Chapter 11 Jaden
Jaden
I doubled my melatonin dosage last night so I could fall asleep at eight.
It didn’t work as intended; I was up until eleven thirty doomscrolling and spiraling over how many people think a girl who looks like me doesn’t belong with a football stud like Bryson.
And now I’ve been trying to peel my eyes open for the last forty minutes.
I have class soon, so it might be time for drastic measures.
I roll to my side, grab my phone from my nightstand, and drag my bare feet to the bathroom. I strip out of my nightshirt and underwear before flipping the water on cold and stepping in without warning.
“Oh fuhhhhh—” Okay, that was more drastic than I was prepared for.
“Oh, good. You’re up,” Taryn says, ignoring the closed bathroom door and barging in to do whatever business she’s got. I love my friend, but I also can’t wait to live alone.
“Barely,” I croak, turning my face into the stream and filling my mouth with what is now lukewarm water.
The toilet flushes on the other side of the shower curtain, and I shake my head at Taryn’s lack of boundaries.
“Your phone is going nuts,” she says.
My brow pinches as I try to recall if I bothered to check the time before stumbling into the bathroom. I hope I’m not late!
“Is it my alarm? I set a few. Or are there texts from my finance group chat?” I lather my hair quickly and double up on conditioner to make getting the comb part go a little easier.
“It’s the Score app. Oh . . . wow. People are going crazy!”
I slam the water off as my pulse starts to hammer. Not again. I can’t do another day of being number one on everybody’s enemies list.
“Let me see!” I jut my hand toward my friend, covering myself with the shower curtain. Instead of handing me my phone, though, she tosses me a towel while her eyes continue scanning my phone screen.
“You worry about getting ready. I’ll summarize for you.” She holds up a finger to hush me before I even have a chance to protest.
I wrap the towel around my body and step out of the shower tub, lunging for my phone. Taryn backs out of the open bathroom door, though, so I relent and turn my attention to combing my hair.
“I don’t want to know if it’s bad.” I’d really prefer it if Taryn were in the dark about this corner of my life. I liked the fact that when we came home from practice yesterday afternoon, she was oblivious to everything. It meant I could pretend none of it happened.
“This one’s my favorite . . .” She steps back into the bathroom, and I stop rubbing in my facial moisturizer to look at her in the mirror. “Could these two be any cuter together? I mean, football player and tennis girl. It writes itself!”
I blink at Taryn in the mirror, and she flits her gaze up for a moment, already onto the next comment.
“And this girl, she says you two are her ultimate ship. She ships you!”
I crinkle my nose.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Taryn laughs with a wide-open mouth.
“Oh my God, Jade! Ships are the best! People ship you two! Relation-ship? Oh, wait, wait, wait . . . this one is good.” She holds up a finger as I turn around to face her. “I’m not sure who I’m crushing on more! Football boy or tennis girl! I love them both!”
I blink wildly, taking in this drastic change in tone from yesterday’s responses. Clearly, Bryson has done something.
“Oh, hey, you have a text message.”
I reach for my phone again, but Taryn pulls it into her neck as her eyes flash to mine. Her lips are puckered into a suspicious smile that is ruining the fragile comfort bubble she just got done building around me.
“It’s from Bryyyyyson!” She sings his name, and my pulse begins to jet. I snatch my phone, suddenly sweaty and hovering between excited and a new level of irritable. What is happening?
Bryson: We’re a hit, Crash!
“He’s still calling you Crash, huh?” Taryn’s chin tickles my bare shoulder as she reads over me.
“Gah! Can you just . . . Give me some space. I need to get dressed and go to class.” I push my friend out of the bathroom, then lock the door this time.
“I can read the comments on my own phone, you know. You can’t hide from me forever!” Her voice drifts away with an evil laugh that I quickly block out as I drop the seat on the toilet and sit down to scroll through the evidence myself.
The trolls are still there, but the number of positive comments far outweighs the snarky, mean ones.
I don’t think Amelia is moderating users because the few nasty ones that show up really push the boundaries, plenty of them dropping f-bombs and one calling me the c-word.
Yesterday, though, that was the rhetoric that dominated the conversation, and today, it feels like more people are rooting for me. Well, rooting for us.
My phone buzzes with a call from Bryson, and I leap to my feet, pacing in my towel around the tight bathroom space. I answer, keeping him off speaker because I’m almost certain Taryn didn’t go far.
