“What’s with the racket in here?” Cressida asks as she enters the kitchen. “Oh good, someone’s cooking—I’m starving.”

“I’m not sure if it will be edible. Saylor just learned she’s gone viral,” Emma explains.

“Ah,” Cressida replies. “Don’t look at me, I’m only responsible for six out of the eight million views.”

“Was it the same video or different versions?” Emma asks.

“I watched the same one five times and then a second one once to make sure it was the same.”

“That only counted as two views, then,” Emma tells her.

“Even better then. Did you hear that, Saylor?”

I don’t respond as I pull a carton of eggs out of the fridge.

“She doesn’t care about you watching it. She’s worried Adler Beck saw it,” Emma supplies.

I grit my teeth as I crack some eggs and they continue talking about me as though I’m not standing here.

“I’m sure he’s flattered,” Cressida says in what I know she means to be a reassuring tone. “I mean, no offense, but he might not even remember you. He probably does tons of those camps.”

I pour the eggs in the hot skillet and start chopping fresh veggies, not trusting myself to say anything.

Eventually, the euphoria of our win earlier trumps gossip about me, and the dinner conversation is mostly centered around the scrimmage today. After we eat and clean up, Cressida announces she’s invited the rest of the team over to celebrate, along with “a few other people.” From experience, I know that likely means our tiny house will soon resemble Times Square.

I’ve just finished changing into a skirt and silky top when I hear a fresh chatter of voices echo downstairs. I swipe on a second layer of mascara and head out into the hallway, making certain to close my door behind me.

I head downstairs to see a bunch of the juniors hovering in the entryway. Natalie leaps on me when I hit the final step, giving me a big hug. “All hail the captain!”

I walk into the kitchen, and they all follow me.

“We come bearing gifts!” Natalie gives me a sly grin.

“You look empty-handed to me,” Cressida comments.

A shiny cover appears from behind Natalie’s back, and a cold cube of consternation drops in my stomach before I even get a good glimpse of the glossy magazine being waved at me.

“Guess who the ‘Sexiest Man in Sports’ is for the third year straight?”

A lustrous photo of Beck is waved in front of me, and I think I keep my cool. It’s my most daunting test of the P.B. era—unrelated to the sandwich condiment—and I don’t falter.

“Not much of a guessing game when you wave it in front of my face,” I comment.

“Shut the fuck up,” Emma commands, grabbing the shiny pages and flipping through them.