Page 31 of Enemies Off Camera
And that’s it. No chance to explain. No shot to fix it.
Just silence—and the crushing weight of it.
My goose? Cooked. Charred. Fried. Already scraped off the plate and dumped in the trash.
The usher’sname is Ray, and he earns every cent I paid him. He guides me out of the stadium and onto a busy San Diego street without a single person spotting me.
It’s nighttime now. People are out—laughing, eating, living their lives. Meanwhile, I’m spiraling from a PR nightmare and no clean way home.
I don’t have my car. I could rent one and drive back to L.A., drop it off there. Amtrak’s an option, but I’ll get recognized just as easily as I would at the airport.
So I make a bold choice.
I call Anne back.
I tell her the truth: I’m stuck in San Diego, and I need help.
And to her credit, Anne gives me exactly what I ask for.
TWENTY-THREE
JAXON WILDE
“It’s cool, Jax,” Micah, our quarterback, says. “It makes perfect sense. She ate, her blood sugar spiked, she got sleepy. Biology, man.” He claps me on the back. “Let it go.”
The guys had been bothering me about it for the last hour. Pro locker rooms are full of game talk, more than nonsense, but today, thanks to Zara being asleep during my touchdown, I earned the ribbing. But Micah—he always sees things through a practical lens. He’s been with us two seasons. Last year, we nearly made the playoffs. This year? After today’s performance, we might just go all the way.
Still, I’ve got work to do. I have to figure out how to beat guys like Chauncy Boyd. I managed one touchdown, but he shut me down the rest of the game. Defenses around the league are going to study tape on how he did it. Which means I’ll be spending hours watching the same game film.
The locker room is nearly empty now. I took an extra-long shower—needed it to decompress.
Before I got in, one of the event staff passed a message to Liam, our locker room attendant:Zara wants a word with you.
Nope.
I have nothing to say to her. She messed up. Roger was right. I was wrong. He’s already working to fix this mess. And honestly, I’m okay with that. If she can’t respect me or show up when it counts, then we’re finished.
I open my locker, reach into my jacket, and feel my phone buzzing in the pocket. Unknown number. 3-2-3 area code. L.A.
The call ends.
I check the missed call log. The same number has called five times in the last ten minutes.
I stare at the screen, trying to decide if I care enough to call back. And then it buzzes again.
I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Jaxon?” The voice is breathless. Nervous. Panicked.“It’s me… Zara.”
I pause. Let the silence sit for a second. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “But I need your help.”
I close my eyes. Exhale through my nose.
I should hang up.
“Please,” she whispers hoarsely. “Pretty please.”
