Page 59 of How We Play the Game
“But you askedhimto fake date—how was that part of the plan?” Kavi rubs her temples. I can’t blame her—this is the kind of situation that would give me a Level 10 headache if I wasn’t so focused on taking Ivan down.
“He went along with it to rehab his image, and because Brian saw that it was boosting our popularity.” I inhale sharply before continuing, lower lip quivering slightly, “And as soon as he saw a dip in the ratings, he held a meeting where he told Ivan to dump me.”
Trieu guides me to the edge of my bed when I start to tremble, sitting down beside me and waiting until I’ve sniffled my way through yet another almost tear attack to ask, “How did you find out?”
“I listened in on their conversation like a creep; how do you think?” Just the thought of it slices at me like a knife. “He wanted Ivan to break up with me so we could be the final match. A battle of the exes.”
Kavi’s eyes go wide as saucers. “Wait, so you’re going to be in the final two? Officially?”
I scoff. “If Ivan actually shows up.” While I doubt he’d pass up a chance at a moment of glory, I don’t technically know if he’ll hold up his end of the bargain and come to the battle. Stranger things have happened—like me falling for him. “Ivan said no.”
“But you said yes?” Kavi asks, looking pointedly at Trieu before turning back to me. “You didn’t try to fight back against this idea?”
“Why should I?” I practically spit back, so bitter and pissed I don’t even bother to soften my voice. “They were always going to pick whoevertheywanted. We’ve known since the minute we got here that none of this was about merit. If it wasn’t going to be me, it was just going to be the next best option. None of this is fair, so I might as well get a win out of it.”
“Zora, calm—”
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I shout at Trieu, and instantly regret it. They’re not the ones to blame here. Brian and Ivan are the real villains—the only people deserving of my rage. But in that moment of blinding anger, all I could do was let the rage out. There was no time to think about who it was aimed at—how hurt they might be by me lashing out.
“We’re just trying to help you!” Kavi shouts back loud enough that I wince. Both from the volume rattling my eardrums, and because I know I deserve it. “That’s all we’ve done this summer—try to help you!” She gestures to herself and Trieu—whose cheeks are as pink as the sunset sky beyond my window. “And I guess that was for nothing too then? Since you’re so willing to take the top slot without even standing up for the rest of us?”
“Kavi, I—”
“Forget this.” She throws her hands into the air before I can apologize, shaking her head before turning on her heel and going toward the door.
I go to protest—to throw as many pleas for forgiveness as I can at her—but the door slams before I can. I slump backonto my bed like I’m deadweight, head hung so low it makes my neck ache. Trieu is unmoving on the bed beside me. I close my eyes and wait for them to leave too. To be the last member of the party left standing. Everyone gone, all because of me.
But there’s no creaking of the floor or squeak of the stiff-as-a-board mattress springs. Just the warmth of Trieu shifting in closer to me. To his arm wrapping around my shoulders.
“I know how it feels,” Trieu says, making me look up from the ground so quickly I give myself whiplash. The tears clouding my vision begin to fade as I straighten up, eager to hear what he means. “I know what guys like Ivan can be.”
There’s a sadness in his tone that makes my heart break. How could anyone possibly break someone as pure and good as Trieu’s heart? All of my own sadness is replaced by a fierce need to get out of here, hunt down whoever hurt Trieu, and kick their ass into the next century. Trieu must sense my righteous anger, laughing quietly and pulling back just enough to take out his phone.
“But you can’t trust Brian.”
“I know,” I sniffle miserably. “But what choice do I have now?”
“Oh, none, girl. You’re fucked.” Trieu pulls out his phone. “But there’s someone you need to talk to. Like, now.”
My brow furrows as I watch him scroll through his contacts, my breath hitching as a familiar name and face fill the screen once he hits Call.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WHEN WE REHEARSED for our live stream from the theater earlier this week, the air on the academy stage had to be artificially cooled with fans in the wings to better protect the dozens of computers whirring just a few feet away. Today those rigs are stored backstage and the warm, bright spotlight beaming from the ceiling’s iron catwalk is melting me like a candle. That’s the bad part of being alone onstage. The good part … I’m still trying to figure that out.
I’m not entirely alone. Past the curtain I can hear the rumblings of my academy peers settling into their seats in the auditorium. Backstage, there’s approximately twenty people hovering just off camera waiting for Brian to call out a demand to surge out and swarm like those colonies of bees that cook spiders with their own body heat. I’m temporarily blinded when the spotlight we’d been testing shuts off once people start streaming into the auditorium. Greenish-black circles float in front of my eyes as they adjust to the significantly darker room, but I don’t need eyes to hear Brian’s teambuzz on toward me with makeup brushes, spray bottles, and tablets outstretched.
“She’s shiny, don’t you think she’s getting a little shiny?” a woman with mid-’00s hipster glasses asks the man next to her. He nods silently. “Okay, so powder. Powder, right? We should give her a little powder?”
“She’sright here,” I mumble under my breath. No one notices, and another handler steps up with a compact in one hand and a thick, fluffy kabuki brush in another. He pats the brush into the powder, taps it against his arm, and begins to dab the shine-slaying material on my forehead, down the bridge of my nose, at the tip of my chin. He doesn’t ask to touch me first. No one’s asked me that yet today.
My vision begins to clear at the same time I feel the blunt poke of a pick in my hair, methodically lifting my curls away from my scalp to restore some of the volume I’ve surely lost to time, sweat, and gravity.
“We’re all clear to go live in ten.” Of course the first thing I see through the fog is Brian, expertly swerving around a light being wheeled offstage, clipboard in hand, to come stand beside me. “Don’t forget to give it a little more emotion this time,” he reminds me, as if I could’ve forgotten the note he gave me multiple times throughout rehearsal. “We threw in a few extra lines.” He hands me an updated script, my speech challenging Ivan to show his face and clear his name now significantly longer. “We’ll get the teleprompter updated, but you can take or leave these. Go with the flow.”
“You got it,” I reply dully. I’m saving my energy for the cameras and the crowds.
“Just remember,” he continues, “you hate Ivan. He wronged you, abandoned you, and you’ve got to convince him to come back for one final confrontation. I need more fire, more fury. More righteous anger!”
