Chapter 16 Jaden #2
We’re slow on our route up the stadium ramps.
Amelia stops at the elevator bank, and I realize she’s probably heading up to the luxury suites where her and Bryson’s family is.
Her eyes linger on mine for a beat, and in a moment of panic that she’s going to invite me up to meet them, I fling my arms around her for a hug and say, “Thanks for the beers!” I loop my arm through Taryn’s immediately after and drag my friend up the final ramp toward the student section.
“I know you’re not drunk yet. What the fuck was that?” she says once we’re far enough away from any extra ears.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head as I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I don’t know. I didn’t want her to invite me up.
Which she probably wasn’t, since the whole point of me walking around in this jersey is for others to see, but I freaked out because I also don’t want to meet rich people while wearing my fake boyfriend’s jersey.
Ugh! I hate this.” I pop my eyes open and swivel my head to meet her gaze. “You know that, right?”
She squeezes my arm with hers and breathes out a soft laugh.
“I know, and I’m kind of loving that. You know that, right?” She gives me a knowing smirk that I mimic before rolling my eyes.
“I do know that—bitch.”
My callout earns a loud laugh from my friend, but it does wonders for shedding some of the self-conscious baggage that’s plagued me since we left the apartment.
We toss our empty beer cups in a trash can and scan our tickets again for the student section.
Rather than settling for the back row, which is where I prefer to stand, I let Taryn drag my poor-spirited ass all the way down to the front few rows of bleachers.
I count the steps on the way down, amusing myself at the memory of Bryson grinding his way up and down these things a few weeks ago.
One of the perks of having the full student section at my back is not having to see any of their faces, but it doesn’t quite mute the jeers from the few male students who seem hell bent on teasing me for being Bryson Moss’s girl.
By the time the team races out through the flaming arch and tunnel of cheerleaders, though, either their voices have been drowned out or all attention has turned to the field, because I no longer hear the snickers and catcalls.
I suppose it’s also possible I am now distracted.
By Bryson. Yet one more topic I do not want to discuss with Taryn, but I’m willing to admit to myself that there is something kind of charismatic about him on that field.
Even through his warm-ups. The way he throws the ball mid-chat with his coach.
I’m struck by how tall he stands as he hypes up his players, slapping hands with Ashton before moving down the line and giving every single member of his offensive line two hands on their shoulders and the kiss of his helmet to theirs.
He says I’m a natural leader, but I don’t know. He’s pretty fucking good at this.
Our defense forces a turnover after a first down, and Bryson takes over the field the way I imagine his father owns the boardroom.
It’s as if he isn’t even breaking a sweat, pointing out defenders to his line before crouching down to take the snap.
His first pass goes to Ashton for fifteen yards. He runs out of bounds in seconds.
“He’s really good,” Taryn mutters into my ear.
I roll my eyes, but I don’t mean it. Because yeah, he is really good.
I’m a little embarrassed to have not paid attention before.
I’ve been to games. I’ve seen plenty of Cordon football.
I know we win a lot, and I know it’s partly because of Bryson Moss’s arm.
But it’s always been this annoying fact that I let get in the way of really looking.
I’ve never truly seen him in action. And now that I’m fully aware, I get it.
I understand the hype. Hell, I even understand the goddamn swoon of every girl at the parties who tries to get him alone in a room.
This man is sexy, and not just because of his height, or his broad shoulders and washboard abs, though they are .
. . well, they are. He’s sexy because no matter how many times he fails, he gets back up.
Sacked? Fine. Here comes a thirty-yard pass for a first down.
Pass knocked down? Bryson takes the next one himself, breaking through the defensive line to make it first and goal.
Fourth down and wondering whether we kick for three or go for it? No need to wonder. We take the gamble, and it pays off. Bryson Moss to Ashton Yasmine for six!
By the time the third quarter counts down, my voice is hoarse and I can see the wild strands of hair poking out from the sides of my head.
I don’t even care how crazy I look. And the kudos I keep getting for the performance of my fake boyfriend feel real, which is a problem I’ll worry about later.
His win somehow feels like mine, and I continue to tuck away little moments I want to mention to him later.
Is this what a real relationship would be like with Bryson?
Me rooting for him, while he shows up for me?
Is this what romance is? Why was I so damn afraid?
We’re up by two touchdowns when the two-minute warning timeout is called, and Bryson and the rest of the offense start walking along the sideline with their helmets held high as they pump up the student crowd.
The band’s tubas buzz the metal stands under our feet, and my hands are raw from clapping to the fight song.
And when Bryson stops in front of my section, I do something absolutely bonkers—I blow him a kiss.
He pretends to catch it, holding it in his closed fist by his head for a few seconds as he stares at me from a hundred feet away.
“What the hell was that?” Taryn hollers into my ear as her hands pile on my shoulder. I blink a few times, expecting my face to contort with panic, but no matter how fast my heart is thrumming behind my ribs, nothing seems to diminish the smile I feel all the way into my ears.
“I have no idea,” I say to my friend through what I can only classify as mad laughter.
My gaze is glued to the quarterback now jogging toward the center of the field to celebrate with his teammates.
He climbs on Ashton’s back at one point, his helmet raised in one hand while his still-closed fist pumps toward the sky.
It’s a ridiculous thought—that Bryson is holding on to my blown kiss the way a toddler keeps one from his mom on his first day of preschool.
But his fist stays tight, even through dozens of hugs with teammates and coaches.
It’s still there when he jogs into the tunnel.
I shake my head and try to drop this juvenile fantasy. Taryn’s wide eyes continue to find mine, however, and she quirks a brow at me a few times as the two of us make our way down to the locker room level, where I promised Amelia I would meet her and her brother after the game.
“It’s all part of the performance. That’s all,” I say, feeling the weight of my friend’s suspicious stare.
“Uh-huh,” Taryn hums.
I sigh, but if I’m being honest with myself, I’m starting to question where the line is between pretend and real too.
Amelia asked me to hang back so she could snap a postgame pic of the two of us for the app, but it’s starting to feel like I’m here more for Bryson than her or the job.
And the more time that passes, the more my palms sweat. I hate sweaty palms.