Transit Girl. Jamie Shupak

gives me the slightest smile. “I’ve never seen anyone fall off a table so masterfully.”

      “Well, get ready for my second feat of mastery.” I shoo him back to his side, acting like nothing ever happened. “Three more points,” I announce to the Banter crowd, “and that post is history.”

      Silence falls over the table. I can hear fake Courtney answer the phone in a bored voice over at the reception desk. You can tell there’s more than just a win riding on this game. Ben is fighting for the principle Banter is based on: bringing the media elite back down to earth. I’m not kidding myself that I’m part of that elite, but I did hand him a goldmine: a young, hot newscaster getting sloppy drunk and making horrible decisions at one of the most exclusive clubs in town. Bonus points for dancing, lyric-making, and of course, the strip show. If they have to take down my post, the backlash will be fast, widely reported, and full of schadenfreude. But I can’t worry about that right now. I’m fighting for my job, my dignity, my independence—I literally feel like my life is on the line. How fitting, I think to myself, that my future is about to be decided by a Ping-Pong game.

      I hunker down. All my focus has to be on this game—winning this game. He’s hot on my trail now, twenty to eighteen, and the tension is at an all-time high. Game point. I feel like the kicker coming onto the field in the last seconds of the Super Bowl, the weight of the game and the whole season on his shoulders, as he’s about to kick the winning field goal.

      “Ready?”

      Ben nods and I let loose with my best Serena Williams impersonation. As we volley back and forth, you can hear every breath, every hit of the paddle, every bounce on the table. In my head, I hear Courtney’s text over and over: No matter what I love you. I lean left and knock a ball back to Ben’s side. I see JR holding me as we slow dance to “Stand by Me” and Zelda nips at our legs. I knock the ball back to his side with killer topspin. Zelda. I miss Zelda. What if I lose my job and I have to move home with my parents and I never see Zelda again? Just then, Ben lobs a ball high over the low-slung net and I swing down at it with all my might. I watch—victoriously—as it blows past his outstretched paddle.

      “YESSSSSSSSSSSS! YES YES YES!”

      Hootin’ and hollerin’, I throw my hands up in the air to further exclaim victory. The second I do, the searing white pain rushes back and shoots all the way up to my head. And then all the light from the bright room—shining through the windows and glaring off each laptop and TV monitor—goes dark. The last thing I see, before I hit the ground, are Ben’s double-knotted shoelaces.