Page 26 of Enemies Off Camera
“You booked your own flight?” Roger snapped. “You don’t have an assistant?”
“No. Not yet.”
“You need one. We’ll get you one. Immediately. Because if this happens again?—”
She promised she was boarding soon.
That was three hours ago.
Now, as we take the field—pads popping, adrenaline firing—I glance up at the suite where she’s supposed to be. VIPs. The team owner. Wives. Girlfriends. Media reps.
Zara’s not there.
I shake my head.
She’s a trained actress. She knows what call times are. She knows how this works. If she doesn’t care enough to show up for me—or even for herself—what are we doing?
Maybe Roger’s right. Maybe I should make a clean break. Go with Ashley. Or Heather. At this point, it’s a toss-up.
If she’s not in that suite by kickoff, I’m done.
I exhale hard. Slap hands with my teammates. Let my game face drop into place.
The crowd’s on its feet.
“Let’s go!” I roar, pumping my fist toward the stands.
Time to forget about this fucking uncomfortable feeling in my chest—and wreck Seattle.
EIGHTEEN
15 Minutes Later
“Oh my gosh… oh my gosh,” I repeat under my breath, trailing a stadium usher who’s power-walking me through endless corridors toward the suite I was supposed to be inbeforekickoff.
What a day.
Before this Jaxon Wilde situation was added to the mix, I could manage my schedule. I had a system. Now? I’m racing through a stadium, smelling like airplane air, my makeup melted down my face, my hair frizzed from the humidity rolling off the SoCal coast.
Unacceptable.
And I’m tired. So very, very tired.
“Wait,” I pant, stopping abruptly in front of the ladies’ room. I point to the door. “I just need to freshen up.”
The usher glances at her watch, tight-lipped like I’m testing the limits of her orders to get me upstairsnow.
“Alright, just make it quick, okay?”
I nod and rush inside.
The mirror confirms what I feared—I look like I lost a fight with a Halloween costume. So, I scrub off the makeup. Better to go barefaced than look like a trainwreck in foundation. I yank my hair into a ponytail, then braid it. Thank God I keep body wipes and deodorant in my purse. I scrub away the airplane stench I hate so much and reapply a quick layer of fresh.
Then Ifinallypee—my bladder had been on the verge of bursting since before we landed. Between disembarking, signing autographs, and getting whisked to the stadium in the car Roger sent, I haven’t had a second to breathe.
When I reemerge, my usher speaks into her walkie-talkie. “Here she is.” Then, without waiting for a response, she stomps off. I follow.
When we reach the suite, Roger’s standing at the door, suited up like he’s about to take a deposition—and so furious I half-expect steam to shoot from his ears.
