Chapter 9 Jaden
Jaden
I’ll give him this—Bryson Moss doesn’t cut corners on his workouts.
In fact, I tricked him into an extra set of stairs by repeating seventeen.
I’d feel bad about it if I weren’t sitting on the concrete barrier outside the stadium tunnel waiting for him to fix my student account that he somehow continues to wreak havoc on.
Laughter echoes from the concrete tunnel as Bryson and Ashton step into view. The two of them pound fists after what feels like a shared joke. I wonder if it was at my expense.
“Crash! It’s been a while,” Ashton says, holding his arms open wide as if he’s going to envelop me in a hug. I stand up and dangle my gear bag at my side just as his arms loop around me. He’s hugging me.
“Oh . . . kay,” I utter, my arms stiff as my cheek presses into the center of his chest. His T-shirt is damp but smells clean from a fresh shower. He backs away, and I brush my bicep against my jawline, then hike my shoulders up to my ears.
“Sorry, not a hugger? I’m a big hugger.” His arms are still outstretched, and I fear he may go in for a second one.
“I see that. I’m more of a nodder.” I tip my chin up, my preferred method of saying hi to acquaintances.
“Got it,” he responds, nodding and dropping his hands into the pockets of his deep-blue Cordon Football shorts. “Sorry, Crash.”
I roll my neck and bristle at the nickname. I’m about to say something regarding how much I hate it when Bryson cuts in, placing a hand on his friend’s chest.
“It’s Jaden,” he says.
“Yeah, I know. But we’ve always called her Cr—”
Bryson’s hand pats on Ashton’s chest once before he backs away and shakes his head.
“I know, but she doesn’t like it.” Bryson’s gaze flits to mine. My brow furrows.
“It’s fine,” I say, which is a bold lie, because it’s not fine. I hate that nickname. It always reminds me of our first meeting. And it’s not indicative of me at all. I fell. Once. It just happened to be into him.
“See? Crash likes it,” Ashton says. I gnash my molars and close my lips but push through a smile.
Bryson’s gaze drops to mine, and I swear he’s reading right through my facade.
My eyes widen a touch, signaling him to drop it, and thankfully he does.
The only thing I like less than that nickname is talking about that nickname.
“Thanks for the invite,” Ashton says, pulling my attention to him as we start to walk. We’re all moving through the vast parking lot in the opposite direction of the campus financial office, which has me confused.
I’m about to question where he thinks he’s invited when Amelia’s text pops into my mind.
I check the time on my phone and groan. It’s eleven thirty, and my marketing class is at one fifteen.
Lunch photo shoot. For the app. Which is supposed to pay my bills, except I’m apparently delinquent after the first payment, thanks to Bryson.
I snag Bryson’s sleeve and jerk him back a step while Ashton moves ahead of us.
“I’m calling them right now. I promise. I’ll take care of it,” he says in a hushed tone before glancing down at my fisted grip on his gray CU T-shirt.
I unfurl my fingers when I spot his phone in his hand, and the cotton fabric slowly expands back to its unwrinkled form. My gaze flits up to his as my cheeks warm. I went a little hard.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “This is just important to me.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then nods as his eyes blink.
“I know.”
He’s holding his phone to his ear a half second later, and we’ve started walking again to catch up to Ashton, who doesn’t seem to realize we’ve fallen behind.
By the time we’re synced up, Bryson’s deep into the phone call with his bank, so I move into the space between him and his friend and start distracting.
“Hey, you guys are ranked going in. That must feel nice.” I smile at the end of my prompt, and it’s just enough to send Ashton into an excited ramble about how the system is rigged and they should be sixteen instead of twenty to start the season, but because of transfers and popularity of other schools, blah, blah, blah.
I couldn’t care less about their rank. I hate how much money and attention the football program gets.
I know it’s what floats the rest of us athletes, but their shitty top-twenty ranking has been splashed all over this campus.
Meanwhile, I’ve tap-danced around number one for three seasons, and this is the first year I’ve shown up on an athletics brochure.
Cordon is touting my rank, to an extent.
I’ll give them that. But I won’t pretend I don’t know that Title IX parity has a lot to do with it, and that most of the athletics staff believes I should thank football for sharing some of the spotlight.
By the time we reach Slices, Ashton is just about tapped out and Bryson is ending his call. He reaches the door first and holds it open for his friend, then me. I pause in front of him and stare, brows raised in expectation.
“It’s handled. Your status should be good by this afternoon,” he says.
