Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Shadows and Symbols
Marigold Belmore
The last place I want to be right now is rink side.
I don’t want to take photos of Jameson, or even watch him.
If I didn’t care so much about impressing Charlie and being the best reporter on the Thrasher, I’d have asked to give up this article.
Or quit the paper altogether. Dramatic, but it feels warranted after the past few days.
It’s hard enough for me to find time to sleep and relax. Now when I scrape up the meager minutes, they’re filled with thoughts of Jameson. I can’t get away from him during waking hours, and my subconscious is too mangled to fend him off during sleep.
To top it all off, Carson, who’s taken it upon himself to become a hockey commentator, sat right next to me. I don’t think the man knows a thing about hockey.
“If they keep this up, they’re going to lose,” he says before taking a not-so-subtle swig of his flask.
I give him an incredulous look.
“They’re up 3–0. What about that makes you think they’re going to lose?”
I shouldn’t bother speaking to him, but the itch to argue is strong tonight, and since I’m ignoring Jameson, I have to get it out somehow.
“I meant the other team,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“And why do you care if they lose?”
He shrugs. “Someone has to.”
“Yeah, their fans.”
“They don’t have many of those.” He gestures around. It’s a sea of navy jerseys and sweatshirts. There are a few pops of burgundy for the Velfort Huskies, but there is a definite imbalance.
“That’s because it’s an away game for them, and they’re from Michigan. Not many people are going to travel for that,” I explain, though it’s clear by the dazed look he gives me that he’s not paying attention.
He winces. “That’s not going to feel good in the morning.”
I whip my head toward the ice to see what I missed. I’m met with the tail end of Jameson checking another guy into the glass. The ref blows his whistle, and Jameson skates to the penalty box with a smirk on his face.
“And that would be why they call him Sin Bin Sinclair,” I mutter as I take notes on which period we’re in and the time to be able to report on it if it becomes relevant.
“Man, I wish they could fight in college,” Carson comments. “The Shadow Ring is way more exciting.”
I pause, pen hovering over my notebook.
“Shadow Ring?” I repeat, turning to look at the drunken frat boy.
He tips back his flask for another glug.
“First rule about Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club,” he recites with a shake of his head.
Excitement floods my veins at his words. A secret fight club on campus? That’s a front page story if I’ve ever heard one.
“Come on, you can tell me, we’re friends,” I say with my most dazzling fake smile.
Carson blinks a few times, then grins and leans in close.
“Can you keep a secret, Ariel?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at The Little Mermaid reference.
“My lips are sealed.”
His gaze unabashedly falls to my lips. My stomach twists.
Carson’s not unattractive. In fact, he’s probably a little too pretty for his own good.
But he’s perpetually drunk and seems to have no qualms about kissing two—or more—girls in one night.
In any case, I hold my smile and bat my lashes like I’d welcome a kiss from him.
“There’s an underground fight club run by fraternity row.
All the frats take turns hosting it in their basements.
” He slurs and stumbles over his words, but I make them out clearly enough to know I need into one of these events.
Charlie would give me every article I asked for from this moment forward if I brought him something as juicy as this.
“Are non-fraternity members allowed in?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. It helps that Carson is drunk, but I don’t want to spook him and lose out on valuable information.
“Oh yeah. As long as you’ve got the password, you can get in.”
Shouts erupt all around us as one of the Thrashers, Porter, blocks a goal. Carson clinks his flask to the cup of someone behind us. It’s in the midst of this chaos that I ask my next question.
“What’s the password?”
“Depends on the night,” he replies. “Tomorrow is at Alpha Pi so I got to choose.” He gives me a sloppy smile. “I chose whiskey.”
Of course he did. I fake a laugh, then turn my eyes back to the game. I can feel my heart pounding against my chest. My gaze drifts to Jameson. He’s laser focused on the game, even from the penalty box.
I wish I could tell him about this. The thought is sharp, stabbing in between my ribs. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand. I’ve got one more detail to get before I can secure this story.
“What time do the fights usually start?” I hold my breath.
“Midnight, though the place is packed before then.”
I bob my head, not saying anything more. This could be my big break. I bite my lip to contain a smile. There’s no way that Jameson stays the favorite after this.
The game continues, and I do my best to maintain focus. Even if I’ve got a great story on the horizon, I can’t neglect my current assignment.
“Marigold Belmore?” a voice asks, pulling my attention from my notebook during the intermission in between second and third period.
I look up. My brows pull together when I see a guy in a concession stand uniform holding a tray of food.
“Yes?” I ask hesitantly.
“This is for you,” he says while holding the tray out farther.
“I didn’t pay for this,” I say. “Or order it.”
“Someone bought it for you,” he says with a sigh. “I gotta get back to work. Can you just take it?”
I reach up and grab the tray, balancing it in my lap on top of my notebook. The worker leaves before I can say thank you or ask any follow-up questions.
“I didn’t know they delivered,” Carson comments.
“Neither did I,” I mumble, eying the food.
There’s a basket of chicken tenders and fries, which would seem basic enough if it wasn’t for the little cup of nacho cheese on the side.
It’s my go-to order, when I can get them to do it since the cheese technically only goes with the nachos.
There’s also bottled spring water, not Dasani, because I think Dasani tastes like chlorine. And a small cup of steaming hot cocoa.
There’s only one person who would know all of this about me and be able to get some poor concession stand worker to bring it to me during the game.
Jameson.
I look up, my heart in my throat. He’s not on the ice, though. All of the players are in the locker room. He specifically chose a time when he wouldn’t be out here to even see my reaction. I thought after the fight at the diner that he’d give up like I told him to. Apparently not.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since this morning.
I pick up a fry, dip it in cheese, and stare at it.
A part of me feels like I should refuse.
Would it give him the wrong idea to see me eating it?
But at the same time, I don’t want to waste perfectly good food.
I glance up at the time clock. Ten minutes left of intermission.
If I eat fast, I can get rid of it, and he won’t be able to know if I ate it or not.
I take a bite. Then another and another until most of the basket is gone and my stomach is full.
I stare down at what’s left and wonder if I’ve ensured my fate somehow, like Persephone eating the pomegranate seeds.
Is my eating it a symbol of something more?
Even if Jameson never finds out what I did with the food, I know.
The food suddenly feels heavy in my stomach as I carry the tray into the hallway and over to the trash can near concessions.
I throw away the paper basket and empty water bottle, but there’s still the hot cocoa.
I won’t be able to drink it before intermission is over.
It’s cooled down to less than boiling, a perfect temperature to drink. But Jameson might see it.
I set the tray on top of the trash and hold the hot cocoa. It warms my palm through the Styrofoam.
“Excuse me,” someone says from behind, and I quickly move out of the way, cup in hand. They throw their trash away, then walk away. I can’t stand here debating forever. The game will start soon, and I don’t want to miss anything important for the article.
I glance down at the cocoa.
Take a sip.
And head back to my seat.