Page 43 of Break Point

With my phone shoved into one hip pocket and my ID and debit card tucked into the other, I loop my key lanyard around my wrist and head out the door behind Taryn. The streets are already packed with illegally parked cars for game day, and the closer Taryn and I get to the stadium, the thicker the smoke from portable grills gets.

“I hate hot dogs, but damn do I want to grab one of those and run right now,” my friend says, nudging my shoulder as we weave our way through the dense parking lot.

“I’m still full after last night,” I say with a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, half a box of Lucky Charms will do that to you,” Taryn teases.

I don’t tell her that I haven’t been hungry for two days. Not since my shitty practice that turned into a demotion. I’d rather Taryn think I have poor eating habits than know how much the tennis rank is killing me. I know it’s wrong to feel that way too. She’d probably be supportive. She’s always been full of empathy. But for now, I simply want to exist in this world where neither of us brings it up.

We squeeze through the packed student entry and scan the tickets on our phones. Somehow, despite the crowd, Amelia spots me the moment we get to the concourse, and the squeal of joy she exudes draws the attention of a group of female students waiting in line for the restroom several feet away. Their phones are out in seconds.

“Jaden, psst,” Taryn says, in a not-so-subtle loud-ass whisper. “Wave to your fans, maybe give a little turn, show off the jersey.”

“Oh yes! Do that!” Amelia piles on.

I make eyes at my friend, and her tight smile grows tighter. She knows how much I hate this. I don’t even know what “giving a little turn” is!

“Hi,” I say, waving to the women all likely streaming me on whatever social media app they have open on their phones. I spin slowly, pinching the tops of my sleeves to make sure the Moss name is legible before crossing my legs and bending a smidge. When one of my fangirls giggles as she reads Bryson’s last name out loud, I cringe.

“I’m gonna kill you,” I say, glaring at Taryn.

“Eh. Worth it,” she says, turning her attention to the beer line as she chuckles at my expense.

“We love you, Jaden!” I glance over my shoulder, and I’m certain my face stretches with shock.

“Love you too,” I mutter, giving them another awkward wave.

I blink my way back to the beer line and scoot closer to my friend, who is struggling to hold her laughter in. My elbow to her ribs turns her smirk into an open-mouthed ouch, and that pleases me.

We can’t take alcohol to our seats, which means we’ll need to guzzle these down on our way up the stadium steps, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it through the first quarter without a little buzz to get me through.

Amelia stands next to us, flipping through the various photos she took during my awkward fan interaction, and she leans in to show me her favorite. I think I look like a stiff-armed Cabbage Patch doll, but at this point, I don’t care as long as I don’t have to curtsy in this damn jersey again. She posts the picture, and I ignore the notification buzz that vibrates my phone against my thigh. I don’t need to see the comments. Not today.

“It’s weird that people recognize me. And not from tennis. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” I’m more musing out loud than actually questioning the gig, because for the money Amelia’s paying, she could post these pics on a Times Square billboard for all I care.

“It’s probably the homecoming nomination. You have people campaigning for you,” Amelia says, almost offhandedly. It takes my brain a moment to catch up, but when it does, I swivel my head to the side and glare at her.

“The what nomination?”

Taryn snickers beside me.

“Yeah, I was going to tell you about it at Slices, but Bryson said you had an injury and couldn’t make it. It’s exciting, isn’t it?” She’s downright bubbly over it. Meanwhile, my rib cage is churning from the tidal wave of acid that just hit it.

“They have homecoming courts in college?” I bunch my face, and Taryn mimics my expression and shrugs.

“I mean, it’s not like it is in high school, with a big dance and a coronation. You’d get to ride on the parade float, though, and the student magazine would take photos. It’s mostly for alumni and donors. You’d be part of a small club of couples who have won throughout the years.”

“I’m not going to win,” I say, willing the thought into existence. I can’t win something like this. I’m not sash-and-crown material, and I’m definitely not a float rider.

Amelia shrugs, then pushes Taryn’s debit card away, paying for our beers.

“You might. People really love you two. And we’re about to crack one hundred thousand members over two hundred–plus campuses. Maybe later you and Bryson can work up a post about running for king and queen. I love what you guys have come up with on your own so far.”

I hang back a beat while Taryn and Amelia turn toward the stadium ramps, swallowing hard as I take in the sheer volume those numbers represent. This isn’t just a little start-up app anymore. And people are campaigning for me? A quick glance to my right reveals more sorority girls holding up their phones, likely filming me. I wave the way Miss America does, at least I think how she does—hand cupped, elbow and wrist twisting.

“Come on!” Taryn shouts, snapping me out of my mini panic attack. I sip from the top of my beer and shuffle my way toward them.

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.