My Player Bestfriend (Book #1)

Chapter Seventeen

It was weird having Austin around again.

He wasn't staying every night — just here and there. He slept on the couch. Kept his distance. Didn't try to kiss me or hold my hand or talk about us unless I brought it up.

And that should've made it easier.

But it made it worse.

Because I could feel it building — this quiet, patient pressure — like he was waiting for me to either break open or break apart.

And some nights, I honestly didn't know which one I wanted more.

On Thursday, I went to grab coffee after class — just a quick run to clear my head.

I wasn't even inside the café when I heard someone say my name.

"Mary."

I turned.

Luke.

His hair was longer. His shirt was half-tucked like he still didn't know how to dress for real life. And his eyes were... soft. Like the guilt hadn't let up.

I froze. "Luke?"

He smiled — cautious, not smug. "Didn't think I'd actually run into you. I just got back from L.A."

I didn't ask why.

I didn't care.

But I nodded anyway. "Wow. It's been a while."

"Yeah," he said. "You look... good."

"Thanks."

There was a pause. One of those long, awkward silences where you both know there's more to say but neither of you knows who should go first.

Then he said it.

"I heard Austin's back in town."

I blinked. "He is."

He tilted his head. "So, you two...?"

"It's not like that," I said quickly.

"Isn't it?" he asked, stepping a little closer. "Because it sure feels like it."

"I'm figuring things out," I said, suddenly defensive. "You don't get to come back and act like you know where I'm at."

Luke didn't flinch. "I'm not trying to act like anything. I'm just saying... don't forget how he made you feel."

"I haven't," I said. "Trust me."

He stared at me. Like he wanted to say more. Like he didn't believe me.

But then he just nodded. "Well... if you ever want someone who doesn't come with that kind of baggage..."

He let the sentence hang.

Didn't finish it.

Didn't need to.

Then he turned and walked away.

And I stood there, holding an iced latte I didn't even remember ordering, wondering why my chest suddenly felt like it was caving in.

When I got home, Austin was on the couch, half-asleep with a book on his chest.

It wasn't mine.
Which meant he bought it.
Which meant he was actually trying.

The sight of him there — peaceful, quiet — made something twist in my chest.

I sat next to him.

He opened one eye.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You okay?" he asked, reading my expression too fast, too well.

I hesitated. "I ran into Luke."

Austin sat up straighter. "Oh."

"He asked if we were back together."

Austin's jaw tensed. "What'd you say?"

"I said we weren't."

Silence.

He looked at the floor. "Right."

"But I didn't say we weren't going to be."

He glanced up at me again — slower this time, more careful.

"Mary," he said softly, "you don't owe me anything. But I need you to know — if this is too much, too fast, if you're unsure, if you want him instead—"

"I don't," I cut in.

"Okay."

I bit my lip. "But I also don't know if I'm ready to be with you yet."

He nodded. "Then I'll wait. Even if it kills me."

I looked at him. Really looked.

And that was the problem.

Because part of me wanted to fall into him. To forget the hurt, the headlines, the cheating, the nights I cried into my pillow thinking I'd never be enough for him.

But the other part — the broken, bruised, smarter part — remembered.

And she wasn't done fighting yet.

Later that night, I got a text from Luke.

Luke: Just wanted to say it was good seeing you. You deserve to feel chosen. Always.

I didn't respond.

But I also didn't delete it.

And that, somehow, felt worse.