Chapter 6: Game On
1215 Words
I sat frozen at Jake’s dining table, The Great Gatsby open in front of me, but all I could hear was the muffled growl of Coach’s voice through the door. “Off the team if this keeps up” echoed in my head, sharp and cold. My fingers tightened around my pen, ink bleeding into the page. Jake was out there, taking whatever that meant, and I was stuck inside, heart thudding like I’d run the length of Oak Street.
The porch light cast shadows through the blinds, flickering as they moved—Jake pacing, maybe, or Coach jabbing a finger. I strained to catch more, but it was just rumbles and clipped words: “grades,” “last chance,” “Friday.” Friday was tomorrow. The wedding was Saturday. My stomach twisted—our deal was teetering, and I didn’t even know why.
The door creaked open, and I snapped my head down, pretending to study. Jake stepped in, shoulders hunched, no smirk in sight. He didn’t look at me—just grabbed a soda from the counter and cracked it, the hiss loud in the quiet. His knuckles were still bruised, redder now, like he’d clenched them too hard outside.
“Everything okay?” I asked, voice small. Stupid question, but I had to say something.
He took a long swig, then set the can down with a thud. “Peachy,” he muttered, sarcasm thick. “Coach is on my ass. Nothing new.”
“Off the team, though?” It slipped out before I could stop it. His eyes flicked to mine, narrow and dark, and I winced. “I heard. Sorry.”
He ran a hand through his hair, messing it worse. “Yeah, well, eavesdropping’s a talent of yours. He’s pissed about English. Test’s next week, and if I bomb it, I’m benched. Season’s toast.”
I swallowed, guilt prickling. “That’s why you need me, right? We’ve got time. We can—”
“Don’t.” He cut me off, sharp, then softened, rubbing his face. “Look, I’m not mad at you. It’s my mess. Just… let’s finish this tonight. I need a win.”
I nodded, flipping pages to Chapter 5. “Okay. Gatsby and Daisy reunite. What’s the vibe?”
He sat, closer than before, knee brushing mine again. “Awkward,” he said, voice low. “He’s all sweaty and nervous, trying to impress her. She’s playing it cool, but you can tell she’s into it.”
“Good.” I scribbled a note, surprised at his take. “Why’s it awkward?”
“’Cause he’s pretending,” he said, eyes on the book, not me. “Hiding who he really is. Sounds exhausting.”
The air shifted, heavy with something unspoken. I thought of him on the porch, hiding whatever Coach saw—grades, sure, but maybe more. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “It is.”
We plowed through—Daisy’s voice, the rain, Gatsby’s shirts—and he kept up, sharper than last night, like he was proving something. An hour later, I closed the book, head buzzing. “You’re getting it. Really.”
He smirked, faint but there. “Guess you’re not a crappy teacher after all.”
I rolled my eyes, but a smile slipped out. “High praise, Ryder.” I packed up, the clock hitting 9:30. “Tomorrow, then? Last session before the wedding?”
“Yeah.” He stood, stretching, shirt lifting just enough to distract me. I looked away fast. “Six sharp. I’ll clean up for your mom.”
“Don’t strain yourself,” I teased, slinging my bag on. But as I hit the porch, his voice stopped me.
“Mia.” I turned, and he was in the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes softer than I’d seen. “Thanks. For sticking around.”
I blinked, warmth creeping up my neck. “Deal’s a deal, right?”
“Right.” He nodded, almost shy, then shut the door.
Friday flew by—school, Ellie’s warnings (“He’s gonna ditch you, mark my words”), Mom’s third call about Jake’s “manners.” I barely slept, dreaming of broken glass and motorcycle roars. By Saturday, 5 PM, I was a wreck in my room, tugging on a navy dress—simple, knee-length, the only thing I owned that screamed “not a total loser.” My hair stayed down, curls wild, and I prayed Jake wouldn’t laugh.
At 5:50, I paced the driveway, clutching my phone. The venue was ten minutes away—a fancy hall Mom had bragged about for months. Six PM ticked closer, and no Jake. My stomach sank. Ellie was right—he’d flaked. I texted him—“Where are you?”—and got nothing. 5:55. 5:58. I was about to call Mom with some lame excuse when a rumble cut the air.
His motorcycle screeched around the corner, black and loud, Jake astride it in a borrowed blazer—navy, wrinkled, but close enough to black tie. No tie, of course, just an open-collared shirt showing too much collarbone. He pulled up, killed the engine, and yanked off his helmet, hair a disaster. “Sorry,” he said, breathless. “Kyle trashed my ride. Had to fix it.”
I stared, relief crashing into annoyance. “You’re late.”
“Two minutes.” He grinned, swinging off the bike. “Still charming, though.”
“Barely,” I muttered, but my lips twitched. He looked… good. Too good. “Let’s go. Mom’s already texting.”
He offered his arm, all mock-gentleman, and I took it, ignoring the jolt where our skin touched. We walked to my beat-up Civic—I wasn’t riding that bike in a dress—and drove in silence, his knee bouncing beside me. At the hall, fairy lights twinkled, cars lined up, and Mom’s voice carried from the entrance, shrill and excited.
“Ready?” I asked, parking, nerves buzzing.
“Born for it,” he said, but his hand lingered on the door, tight. “You?”
“No,” I admitted, and he laughed—real, rough, grounding me.
Inside, it was chaos—flowers, chatter, Sarah glowing in white. Mom spotted us, swooping in with, “Mia! And this is…?” Her eyes raked Jake, skeptical but curious.
“Jake,” he said, flashing that grin, hand out. “Nice to meet you.”
She shook it, thawing. “Well, aren’t you polite? Come, meet Sarah!”
He shot me a look—I got this—and followed her, leaving me trailing. The night blurred—hellos, small talk, Jake charming everyone like it was easy. Then the music started, slow and sweet, and Sarah waved us to the dance floor.
“Dance?” Jake asked, eyebrow up, daring me.
I gulped. “You said you couldn’t.”
“ Lied,” he whispered, pulling me close. His hand slid to my waist, warm through the fabric, and I stumbled, stepping on his toe. He chuckled, steadying me, and we swayed—awkward, then smooth.
Until I saw her. Across the room, a girl—tall, blonde, glaring—watching us like she owned him
- Writer
