Page 45 of All That Glitters

“There’s an underground fight club run by fraternity row. All the frats take turns hosting it in their basements.” He slurs and stumbles over his words, but I make them out clearly enough to know I need into one of these events. Charlie would give me every article I asked for from this moment forward if I brought him something as juicy as this.

“Are non-fraternity members allowed in?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual. It helps that Carson is drunk, but I don’t want to spook him and lose out on valuable information.

“Oh yeah. As long as you’ve got the password, you can get in.”

Shouts erupt all around us as one of the Thrashers, Porter, blocks a goal. Carson clinks his flask to the cup of someone behind us. It’s in the midst of this chaos that I ask my next question.

“What’s the password?”

“Depends on the night,” he replies. “Tomorrow is at Alpha Pi so I got to choose.” He gives me a sloppy smile. “I chose whiskey.”

Of course he did. I fake a laugh, then turn my eyes back to the game. I can feel my heart pounding against my chest. My gaze drifts to Jameson. He’s laser focused on the game, even from the penalty box.

I wish I could tell him about this. The thought is sharp, stabbing in between my ribs. I shake my head and focus on the task at hand. I’ve got one more detail to get before I can secure this story.

“What time do the fights usually start?” I hold my breath.

“Midnight, though the place is packed before then.”

I bob my head, not saying anything more. This could be my big break. I bite my lip to contain a smile. There’s no way that Jameson stays the favorite after this.

The game continues, and I do my best to maintain focus. Even if I’ve got a great story on the horizon, I can’t neglect my current assignment.

“Marigold Belmore?” a voice asks, pulling my attention from my notebook during the intermission in between second and third period.

I look up. My brows pull together when I see a guy in a concession stand uniform holding a tray of food.

“Yes?” I ask hesitantly.

“This is for you,” he says while holding the tray out farther.

“I didn’t pay for this,” I say. “Or order it.”

“Someone bought it for you,” he says with a sigh. “I gotta get back to work. Can you just take it?”

I reach up and grab the tray, balancing it in my lap on top of my notebook. The worker leaves before I can say thank you or ask any follow-up questions.

“I didn’t know they delivered,” Carson comments.

“Neither did I,” I mumble, eying the food.

There’s a basket of chicken tenders and fries, which would seem basic enough if it wasn’t for the little cup of nacho cheese on the side. It’s my go-to order, when I can get them to do it since the cheese technically only goes with the nachos. There’s also bottled spring water, not Dasani, because I think Dasani tastes like chlorine. And a small cup of steaming hot cocoa.

There’s only one person who would know all of this about me and be able to get some poor concession stand worker to bring it to me during the game.

Jameson.

I look up, my heart in my throat. He’s not on the ice, though. All of the players are in the locker room. He specifically chose a time when he wouldn’t be out here to even see my reaction. I thought after the fight at the diner that he’d give up like I told him to. Apparently not.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since this morning. I pick up a fry, dip it in cheese, and stare at it. A part of me feels like I should refuse. Would it give him the wrong idea to see me eating it? But at the same time, I don’t want to waste perfectly good food. I glance up at the time clock. Ten minutes left of intermission. If I eat fast, I can get rid of it, and he won’t be able to know if I ate it or not.

I take a bite. Then another and another until most of the basket is gone and my stomach is full. I stare down at what’s left and wonder if I’ve ensured my fate somehow, like Persephone eating the pomegranate seeds. Is my eating it a symbol of something more? Even if Jameson never finds out what I did with the food, I know.

The food suddenly feels heavy in my stomach as I carry the tray into the hallway and over to the trash can near concessions. I throw away the paper basket and empty water bottle, but there’s still the hot cocoa. I won’t be able to drink it before intermission is over. It’s cooled down to less than boiling, a perfect temperature to drink. But Jameson might see it.

I set the tray on top of the trash and hold the hot cocoa. It warms my palm through the Styrofoam.

“Excuse me,” someone says from behind, and I quickly move out of the way, cup in hand. They throw their trash away, then walk away. I can’t stand here debating forever. The game will start soon, and I don’t want to miss anything important for the article.