Page 30 of Enemies Off Camera
What soundslike distant thunder turns out to be the crowd goingabsolutelywild. Someone’s jabbing my arm. I jolt upright, catching myself before I completely collapse onto the woman next to me.
Holy crap. Did I just fall asleep?
I blink at the Jumbotron. The wordTOUCHDOWNis emblazoned across the screen in giant letters. Jaxon’s on it—center stage, standing there, scowling…at a replay of me.
There I am, dead asleep. Mouth slack. Sunglasses slightly askew.
And now that I’m fully awake, I can feel it—everyoneis staring at me. Genesis. The other wives. The camera crew. All frowning. Judging. Horrified.
I missed it. I missed Jaxon’s touchdown.
Oh—no.
TWENTY-TWO
Ican’t leave until I see Jaxon and explain what happened.
Being caught on camerasleeping—during his touchdown, no less—is nothing short of a PR catastrophe. Roger’s been calling nonstop. I’m sure he’s tearing through the stadium like a lunatic, looking for me. But I electronically sent an usher five hundred bucks to sneak me down to the tunnels and keep me hidden from anyone with a camera or a clipboard.
Icannotbe seen right now. Not after that.
How do I come back from this?
I’m tucked into a shadowy little alcove near the loading docks, pacing in tiny, panicked steps, when Anne’s name flashes across my phone. I groan, scratching at my scalp like that’ll somehow knock loose a better idea than answering.
Should I wait to talk to Jaxon first?
Is the usher even doing what I paid him to do, or did he just take my money and ghost me?
Screw it. I answer.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“What thefuckwas that?” Anne shrieks through the speaker.
I wince. “Sorry,” I say—and jump, startled by how loud my voice echoes in this cramped space. I lower it fast. “Sorry,” I repeat, barely audible.
“I was tired,” I murmur. “It’s been a crazy day. And I don’t evenunderstandthis stupid game.”
“Youfell asleep.”
“I know.”
“During his touchdown, Zara?”
“I know.” My head drops. Shame settles in like a hundred-pound weight.
“Roger is furious. He’s over it. Meeting’s at ten a.m. tomorrow. No excuses.”
Before I can respond, I hear a voice—male, close.
“Zara?”
I turn around. It’s the usher. His face is apologetic, almost guilty.
“Sorry,” he says. “He won’t come. I’ll send your money back.”
I shake my head, heart sinking. “No. It’s okay. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
