Page 60 of Chess Not Checkers
“You might want to leave,” she says as she pushes past him.
My eyes rake over her. It hasn’t been long since I’ve seen her, but it feels like a century. Her curls are down and wild, brushing her shoulders which are covered by a gray Thrashers sweatshirt.She’s wearing black shorts that show off her toned legs and white ankle socks that poke out of her sneakers.
If Owen thought I looked pathetic before, I can only imagine how I look now. The mere sight of her has my heart racing and my mouth dry.
“Did you drop your brain in a blender after you lost last night?” Jasmine asks, and I jerk back in surprise. The fire in her eyes is something I haven’t seen since the time when I rescheduled chess club.
“I—what?” I stutter, incapable of forming words when she’s this gorgeous and angry. She should have to pick one or the other. It’s not fighting fair.
“I’m just wondering, since you decided to break up our friendship over text. That seems like something a guy who threw his brain in a small appliance would do.”
Owen snorts as he grabs his keys out of the bowl. I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t see it because he’s headed toward the door. No doubt he agrees with Jasmine.
I stand up and hold out a hand like I’m Chris Pratt and she’s a raptor. “I’m sorry. That was a jerk thing to do. I should have met with you in person.”
Her glare doesn’t let up. “Yes, you should have. To talk things through. So I couldhelpyou.”
I sigh. “Jasmine, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You saw how I did out there—”
“I know, you lost. So what?”
I huff. “Are you serious? I told you how important it was for me to win.”
“Yeah, you told me a lot of things. And I told you stuff too. Things I’d never told anyone else—” Her voice breaks. Some of the fight leaves her eyes as they begin to shimmer with tears.
I take a step toward her, but she takes one back.
“No. Don’t come near me. Not until we have this out.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” I ask.
She nods, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I’m fighting youforyou, Shepherd Kingsley. Don’t bother trying to stop me because I’m not giving up. That’s a promise,” she echoes the end of my speech from last night.
I push my hands into my hair. “You don’t understand. Ihaveto win. I can’t make another mistake. Football has to be the only focus.”
“Why?” She drills the word into my heart.
“We talked about this; I can’t fail. I can’t be second to him.” I turn away from her and pace to the other side of the living room.
“Why?” she repeats.
Anxiety turns my stomach and climbs up my throat.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
“Yes, you do,” Jasmine says, her voice calmer than before. “Tell me.”
The pain builds within me like fire consuming a house from the innermost room. The heat increases, rising and rising until finally the admission bursts out of me.
“Because that’s how I’ll get them to see me!” The words tear through my throat as I spin around to face her. “If I can beat him. If it’smyname on their television screens and radios and social media feeds. Then they’ll notice me.”
“Who?” she asks softly.
I wrack my brain for an answer to her question. It was one I’d never asked myself before. For years, all that’s driven me is instinct. I was good at football, and people paid attention to Jason because he was good at football. They looked at me when I started to match up to him.
When he went to college and got on TV, it was the first time my parents talked about football beyond asking if I needed new cleats. They wouldn’t really watch the sport, but they put it onin the background while they cleaned up or made dinner. When people asked about Jason, they’d smile and saythat’s our boy.
Realization carves through me.
