Rush The Game

before I ever asked. Then he shrugs. “Jackson says it’s—”
    “—decided by committee.”
    We stand facing each other on the driveway, separated by about three feet. Separated by a million miles. I want to ask him so many things. He won’t have the answers, not all of them. There’s only one person who has those, and I don’t know when he’ll show up again.
    “Luka, I want Jackson’s number.”
    He hesitates, his hands clenching at his sides. “Why?”
    “You have it,” I point out instead of answering his question.
    “Because he gave it to me. If he didn’t give it to you, I’m not sure it’s okay if I do.”
    Now it’s my turn to study him, and I get the impression that Luka’s worries have nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the kind of person he is. “You don’t mean okay because of the game. You mean okay because you don’t want to mess with his privacy.”
    “Well . . . yeah . . . Just like I wouldn’t give him your number without checking with you first.”
    “What about my address?”
    Luka’s eyes widen. “No! Never. Not without asking.”
    “So you never gave him my address when you told him you were planning to break the rules and talk to me?”
    “No.”
    “Then how come he showed up on my driveway just in time for my run?”
    Luka opens his mouth, closes it, then says, “I don’t know.”
    “It’s okay, Luka. There’s probably a simple explanation.” Like Jackson followed me home after the first mission. Or he has secret methods of getting info. Or he’s a hacker. Or a stalker—actually that one I’m sure of. He already admitted he was watching my house. Whatever. I’m sure now that I won’t get answers from Luka, because he doesn’t have them.
    On impulse I reach over and hug him. It’s sort of nice and sort of awkward, and it feels pretty much like hugging Carly except Luka’s taller and broader and his chest is hard and leanly muscled. It feels safe and pleasant.
    It doesn’t feel anything like hugging Jackson.
    Luka pats my back in awkward little spurts, and then he clears his throat and steps back. “So, uh, see you tomorrow,” he says, even though he obviously wants to say something else.
    “Wait, just one more question. If none of us are supposed to have contact outside the game, why did Jackson give you his number?”
    “I never said we couldn’t have contact outside. Just that we couldn’t talk about it outside.”
    “Right.” I manage to drum up a smile. “Guess we’re all breaking all the rules now.”
    “Guess so.” He backs up a few feet, still watching me, and raises a hand in an easy wave. “Call me if you need me, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    And that’s that. I watch until he turns the corner and disappears. Even then, I don’t go inside. I just stand on the driveway staring at nothing, letting the hot sun warm my back.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    IT TAKES EFFORT TO FOCUS ON THE FACT THAT BETWEEN THE long trek through the tunnels, the battles, and sleeping in Jackson’s arms, I’ve been gone for nearly two days, but in my world, my real world, only moments have passed. My real world . Is this it? Or are the missions my reality now? Thinking about it makes my stomach roll.
    Well, if this is my real world, I have stuff here to deal with, too: friends, Dad, homework, laundry. It’s hard to get my head around that. My focus for two days has been on staying alive, but Carly’s furious with me for some reason, and for her it’s only been about twenty minutes since she and Sarah drove away. It feels weird worrying about her issues when there are things so much bigger weighing on my thoughts, but in this world, the one where my life isn’t at risk every second, her issues are big.
    I tiptoe into the house, trying not to alert Dad to my presence. The last thing I want right now is a father-daughter chat about boys. I head up to my room, retrieve my phone, and call Carly. It shoots to voice mail. I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it. Voice mail? Since when does Carly not pick up every single call?
    I dial again. This time, she picks up. “Having a nice day?” she asks. Not a loaded question, so why does it feel like one?
    “Peachy,” I say, my patience paper thin. Whatever’s eating her is nothing compared to what I’m trying to deal with. I swallow, trying to bury that thought. I feel selfish for thinking it. It isn’t Carly’s fault that I can’t tell her what’s going on with me, and if I don’t