Page 52 of Rush the Edge

River

I need photos.

River

Never mind. I know Kane has a stash. I’ll text him.

I roll my eyes. I’m sure Kane does.

Me

You’re annoying

River

The fucking mascot

Me

BYE

River

Jokes aside, are you feeling okay? That’s gotta be tiring.

I am tired.

Me

I’m fine. Being active is good for me.

I click my phone off and lie in silence.

My body is tired, and my head is pounding. Instead of making my way to bed, I stay on the couch and go over the game in my head. There was one little girl who looked at me like I was a queen instead of a mascot, and I’ll admit, it was sort of sweet. The job isn’t all that bad, and it really is good for me to be active. It keeps my muscles loose, and it’s supposed to improve my fatigue.

The only con is Kane.

The scathing looks he continued to give me most of the night were hard to ignore, and the more I think about it, the more nauseated I become. To think I gave up flirting with the cute referee because I felt protective over Kane is absurd. It’s like a slap to my own face.

With a huff, I sit up and glance at the Devil’s mascot head laying near the door. The wheels start turning as I glance to the ceiling, knowing that Kane is just one floor above me. I swing my legs off the couch and head toward the devil’s head and trident propped in the corner.

My immaturity rises to a whole new level, but Kane brings something out in me that has my thoughts spiraling. My blood boils when I think about him tearing my costume and threatening any guy who dares to look at me. Then I boil in other places with the recent memory of his hands on me inside my dressing room.

Ugh.

The new and improved mascot costume doesn’t seem like enough to gain the upper hand.

This probably won’t either, but at least it’ll make me feel better.

I hold my breath as I wait for the elevator to open. When it shows up empty, I exhale and step onto it with the devil’s head and trident trapped in my arm. The last-minute note I wrote is clutched tightly in my fingers when the elevator whooshes upward, pulling my stomach to the floor.

I bend over and clutch it as sweat starts to pool along my spine.

A wave of nausea hits me again, and I realize pretty quickly that I’m not nauseated from thoughts of Kane but because my body is tired.

The elevator door slides open to reveal Kane’s door—the only one in the hall. I swallow my thick spit and drag myself over to it.

I bend at my knees and place the mascot head on the floor. I take the torn piece of paper with my quick-witted note written on it and stab it onto one of the trident prongs.

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