckles, licking his lips as he adjusts his jeans.

One of the other guys grabs the ball, looking back to Micah, who stands with fists and furrowed brows.

“Les’ go.” Royce damn near pushes his chest into his. “First to three.”

At first, it seems Micah is ready to tell him to get lost, but then he looks to his friend, who passes him the ball.

“One on one?” Micah attempts to confirm.

“See how quick things flipped here?” Royce grins. “I get one by you and your weak ass five, in your school, and just like that, the torch is in my hand.”

“You better watch it, asshole. You know nothing about us.”

Royce laughs, and I hold my breath.

I’m pretty sure he’s getting a kick out of this.

Whispers start, growing louder and louder.

Royce and Mac notice, their eyes locking across the court as Mac gingerly slides closer, but when Royce gives an almost unnoticeable jerk of his chin, he pauses, his foot right at the edge of the white painted line on the blacktop. He’s close enough to make it over fast if needed, but not so close to draw attention to his presence.

Right then, the reason for the added attention steps through the crowd.

Franky Briggs, the two-sport athlete, son of the police chief, and the worst possible person to step up right now. And my cousin’s boyfriend who lives to take digs at me.

Royce senses him, and glances over his shoulder.

Micah chuckles, prepared for the new guy to tuck and run at the sight of the six-foot-two, most loved, star student, but they’d don’t know a king in the making stands in front of him, and not of the royal kind.

A six-foot-one savage leader with a knack for trouble, and while Franky has that single inch on him, Royce stands as tall and confident as the clouds, full and uncontrolled, above us all.

Too bad for Franky, his head is up there with him, so he doesn’t notice the ease in which Royce stands.

Franky pauses a few feet behind him and claps his hands.

Micah smirks next, and chucks the ball, intending to rainbow it nice and clean over Royce’s head to Franky, but Royce jumps up with the ease of a pro, spiking it from the air.

The ball goes flying.

I know the second he clips it where it’s headed, and I try to squeeze away, to get lost or hidden in the masses, but everyone’s moved in so tight around me now I can’t, and after a few low bounces, the ball rolls closer, pausing mere inches from my feet.

If Royce saw me before he didn’t let on, but he definitely does now, Franky too.

Well, this sucks.

Royce turns his entire body, now facing me full-on, and a slow, mischievous smirk appears.