Page 57 of Chess Not Checkers
“Stop calling me that!” I jerk my arm out of his grasp and turn around, seething. His eyes go wide with surprise. I spot Willow a few feet away, which makes my heart sink. I don’t want her to see me like this. At least my parents aren’t with them.
“I’msickof being compared to you. Jason ‘The King’ Kingsley, undefeated in college, Heisman Trophy holder, multiple Super Bowl winner—the list goes on. Every single thing that’s yet another reminder of what I don’t live up to.”
Jason’s brow furrows and he takes a cautious step toward me. “What are you talking about? Live up to me? None of those things are what matter most.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Says the man who has all of that plus a family to go home to.”
His expression turns from confused to crestfallen. He looks around, and I notice several people watching us. “Shep—”
I shake my head. “I can’t do this right now. I need to go.”
I leave him behind and hurry to the locker room, grateful when I look back and see he didn’t follow. At some point I’ll have to face him, but not tonight. Exhaustion is lining my bones with lead. It feels like I’m moving through water as I grab my duffel bag. I slide my phone off the shelf of my locker, and it buzzes in my palm. Jasmine’s name pops up on the screen.
Jasmine: I’m sorry about the loss. I know there’s nothing anyone can say right now to make things better, but I’m here if you want to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need, just let me know.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. I wish she wouldn’t have sent me anything at all. It makes what I have to do harder. I open our text thread. Maybe I should wait to think things through, but the longer I take, the more likely I am to cave. So I slump into my chair and type the hardest message I’ve ever had to write.
Chapter twenty-nine
Fight
Jasmine Chamberlain
“Jaz?” Saylor’s voice sounds slightly muffled from outside my bedroom door.
I’m curled up beneath a mound of blankets, next to a pile of laundry that I can’t remember if it’s clean and I haven’t folded it, or if it’s dirty and I dropped it there because I was supposed to wash my sheets today.
“Have you called her that before?” Marigold asks.
“No, but it seemed nice,” Saylor says back.
“What if she doesn’t like it? What if you made her more sad?”
I let out a wet laugh, wiping away my tears with the corner of my comforter. Since I got Shepherd’s text last night, I haven’t left my room. It’s almost noon the next day—at least that’s what my phone said when I rewatched his press conference for the fourth time. Listened to the promise he made to the entire country. Watched the brokenness consume him over and over. I hate it every time, but I can’t stop. Some part of me thinks thatmaybe one more time will make me figure out why he would say to me what he did.
I poke my head out from under the covers. “Jaz is fine. My family calls me that,” I say weakly.
Whispers that I can’t make out float beneath the door.
“Can we come in?” Saylor asks after what was either a discussion or an argument, I’m not sure.
My chest rises and falls with a sigh. I shouldn’t pull away. That’s exactly what Shepherd did to me, and I’m broken over it. I can’t do that to my friends.
“Sure, but don’t judge my room,” I call out, mostly for Saylor’s sake.
I keep my door closed most of the time, because any time Saylor gets a peek, she lets out this horrified gasp that belongs in a Lifetime movie. Then she asks to clean it for me. To which I say I was planning to clean it the following Sunday. That never happens. The most I do is throw away the collection of coconut water bottles gathering dust on my nightstand.
I glance at the nightstand in question. Three bottles of varying levels of consumption sit in a little triangle beside a book my sister asked me to read, a tangle of necklaces I gave up on, and a sticky note that saysDon’t Forget!stuck to my lampshade. Not sure what that’s referring to.
Usually, I don’t mind the state of my room, because the rest of my life is going well. Now, it feels like a symbol of everything wrong. Each half-drunk water bottle taunts me.
My door opens and Marigold walks in first, followed by Saylor, whose eyes are as wide as soup bowls. I give her credit, though, because she doesn’t voice any of her terror.
Marigold sits on the edge of my bed next to where my knees are curled to my chest. “We’re worried about you. Did something happen after the game? I know the team lost, but I wouldn’t think you’d be this broken up about that.”
“It’s not about the loss—well, not exactly—it’s about Shepherd.” I punctuate my sentence with a sniffle.
Saylor sits on the end of my bed, eying the laundry next to her. I almost laugh at the barely concealed horror.
