Off Camera (Love through a Lens #4)

1. Avery

ONE

AVERY

This is the worst first date I’ve ever been on.

My hopes were low when he picked a dingy sports bar as our meeting spot, but I persevered. I showed up anyway because I’m a nice person who doesn’t ghost someone thirty minutes before we’re supposed to meet.

Ghosting would’ve been better than the hell I’ve had to endure, though. The thin glimmer of hope I had about the night going from absolute train wreck to somewhat salvageable slowly slips out the window as the man across from me uses his collar to wipe his nose.

“My issue isn’t with women ,” Matthew says urgently. He puts his whole chest behind it like he’s proud: each word is punctuated. The right emphasis is on the right noun. He reaches for his beer—his fourth, and we’ve been here less than an hour—and it nearly slips out of his grasp thanks to the wing sauce on his fingers. “It’s with women being in places they don’t belong, you know? Sports are sacred .”

No, I don’t know, but the only way I can get out of this excruciating conversation that’s lightyears worse than a lobotomy is to grin and bear it.

“They should get back to the kitchen, shouldn’t they?” I ask. His eyes light up like I just hit a home run out of the park. The queen of improv rolling in with the one-liner to end all one-liners. “The quieter the better, I say.”

“Exactly.” Matthew slaps the table. The last sip of my mediocre white wine sloshes around in my glass. “It’s really not that difficult.”

I need a stronger drink.

“It’s not,” I say through clenched teeth.

I wonder if I can use the knife sitting next to my plate to stab him in the jugular.

I could make it look like an accident. I’d feign innocence and claim I was defending feminism.

I doubt anyone would miss the prick.

“How do you feel about dessert?” Matthew licks his lips, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. “Want to split a slice of cheesecake? Or maybe I could put you on the table and?—”

“I’m allergic,” I almost yell. The lie slips out easily, and I give him a shrug that hopefully looks more apologetic than like I’m plotting his demise. A barstool over the head would also get the job done. “Besides, I should start making my way home—or back to the 1920s.”

“No problem. Maybe next time.” He taps the check with his sauce-stained fingers and looks at me. “You owe twenty-three dollars.”

I bite down on my bottom lip so hard, I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.

I have no problem paying for my meal.

I have no problem paying for the whole meal.

But after sixty minutes of half-cold mozzarella sticks and enough misogynistic comments to last me a lifetime, I’m tired .

Tired of shitty dates and even shittier conversations.

Tired of men who pretend to be interested in the answers I give them while staring at my chest.

Tired of guys who believe women are only allowed to occupy certain spaces in the world.

I don’t know when common decency—like holding the door open and not making sexist jokes—became the bare fucking minimum, but gosh I hate it here. I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than deal with this shit on a consistent basis.

“Right.” I plaster on the smile that won me Miss Florida and runner-up to Miss America. I throw down two twenties and grab my purse. “Thanks for a great night.”

“You too, Ashley,” he says, and I don’t have the energy to correct him. “Want to do it again next week? Back at my place?”

I slide out of the booth knowing full well this dude wouldn’t be able to find my G-spot even with a map and step-by-step instructions.

“I’ll text you,” I lie again, and I don’t feel an ounce of remorse.

“Cool.” He stands and pulls me into a hug before I can escape. His hand drifts dangerously close to my ass when he presses me against his chest, and I contemplate breaking his wrist. “Looking forward to it.”

The only thing I’m looking forward to is a long shower and scrubbing myself from my head to my toes so I can get rid of his slimy touch.

I wiggle free and try my best not to run down the hallway to the bar’s bathroom so I can hide out for the next five to seven years.

Or at least until he leaves and drives far, far away.

I lock myself in a stall and lean against the wall, killing time by blocking his number. I make sure to block him on the dating app too for good measure.

Ten minutes later, once I’m sure the douche canoe isn’t loitering around anymore, I head back into the restaurant.

As terrible as tonight was, I really don’t want to go home just yet. My apartment is too quiet and too empty, and being alone with my thoughts sounds like the worst idea.

Another drink while watching old NBA highlights on the television at the bar sounds much better.

