Page 60 of Don't Hate the Player
“But you won’t do it.” Yes, he does.
“I can’t,” I say. Won’t isn’t the issue here. “Winning would change everything. What I have now is perfect. I playGLOand I hide, and I’m a totally normal high schooler. And I hide. I can’t afford to change that.”
Jake clears his throat. “Listen, Em, I’m d—”
“If you say ‘dumb,’ I will grab this chair and strike you like a Hardy brother.”
“Fine, I’m a genius. I’m the smartest man in the world.”
“Eh, dial it back.”
“Can you stop doing that?” He doesn’t say it harshly, but I still turn to him, visibly annoyed.
“What?”
When I look, Jake is holding me in his gaze, staring as intently as he did that day in the cafeteria.
“That . . . ?prickly, defensive mean girl thing. You can talk your way around anyone, I know, but that’s not you.”
He’s wrong. It’s absolutely me. I wouldn’t have survived this long keeping my two lives in balance if I didn’t push people exactly where I needed them to be. I push them away, I pull them closer, and they stay there until I need to move them.
I’ve been getting progressively suckier at it, but that’s still the guiding principle.
“It’s who I have to be,” I explain quietly.
“Nah,” he says dismissively. “It’s really not. I know, remember? I’m seeing you from both sides. All sides really; there’s way more than two. You’re, like, one of those conceptualDnDdice that no one can even use because there are too many sides. A tri . . . contra thing.”
“Triacontahedron.” Technically a disdyakis triacontahedron, but I’ll let it slide.
“Sure, younerd. Anyway.” Jake reaches across me and holds both of my shoulders. Not like Connor does it, when he’s trying to steer me around like a tiny girl-tractor, but like Jake is holding something small and soft that might run away before he has a chance to help it. “You still have to try to win.”
“I—”
“Shush. What you have right now, it’s not working, right? You think the people in school can’t possibly understand why you playGLO, but what happened when you told Penny and Matt? Or that Fury won’t protect you if the shit hits the fan, but do you hear your name coming out of Byunki’s mouth, ever? We got you. So, so, so many people got you.”
Well, okay. Penny and Matt were cool when they found out, and Fury is obviously fine, but that’s not the important thing here. There are my parents and school and exposing my real identity to the world. These are all valid concerns.
“You do,” I submit, “but I still can’t risk winning. I’m going to throw this match and quit before Round Three either way. I’ll stop playing; it’s not the end of the world. That’s better than cracking this whole thing open.”
“You are so smart,” Jake says kindly. He absentmindedly rubs his thumbs back and forth over my shoulders; it feels incredible, like a Vulcan chill-the-hell-out pinch. “And so not right. You know the first thing I thought when we were onstage and Thibault announced the league? First thing, like I didn’t even think ‘Wow, my team could go pro’ or ‘Muddy’s gonna crap himself.’ ”
“What did you think?” I ask. Those thumbs are lulling me into somethingnew.
“I thought, ‘Emilia is about to do some real dumb shit.’ And here you are, trying to quit when you have a shot at getting what you want. You do want it, right? In a vacuum, like you say.”
“Of course I do! Stop touching me.” I shrug away from his hands, and he holds them up on either side of him like he’s under arrest. Immediately I feel more tense. That “prickly, defensive mean girl” thing is back in play, and I fully hate myself for it. “No, wait. I’m sorry. I just . . .”
Jake puts his arms down for a moment, then reaches over and hovers his hand over mine. He tilts his head experimentally:Are you sure that’s what you wanted? I’m fine either way,but I need you to choose it, he seems to ask.
Fuck it. I grab his hand with both of mine. I touch the tough skin at the joint of his thumbs and the tips of his forefingers and feel the weird, specific muscle tone of someone whose hands burn more calories gaming than the rest of him combined. For all the thick, unruly hair on his head, the five or six hairs on each knuckle are fine. Smooth wrists, nice hands. He’s a healer for sure.
“I want to try,” I finally admit while I’m petting Jake’s hand like a guinea pig. Penny’s going to lose it when I tell her about this. “I’m good enough.”
“You are.” Jake doesn’t know what to do with his extra hand. He’s tried tucking it under his chin, messing with his hair, and in the last few seconds settled on squeezing it between his legs. Other than that, his eyes are fixed on my hands touching him. That should bother me, but it doesn’t. Not even a little bit. It’s just easy.
“Fury could win today if I don’t throw away my shot.”
“They could.”