“Hi.” I don’t know why my cheeks are warm. It’s not like I’m talking to him in person. Or like I care that he’s calling, or what he thinks about people “shipping” us.
“I knew that photo was gold. People love seeing me get my ass kicked.” His soft laughter feels genuinely modest, and without even thinking, I’m suddenly biting my thumbnail and swaying nervously. Stop it, Jaden!
“Maybe so. Or perhaps it’s all the Bryson Moss exes banding together to root for me to take you down on the court.” I know that’s not the case, and I’ve now read many of the comments lauding us as a couple. A real couple.
“I don’t doubt there are a few women out there who wouldn’t mind seeing your serve zero in on my crotch, that’s for sure,” he laughs out.
“Next time,” I add, turning my attention back to the mirror so I can concentrate on my eyeliner instead of him.
“It’s a date. I think I might surprise you too. I’m ready now.” The clank of metal on metal echoes in the background, and the background chatter sounds like he’s in the locker room. He must be finishing up his morning practice.
“You know I took it easy on you, right? If I play you for real, you’re not taking a single set.” I drop my towel and step into my clean underwear, then switch which hand is holding the phone as I work my arms through my bralette’s straps.
“It’s on, Crash. And if I take one set, you owe me . . . hmm.”
I’m sweating again.
“Dinner?” I suggest.
“A favor. Any favor I may need. One I can cash in anytime I choose. Like, maybe it’s four a.m., and I’m at the frat house wasted, and I need someone to get my ass home. You’re the call.”
“I don’t have a car,” I point out, my stomach cramping at the thought of having to schlep a drunk Bryson home from a party I wasn’t invited to.
“Okay, so no desperate rideshare calls, but everything else is fair game. If I take a set from you and I need a tutor for my bio final, you’re obligated to be the flash card queen.”
I’m not sure he’d want me as a study partner. I suck at science. But sure, if that’s the kind of favor he’s looking to cash in, I’m game.
“Deal. And if you don’t take a set, you stop with the Crash for good, and you buy me a new pair of shoes.” I slip my T-shirt over my head and move into my bedroom under the attentive surveillance of my roommate, who is on my heels.
“I’m working on the Crash part, I swear. But shoes, huh? That’s an odd—oh.”
“Yeah, someone ruined my favorite pair. And no, there will be no cheaping out. I get to pick whatever brand I want. And you have to take me out shopping and wait while I try on lots of things.” I’m trying to make it sound as torturous as possible.
“Honestly? I love shopping.”
Of course he does.
“All right. How about in a few weeks, then? Or will you be too banged up from your last game to hold a racket?” I let my teasing come through a little more than normal. I’ll give Bryson this, he’s good at goading my competitive spirit.
“Crash, I’ll fit you in during halftime. That’s how not worried I am.”
I laugh out loud but cut it short when I turn around and come face-to-face with my grinning roommate.
“It’s a deal. Hey, I gotta go.” I’m careful not to use the word date in front of Taryn.
I’m also cautious about lingering on the line with him.
I end the call first without a goodbye. I need to keep some reminders in place of what this really is between Bryson and me.
If I blur those lines too much, my roommate will surely blend them into disappearance.
And I don’t need to disillusion myself over any of this.
It’s a sponsorship deal. A modeling gig to pay my tuition. We aren’t actually dating.
I open one of my social apps and am instantly hit with a new round of comments about how below Bryson Moss’s usual standards I am.
So much for turning the tide of public opinion.
I stare at the words for several seconds, letting the sting of judgment from strangers brand itself in my chest for just a moment.
If anything, it’s a good reminder of what this thing with Bryson really is: pretend.
I make it to my finance class with thirty seconds to spare, giving me just enough time to set my laptop up to record our professor’s lecture.
I’m not great at remembering spreadsheet formulas, so I plan on spending my next several study halls re-creating everything he’s reviewing in class today.
With a little luck, by the end of the week I’ll be calculating internal rates of return in my sleep.
The professor stretches a few minutes past the end of our class, and I don’t dare shut down my laptop until it’s captured every last sentence.
By the time we’re excused, my stomach is roaring hungry.
I hate that most of my classes are clustered around the lunch hour, but that’s the only way I can fit in workouts and practices.
I’m the last one out of the classroom, and my head is down when I step into the busy corridor. I travel at least a dozen steps before I notice the set of feet syncing up right next to me.
“So, you’re a business major.”