Page 27 of Second Quarter Comeback
“Flight? I mean, you probably should leave,” I repeat, thrown off by his rushed tone.
Without missing a beat, he steps toward the elevator and jabs the button like it owes him money. “Yeah, the instructions are in the side pocket if you need to wait for her. Just tell her to transfer the rest of the money.”
The elevator doors open immediately—because of course they do when I’m not the one calling it—and he steps inside without so much as a glance back.
“Wait, what money—” I start, but the doors close with a soft ding, leaving me standing there like I’ve been hit by a very confusing train.
I look down at the bag he left behind, the confusion in my head quickly morphing into full-blown suspicion. What the actual fuck just happened?
For a solid minute, my brain spirals into worst-case scenarios. Is this a bomb? Did Camille piss off a sociopath who decided to leave her some deranged parting gift? Or—and honestly, this one feels more plausible—did she hire someone to get rid of me? It’s kind of genius if you think about it. Nobody would suspect her if she outsourced the dirty work toBenedict Indie Movie Extra. And now I’m the only witness. Fucking fantastic.
I crouch next to the bag, my heart pounding like I’m disarming a bomb in a spy movie. Because, let’s face it—my luck is that bad. Just as I reach for the zipper, I hear it.
“Meow.”
I freeze, staring at the bag.
“Meow. Meow.”
Okay. So, this is either the weirdest bomb in history or . . . just a cat. Swallowing my nerves, I unzip the side pocket slowly, half-expecting a trap. Instead, I’m greeted by a pair of impossibly bright green eyes blinking up at me.
An orange ball of fluff lets out another soft meow, and I blink back.
“What the fuck . . .” I mutter, scooping the kitten out of the bag like it’s some kind of alien artifact. It fits easily in my hands, tiny and warm, its soft body nuzzling against my thumb like we’re best friends.
“You’re a little too friendly for a cat,” I say, my voice softening against my will. The kitten purrs, tilting its head like it’s mocking me. That’s when I notice the collar.
“Benedict Cumbercat,” I read aloud, my lips twitching into a smirk despite myself. “So, you’re Ben?”
“Meow.” The kitten sneezes in response, and I let out a long, dramatic sigh. Glancing between Camille’s apartment door and the furball in my hands, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been drafted into some weird cosmic joke. The guy didn’t explain much—just dumped the bag and ran. Now I’m holding literal baggage.
“Guess we both need Camille,” I say, tucking Ben back into his carrier.
From inside, he stares up at me with those unsettlingly bright green eyes, blinking slowly like he knows exactly how much I’m losing it. His nose twitches, and I swear, for a second, he looks smug.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I mutter, pacing my apartment with my phone in hand. “Because otherwise, you’d be on your way to Jerry’s or a shelter right now.”
Ben stretches, curling up inside the bag like he’s royalty. Meanwhile, I’m one minor inconvenience away from throwing my phone across the room. I can’t leave him—not when he’s this small and . . . okay, kind of adorable. But I also can’t miss practice. Not with a game coming up.
“Great,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Now I’m a fucking cat sitter.”
Ben yawns like this is the most boring day of his life, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I have no idea what to do next—with Ben, with Camille, or with any of this. All I know is that this day has already gone spectacularly off the rails.
I scrollthrough my contacts until I land on Jacob’s name. He picks up on the third ring, his tone far too relaxed for someone whose full-time job is managing my chaos.
“What now?” he says, exasperation laced with just enough familiarity to be annoying. “If it’s about the energy drink sponsorship, forget it. Luc signed the contract this morning.”
“Luc?” I bark into the phone, pacing the kitchen. He seriously has to be a lot choosier about his sponsorships, but that’s his stomach he’s killing, not mine. “Great. He can drink poison while I stick to actual water.”
“Noted. So what’s the emergency?”
I glance at the carrier sitting on my counter, where a tiny orange kitten is blinking up at me like it’s dared me to solve all its problems. “We’ve got a problem,” I say, my voice tight.
Jacob groans. “Define problem.”
“I need you to get in touch with Camille Ashby,” I say, cutting straight to the point.
