Page 84 of Enemies Off Camera
She glances over her shoulder like someone’s there to give her permission.
“Well... okay,” she says. “Just one glass. I’m driving.”
I race to the kitchen to grab another wine glass.
“Are you going to turn the volume back up?” Kat calls out.
“If we must!” I reply with faux cheer.
As soon as the announcers come back on, one of them says,“And there’s Ashley Sweet today, supporting Jaxon Wilde.”
“That’s what she says,”the other quips.“But I’m not sure how much her support is helping.”
Thank God I don’t have one of those open-concept kitchens. I wanted separation between my rooms—because right now, I need it. Kat can’t see me stop short, gripping the counter, blinking back the sting in my eyes.
I won’t cry over this. I won’t.
Jaxon played me. Got what he wanted—me in his bed—and moved on to the runner-up, all while pretending I was the prize.
Asshole.
I inhale deep, straighten my spine, square my shoulders.
If Kat weren’t here, I’d change the channel. Probably cue up Netflix and lose myself in a show where men don’t lie. But this show must go on.
I paste on a smile. “Here comes your glass!” I call out, chipper as hell.
And I step back into the room, ready to finish the scene.
SIXTY
“Oh… wow!” Kat shouts at the television.
I’ve gasped, my hand still clamped over my open mouth.
Jaxon just got smacked in the head with the ball. His arms flailed like windmills, but his hands never touched it. It was like watching a scene from a slapstick comedy.
Then the Jumbotron cuts to Ashley, who’s hugging some girl she came with—looking oh-so-distraught. But what grabs me isn’t her Oscar-worthy performance—it’s Genesis, in the row behind her, glaring down with a bitter grimace. And before the camera cuts away, Genesis rolls her eyes.
Yay, Genesis! She really is my friend.
“Did you see that?” I say to Kat, pointing wildly at the screen.
She doesn’t answer.
I turn and look at her. She’s sitting stiffly, her face a shade redder than usual. There’s something she wants to say, but I can tell she’s hesitant—like she doesn’t want to overstep. I get it. I’m her boss. It’s smart to tread lightly.
So I decide to dial it down. No more theatrics. No more flipping out over a guy.
“I’m surprised they’re leaving Jaxon Wilde in,” one of the announcers says.
“That’s Tibbey’s style,” the other responds. “He doesn’t mind losing a game. He wants Jaxon to play through it. Get over it.”
“Well, it’s going to cost them the game if Jameson keeps throwing to him,” the other chimes in. “Seems like Wilde’s got distractions.”
Kat erupts. “You see these guys? It’s always a woman’s fault when a man falls apart. That’s bullshit. A man doesn’t make me bad at my job. So why is it her fault if he’s playing like shit? That means he’s mentally weak. And it’s not even…”
I turn to her, startled. That’s the most personal thing I’ve ever heard Kat say—and it has nothing to do with logistics, scheduling, or production.
