Page 37 of The Fake Date Agreement

I plugged my dead phone in and waited for him to call.

He didn’t call because he didn’t care.

My boyfriend kissed another woman on a kiss cam, watched me fall down the stairs, and didn’t even have the courtesy to send a text to check I got home okay.

Even Caleb Boucher, a veritable stranger, took me to his team doctor because he was concerned I had a concussion. He didn’t even see me hurt myself. Marc, my boyfriend of six years, did.

I smile as I listen to Max’s endless rant about Marc’s failings. For a guy she didn’t know all that well or hang out with that often, the list is long anddetailed.

She glances at me. “What’s with the smile? Are you imagining pushing him down a flight of stairs?”

I give her a one-arm hug. “No. You’re a good friend, Max. I didn’t realize how good until now. Thanks.”

“No,” she says quietly. “I haven’t been. You’re graduating soon, and we should have gone out more. I wanted to this year, but…”

I take her hand and squeeze. “You’re an athlete, which means you’re busy. I get it.”

Max is busier as a junior than I ever have been as a senior.

“We’ll do something tonight,” she suggests.

“You run laps at night,” I remind her.

“Not tonight.” She pulls out her cell phone. “I’ll order us takeout, and we’ll watch a movie. Something funny.”

“I’d like that.”

“And what I said before,” she says seriously. “About YOLO.”

“What about it?”

She gives me a probing look. “It’s about having fun with whoyouwant, not about hooking up with any old douchebag and me living vicariously through you because I don’t have a life.”

“You have a life.”

“Athleticsismy life, but it shouldn’t be mywholelife. I haven’t heard anything bad about the Magic Three, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t potential secret douches. Any sign of douchey behavior, you quit this fake-dating revenge mission, and kick them down the nearest flight of stairs, okay? Or I will.”

I laugh. “Kind of hard to do when they’re all over six feet tall.”

She lifts her chin. “I’ve been working on my quads this semester. I could do it.”

“You should hook up with one of them,” I suggest, though I secretly hope she says no. They’re not my boyfriends, at least, not for real, but I’m not sure I want to share them.

She shudders. “I don’t touch hockey players.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t. What food do you want?” She lowers her head and starts scrolling on her phone.

“Anything is fine.” I try not to eat too much fast food, and I never miss my morning thyroid meds. While gluten or fast food isn’t a trigger for me like it can be for others, I do feel better when I don’t eat crap all the time.

Not sleeping properly and stress have always been my biggest triggers for flare-ups.

I eye her bent head, curious about her evasiveness.

I always wondered why Max opted out of living in the athlete dorms. Reynolds Hall has a lot more amenities than any other dorm—a gym, bigger rooms, a separate dining room with better, or at least healthier, food than the campus dining room, and it’s quieter.

She was dating someone in her freshman year, and they broke up in her sophomore year. That’s all she’s ever told me. From the way she blew up about Marc cheating, I suspect I know why they’re no longer together.

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