I Loved You Until That Night

Rule #1 of cheating: Always turn off your personal hotspot!

Text from Jaxon (7:00 PM): “Coach is killing us tonight. Stuck at practice. Wish I was at the concert with you, future wifey. 🥺”

My iPhone (8:30 PM): Connected to Jaxon’s Personal Hotspot.

My heart flatlined.

As fate would have it, the stage spotlight hit my face. The singer handed me a mic.

Instead of playing the lucky fan, I turned the concert into a massive manhunt.

The jumbotron found him in Section 104.

He wasn't alone.

When the cameras exposed his panicked face and the blonde in his arms, I gave him the ultimate send-off in front of a live audience:

"I'm officially dropping you. You two deserve each other. Match made in hell. "

Jaxon’s text chimed in right as I stepped off the subway. 

Jaxon: Babe, I am so sorry. Coach is tearing us a new one. Mandatory film study tonight. I can’t make the concert.

Another ping. A selfie. 

He was standing in the locker room hallway. He wore that custom navy blue leather jacket I bought him for our anniversary, distressed jeans, and his signature silver rivet bracelet. He looked like the poster boy for the NFL draft. 

Jaxon: Dressed this handsome but can’t even take my future wife out. Kill me now. 🥺 Have fun without me.

I rolled my eyes but smiled. Me: It’s okay. Football comes first. Don't let Coach kill you. We’ll catch the next tour.

I meant it. We’d been together since sophomore year of high school. He was the star quarterback, I was the NYU psych major pulling a 4.0. My parents loved him. We had a plan. A canceled date wasn't a big deal.

I grabbed my ticket and walked into the Brooklyn arena alone.

The venue was packed to the brim. The opening act had just finished, and the heavy bass was still vibrating through the floorboards. I squeezed past a group of drunk college kids to get to my seat in Section 105. 

I pulled out my phone to text my roommate that I made it inside safely. 

The message wouldn't send. Bad reception. 

I swiped down to check my Wi-Fi. It was already connected. 

Not to the arena's public network. 

It was locked onto a personal hotspot. 

Jaxon’s iPhone 17 Pro Max.

I stopped walking. Someone bumped hard into my shoulder, spilling a little beer on my boots, but I barely felt it. 

I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the Wi-Fi icon. I toggled it off, then back on. 

Connecting... Connected to Jaxon’s iPhone 17 Pro Max.

He wasn’t at the NYU training facility in Manhattan. He wasn't watching game film. 

He was here. 

I looked down over the railing at the lower bowl. Thousands of heads. Dim lighting. I couldn't spot him in this chaos. 

The main lights dropped. The crowd erupted into deafening screams as the headliner walked on stage. 

I sat in my seat. I just watched the crowd, my eyes scanning the rows below me every time the strobe lights flashed. 

Forty minutes into the set, the lead singer raised his hand. The heavy drums cut out, replaced by a soft, acoustic guitar loop. 

"Brooklyn! You guys are amazing tonight," the singer yelled into the mic. "We're gonna slow it down. I want to talk to one of you. Let's see who's out there."

A massive, blinding white spotlight shot out from the ceiling. It swept erratically across the mosh pit, climbed the lower tiers, and kept going. 

It stopped. 

Right on my face. 

The two giant jumbotrons flanking the stage instantly mirrored my image. 

A female crew member sprinted up the aisle and shoved a wireless microphone into my hand. 

"Hey there, gorgeous in the upper section," the singer laughed. "What's your name?"

"Stella," I said. 

My voice boomed through the stadium speakers. 

"Stella! You look like you're here flying solo tonight. So I'm gonna let you make a wish. Anything you want. Like coming down here for a handshake, snapping a quick selfie, or maybe catching a blown kiss"

I looked at the microphone in my hand. Then I looked down at my phone screen. Three bars of Wi-Fi. Still connected. 

"Actually," I said, bringing the mic closer to my lips. "I want to find someone."

The entire arena let out a collective "Awww." They thought it was a rom-com moment. A grand romantic gesture. 

"Oh, we got a romantic in the house!" the singer hyped up the crowd. "Give us the details, Stella! Let's find your man! "

"He's wearing a custom navy blue leather jacket. It has white NYU football embroidery on the back. He’s wearing distressed denim jeans. And he has a silver rivet bracelet on his left wrist."

The singer whistled into the mic. "Damn, that is specific! Alright Brooklyn, you heard the lady! Look around! Navy leather jacket! Let's get these two together!"

I stood perfectly still, my eyes locked on the jumbotron. 

Suddenly, a massive commotion broke out in Section 104. Right below me. 

"Wait, wait, I think we got him! Section 104! Camera three, get on that!" the singer yelled, pointing. 

The jumbotron flickered. The screen split in two. My face on the right, and the new camera feed on the left. 

The entire arena gasped. 

There he was. Jaxon. My perfect, loving, hard-working boyfriend. 

But he wasn't smiling. He wasn't waving at the camera. 

His face was chalk-white. His jaw hung open in absolute horror as he stared up at my face on the giant screen. 

And both of his arms were wrapped tightly around a girl. 

He was aggressively shoving her face into his chest, trying desperately to shield her from the camera lens. 

The crowd went dead silent. The romantic vibe shattered into a million pieces. People sitting next to them started pulling out their phones, recording. They realized this wasn't a cute reunion. This was an ambush on live television. 

I gripped the railing, staring down at the screen. Even if I can't see her face, I know exactly who she is.