I see an empty spot at the counter and make a beeline for it.

“Hi,” I say to the guy to my right, and he doesn’t glance up from his phone. “Are you saving this seat for anyone?”

“Nope.” He scoots his stool over an inch to give me some space. “All yours.”

“Thanks.” I slide onto the ripped leather and put my elbows on the counter, grateful when the bartender comes over and lays a cocktail napkin in front of me. “Can I get a double whiskey neat, please? And a slice of cheesecake?”

“Thought you were allergic,” the man with the phone says.

I whip my head to look at him.

His thick-framed glasses hide a lot of his face, but I see green eyes and red scruff on his cheeks that matches the hair on his head. An inviting grin pulls at his mouth, and he seems so familiar to me. I’m certain I’ve seen him somewhere before, I just can’t remember when.

“Eavesdropping?” I ask with a quirked eyebrow.

“Hard not to when the dude you were with spent fifteen minutes talking about why the 1920s would’ve been a great decade to live in,” he says.

“You heard all of that?”

“Every word, unfortunately. The whole bar did,” he draws out. “Think it took ten years off my life.”

“I’d really like to curl up in a hole. I despised that conversation, but I’m an Enneagram two. I’m a people-pleaser. I—I like to be needed and appreciated. It’s almost impossible for me to disappoint someone, even if that person is the scum of the earth,” I say. “It’s a horrible plight.”

“Enneagram?” He pushes his glasses up his nose with a long finger. I notice right away there isn’t any wing sauce on his knuckles. “Is that an astrology sign? Fire and water, right?”

“Close,” I say, even though he’s nowhere near correct.

“Are you lying to be nice to me?”

“I am. Fire and water sound more like Avatar .”

“ The Last Airbender ? There’s something I could talk about for hours,” he says.

“What about the James Cameron film?”

“I’m not nearly as passionate about that one. Can’t get past the blue aliens.”

I sneak a look at him. I’m surprised to find him already looking at me, and I take it as an invitation to study him.

He’s handsome with sun-kissed skin and freckles across the bridge of his nose. A button-up shirt is rolled to his elbows, and his forearms have veins. His palms are large, and they must make holding things very easy.

He’s smaller and less broad than the men I work with on the football field, but I see the hidden curves of muscles hiding under his sleeves.

“How long have you been sitting here?” I ask.

“Long enough to wonder how you didn’t commit a murder. You’re a nicer person than me.”

“I thought about it, but can you imagine the cleanup?”

“Blood, everywhere. And this place is bordering on unbearable as it is.” He grabs his drink and cradles it in his hand. His skin is a shade pinker than it was a second ago, and the flush creeping up his neck is cute. “Can’t say I’m a fan of bodily functions associated with death.”

“Glad to know you aren’t going to hack me into a million pieces. You’re adverse to the side effects.”

“I’ll just bore you to death by talking about comic books. They wouldn’t be able to pin the murder on me.”

“Do you have a favorite?” I ask. “Comic book. Not alibi to get away with homicide.”

“ Watchmen ,” he answers right away. “It’s technically a graphic novel, so I’ll also add in The Amazing Spider-Man: The Night Gwen Stacy Died .”

“I always liked Kraven’s Last Hunt .”

He blinks at me. “You read comic books?”

“Do I not look like I would?”

His eyes roam down my body, and a deep sound tumbles from his mouth. I warm under his attention and play with the cocktail napkin to give my hands something to do.

“Do you want the honest answer?” he asks, and I nod, desperate for it. “You’re pretty. Very pretty, and also the first woman who hasn’t made fun of me for liking superheroes. I’m wondering if my friends put you up to this as some sort of dare, because I’m not sure what the hell I did to have someone as gorgeous as you rattle off comic book titles at me.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I have no clue who your friends are.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Is there bad blood there?”

“None at all. They’re way more outgoing and attractive than me. The life of the party. If they were here, you’d want to talk to them instead.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m having a lot of fun talking to you,” I say, and he blushes again. “And I’m sorry people have made fun of the things that bring you joy.”

