Chapter 3 Jaden
Jaden
Three Years Later
Five thousand dollars a month. An hour a week on social media. It’s a no-brainer, really. Especially when I’m looking at a tuition bill that will not be covered by a maxed-out credit card or fully tapped college loans.
My email dinged with this opportunity right before I negotiated another forty-eight hours with the university on my tuition payment.
And I have approximately four hours left in that window to rush a cashier’s check to the finance office.
By becoming the face of a new dating app for college athletes that’s launching on the West Coast this month, I can focus on finishing my senior year strong.
I don’t want to be tied up with shifts at the coffee shop and working the ticket booth for the football games.
I’m going pro as soon as my final match is done, and I plan to leave college as number one.
“Just to clarify, I get to approve all social media posts? Down to the hashtags?” My nitty-gritty question, probably my tenth such one, earns a heavy sigh from the lawyer next to me.
The influencer turned app developer, however, remains patient.
Or she’s a great actor. She has a stage name—Amelia Anne—and a look that’s more fashionista than tech nerd, but what do I know?
I barely know how to work my banking app, not that there’s ever any money in it.
“Absolutely. Nothing gets posted without your consent. That language is right here.” Amelia reaches across the black marble conference table and flips to the next page, tapping her delicate pink fingernail on the third line.
It’s basically verbatim what she just said, but I read the line again anyhow.
I’ve scanned the legalese about a dozen times, not really knowing what I’m looking at but watching for buzzwords. My parents have read it over, along with my Uncle Jerry, who “dabbles in the law.” He says it’s cut and dried. He’s probably right. I’m not sure what my hang-up is.
Well, that’s not entirely true.
I feel like a fraud.
I have absolutely zero skills in the dating department. Maybe that makes this more authentic. I am the target audience, after all, a college athlete so focused on her sport that she lacks the time for all the social niceties that come with college life.
Aka a romance pariah.
Or maybe I’m just a loser. Not on the court, of course, but in love.
And friendships. And parties, and sororities, and anything that doesn’t involve me smashing a ball along the baseline.
Sometimes I think the only reason my roommate Taryn has stuck with me is that she’s high most of the time.
She’s lucky they dropped testing athletes for cannabis.
She’d be habitually ineligible, or worse, cut from the team.
And then I’d have no friends. So maybe I’m the one who’s lucky for the lax cannabis rules.
I touch the tip of the pen to the signature line, then pause and lift my head to meet Amelia’s eyes.
There’s something familiar about them, a softness maybe.
It set me at ease the moment we met, and her smile is just as disarming.
Following my gut, I sign my name and push the paper to my right for her lawyer to do whatever lawyers do with this stuff.
I’m given an envelope in return, and I immediately fish out the contents for the check lodged inside a folded copy of the contract.
Five. Thousand. Dollars.
My hand trembles simply holding it.
“I really think you’re perfect for this, Jaden.
Thank you so much for trusting me.” Amelia’s voice seems far off as I stare with tunnel vision at the printed amount on the check.
I’m probably down to three hours now, and since it’s a Saturday, there’s always the risk that the finance office will close early.
“Wardrobe.” It’s such a foreign word to me that it jostles me out of my autoresponse mode in time to piece together context as Amelia unzips a garment bag that’s now slung over the back of one of the conference room chairs.
“Oh, no. I’m good. I have plenty of things back home that aren’t joggers and T-shirts.” I wave at the bag, dismissing it, yet Amelia keeps tugging the zipper lower as she chuckles.
“Of course you do, but this is just for today, like I said.”
Like she said when I was fantasizing about my debt going away.
My mouth forms an O, but no sound escapes.
Amelia pulls out a cropped pair of jeans and holds them to my waist as she squints, then nods.
I have my doubts about the whole eyeballing-clothes-to-fit method, but she seems to know what she’s doing as she quickly discards a wide-neck green sweater and a miniskirt in favor of a white baby tee and a red cardigan paired with the jeans.
Her chin tucks as her gaze drops to my feet.
If I could somehow hide them under the carpet, I would.
Her mouth bunches at the sight of my clunky sneakers and light-pink ankle socks.
“Maybe just go without socks for the photo.” She props a sharp, black leather heel on an empty chair and lifts the wide linen pant leg so she can unclasp a thin gold anklet from around her leg.