The should part makes me a little nervous.
A lot of things that should have happened one way have gone another lately, but I have to trust he’s right about this.
Amelia’s waving arms draw our attention to the back of the establishment, so I veer around the center bar toward an area littered with lawn-style games parked on fake grass.
This is a cool place. I’ve been here a few times.
I even sent my parents pics of the game area once.
I think it’s the kind of thing they should add to their restaurant to draw in the pre- and postgame crowds.
“How’s my favorite couple?” Amelia’s exuberance is loud enough to draw eyes our way. I scope out the few people sitting at the bar watching a replay of last season’s football playoff games, but they don’t seem interested in us.
“We aren’t a couple,” Bryson says, his quick correction drawing my attention.
“Oh, you know what I mean. For this project, you’re a couple,” his sister says, squeezing his shoulders as she moves behind the chair he just plunked down in.
I’ve been clear with the people I’ve told that what Bryson and I are doing is pretend, so I’m not sure why I’m so surprised to hear him be just as vocal. I guess I figured he’d be committed to living the lie for his sister’s sake.
“Ash, so great to see you,” Amelia says, wrapping her arms around our extra guest. The two of them embrace as if they’re family, the six-foot-four receiver lifting her up for a full swirl before putting her down. I consider how long Ashton and Bryson must have been friends.
I clear my throat and pull out a chair at the end of the table, two seats away from my fake date. “You guys all know each other?”
“We grew up together. These fools have known each other since way before junior high,” Amelia says.
“Huh.” My eyes scan from her to her brother, but he glances away when my gaze reaches him.
He seems so uncomfortable with the idea of Ashton and me in the same space.
It makes me wonder if he thinks I’m going to rat him out in front of his sister or clue Ashton into the fact that I knew about the pills.
“We should probably order food. Jaden doesn’t have long, and I’m starving,” Bryson says, pulling a menu from the holder in the center of the table.
“Let’s eat!” Ashton bellows.
I’m not sure why Bryson seems to be in such a rush suddenly, but he is right.
My time is limited. His sister flags down a server, and we order two large pizzas and a basket of wings.
Once our pitcher of beer is set on the table, and Ashton and Bryson have poured themselves glasses, Amelia ushers us to the cornhole game set up adjacent to our table.
“No beer for you, Crash?” Ashton teases.
Bryson bristles, but before he can debate my nickname again, I interject, “I can’t show up to class tossed.”
“Ah, come on. You can show up with one beer.” Ashton’s hard sell hits me heavier than peer pressure normally does. Maybe it’s the fact that Bryson doesn’t seem interested in our conversation at all, assuming I’m not going to break any rules because I’m . . . what did he call me? Pious?
“Sure, maybe just one,” I relent.
“Ah, there she is.”
Ashton dashes to the pitcher and fills a glass for me.
He hands it to me, then holds his out for us to toast, and we clank our pints.
I take a small sip, but Ashton guzzles down nearly a third of his.
My attention moves to Bryson next, and it’s as if he was waiting for me to watch as he takes a long but moderated gulp before setting his glass down on the nearby ledge.
His gaze lingers for a moment, and I swear there’s a lift to his lip.
I think he’s baiting me.
While his sister sets up a small ring light in the corner, I pick up two of the beanbags for cornhole and toss one to Bryson. He catches it against his chest.
“What do you think, quarterback? Can you handle me?”
That tug at his lip? It’s higher now. Not quite a smirk, but it’s getting there. Bryson picks up his beer and takes another sip, eyeing me over his glass.
“I can handle you . . . Crash.”
Full smirk deployed.
He’s going down. So down.
The inside of my cheek ensnared between my incisors, I let a confident chuckle slip out as I divvy up the beanbags, then gesture for Bryson to go first.
“Oh no, I see your strategy. I’m not going first. I’ll take second.” He crosses his arms over his chest, two bags gripped in each fist at his sides.
My eyes dim as I cross my arms and match him toe to toe.
“Flip for it,” Ashton pipes up after a few quiet seconds of our standoff.
“Okay,” I say, dropping all the bags but one, which I toss in my palm. “The side with the Slices logo is heads, and the blank side is tails. You call it.”
He blinks a few times as his eyes study me. I think he’s trying to work out how I’ll cheat. What he doesn’t know is that I am going to wipe the floor with him whether I go first or last.
“Tails,” he says with a slight nod.
I look to Ashton.
“You heard that, right?” I confirm.