“It’s not any worse than what you put up with tonight. You like sports, don’t you? Homeboy you were sitting with told you that you don’t belong in that world, and that sucks.”

“How do you know I like sports?”

“You started talking faster when you pointed out a basketball game was on.”

“I didn’t know I was so easy to read,” I say.

“I’m a good listener,” he says.

“You’re also a good eavesdropper,” I joke, and he smirks.

The bartender sets down my drink and dessert, and I sigh.

“Thank you.” I cut off a bite of cheesecake and groan. “Oh my god. This is delicious.”

“I’ll leave you to it. I don’t want to interrupt the best part of your night.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say quickly. “The cheesecake is good, but talking to you is better.”

“You’re only saying that because you ate a meal with a dude who once wore Sperry shoes to a black-tie wedding because he was bros with the groom . It’s not a fair fight.”

“You don’t wear boat shoes to events where the dinner plate costs two hundred bucks a head?”

“Fuck no,” he says. “Crocs only.”

I burst out laughing, and it’s not the kind of laughter that sounds like a giggle.

It’s embarrassingly loud, a full-on cackle that shakes my shoulders and makes me snort. I almost choke on my food, and I grip the counter to stop myself from falling off the stool.

“Sorry,” I wheeze. There’s cheesecake lodged in my throat, and I chase it down with alcohol. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all night.”

“That’s just sad.” He grins and drums his fingers on the bar top. “But thanks for the ego boost. Sorry you had to sit through such a shitty date.”

“Unless you’re the one who sent the spawn of Satan here to give me a night of hell, it’s not your fault.”

“I have more respect for women than that.” He takes a sip of his drink. A drop of liquid hangs on the corner of his mouth, and he licks it away. “I, for one, think they shouldn’t just be confined to the kitchen. They should be cleaning the living room too.”

I elbow him in the ribs. “Asshole.”

“I’m kidding. My mother would be appalled if she heard me making a joke like that. I take it back. Please forgive me,” he says.

“Apology accepted.” My gaze bounces to his phone. It’s sitting face up on the counter next to a lime, and a dozen notifications from a dozen social media apps pop up on his screen. “Wow. Someone’s popular. Did I interrupt something?”

“Not at all.” He turns the phone over with a swift flick of his wrist, and the gesture makes my heart skip a beat. It makes me think he wants to keep talking to me. “It’s all work stuff. My job never stops, and it would do me some good to ignore it for a few minutes.”

“I can relate. I love what I do, but it consumes my life.”

“Hit woman for the CIA?” he asks.

It’s an innocent question. One I brought onto myself, but I still pause.

I never tell anyone the real answer so soon after meeting them.

It’s always followed by comments and opinions that make my blood boil. And tonight, after I feel like I’ve already been dragged through the mud, I really don’t want to trudge through hell again.

“Marketing,” I tell him.

Technically, it’s not a lie.

Managing the Baltimore Thunderhawks’ social media does involve marketing. Since I took the position a few years ago, I’ve racked up a million Instagram followers, two million on TikTok, and a half a million more on other platforms.

I work hard, and I’m damn good at what I do, but I know the stigma that comes with women in the sports industry. The questions that follow when I reveal my career and the interrogation I’m subjected to.

How many players have you slept with?

You’re probably having an affair with the owner, aren’t you?

Oh, you like football? Name the starting lineups from the 1997 Super Bowl.

Being vague makes life easier.

“Really? I’m in marketing too,” he says, turning on his stool so he’s facing me. “Am I allowed to ask what your name is?”

I open my mouth to answer, but I hesitate. He heard every other word from my conversation with the swamp rat; what are the chances he heard our goodbyes too?

“Claire,” I say, using my middle name and hoping he doesn’t notice. After too many awkward situations with men tracking me down on social media and flooding my DMs asking for tickets to games, it’s become my go-to until I get to know a guy. I’ve never felt bad about the dishonesty, but knowing I’m telling a half-truth to someone I’m enjoying talking to makes my chest pinch tight. “And yours?”

“Reid,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I smile. “I think the pleasure might be mine.”