She passes it to me, and I hold it in my open palm as if it’s some mysterious, magical relic and I have no idea how it works. It may as well be.
“Put it on. I’ll get it after the shoot,” she says.
She hands me the pile of clothes she picked out, then gestures to the restroom across the hall from the conference room.
“Uh, how long is this going to take?” I ask over my shoulder on our way into the ladies’ room.
“Maybe twenty minutes, assuming my other brand ambassador shows up on time.” The eye roll and breathy laugh that accompany her reply don’t fill me with much confidence.
With the clock ticking, I rush into a stall and strip out of my hoodie and leggings and put on the T-shirt and jeans while Amelia stands on the other side of the door. I fasten her anklet in place and grimace at the feel of my sweaty shoes on my bare feet.
“If the other person is late, maybe I can just get my shots done first? I’m on a bit of a time crunch.” I grunt out my question as I wriggle the jeans over my hips. I get them snapped, but they’re a little snug.
“He’s your date,” she says.
My mouth gapes with a million questions as I edge the door open, but she has her phone pressed to her ear and raises a finger before I can ask any of them.
“Oh good. Yeah, we’ll meet you outside. By the fountain.
” She pushes through the restroom door, and I trail behind her, my arms fumbling to keep my clothes grasped with one hand as I stuff them into my backpack.
I slide the check into the back pocket of the borrowed jeans before zipping my bag shut, knowing I’m going to have to head right to the finance office from here.
I hope she doesn’t mind me hanging on to the borrowed clothes for the day.
“My date?” I manage to get out during our short elevator ride down a floor. It’s a bustling office building, one of those shared workspaces with a dozen start-ups and freelancers working at high-top tables.
“Not a real date. For the promo,” she answers, brushing some of my hair over my shoulder. I’m glad I had time for the flat iron this morning. I can’t imagine what Amelia would do if I showed up with my typical ponytail wrapped in rubber bands.
“Yeah, I get that. I just figured my posts would be more . . .” I swallow. “Single.”
Amelia’s heels click against the concrete as she guides me, hands on both shoulders, to the perfect ray of sun near the fountain. She runs her thumb over my right eyebrow as she laughs softly. Little does she know that eyebrow is curling right back the wrong way in minutes.
“Jaden, this app needs to sell love. Think of today’s photo as the meet-cute for your love story.”
“You mean pretend love story,” I emphasize.
She winks at me and nods. My pulse is suddenly roaring with uncomfortable panic. I thrive in adversity. Not so much when it comes to social intimacy. But I need that check. And the one next month, and the month after. And who knows, maybe I’ll end up hitting it off with this guy.
I take a seat at the edge of the fountain as Amelia moves my backpack to the side.
She takes a few practice shots with her phone.
I turn to one side and stretch out my right leg while bringing my left knee up to rest my arm on, and she showers me with praise for my innate modeling skills.
Whether she’s blowing smoke or not doesn’t matter, and I’m almost getting into things when Bryson Moss walks up behind her, covering her eyes with his palms.
“Bryson!” She squeals just like every girl on campus does when he flirts with them.
I straighten my legs, cross my ankles, and lean back on my palms, instantly irritated that I am somehow working with one of Bryson’s flings.
She wraps her arms around him as he swings her in a half circle before his gaze stops on me.
I expect his smile to drop the way mine did, but instead, his lips quirk up on one side. It’s annoying that it’s cute.
“You went with the redhead, huh?” He drops his hands in his jean pockets as my head falls to my shoulder. He knows exactly who I am.
“She went with an athlete,” I fire back, biting my tongue before calling him a cheater. I don’t need to sour things with Amelia. Besides, I doubt they’ll be dating for long. It’s not like I’ll be seeing him—
“She went with two athletes,” he says, tugging his Cordon Football sweatshirt over his head but leaving on the long-sleeve black T-shirt underneath. Amelia runs her palm over his chest, straightening the cotton, and I scoff.
“You hired your boyfriend?” I mumble. My words apparently were not as under my breath as I thought, because their gazes snap to one another in a blink, and within a half second they’re spitting out laughter.
“God, no! Gross!” Amelia blurts, pushing him away. Her quick rejection of him nearly makes me smile. It definitely earns back my respect.