32. Reid
THIRTY-TWO
REID
Me
My place after the game?
Avery
Depends if we win or lose.
Me
I’ll make sure you win either way.
Avery
Tempting.
Me
You know where I’ll be.
Avery
Preferably on your knees with your head between my legs.
Me
My favorite place in the world.
“What are you doing tonight?” Dallas asks. He pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair, the ends of the dark strands already sweaty from his pre-game warmup. “Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages. I’m stuck playing Call of Duty with Maverick, and you know how competitive he gets.”
“Sorry.” I unplug my phone from the portable charger I’ve been using the last hour and slip it in my pocket. “I’ve been busy with work.”
“Is it just work? Or is your attention going other places too?”
I glance up at him. “What do you mean?”
“Avery,” he says. “I figured y’all are spending time together.”
“Oh.” I rub the back of my neck. “We are, but it’s only a couple nights a week.”
“How’s that going?”
“Good. We’re having fun.”
“I’m glad. You deserve to have some fun, Reid, and I’m glad you found someone you like hanging out with.”
“Yeah.” I bite back a smile because I really like hanging out with her. “Me too. Have you seen her today?”
“I saw her talking with some guy in a suit a little while ago. It seemed like they were having a good time.” Dallas shrugs and heads for the water cooler. “They were over by the tunnel.”
I narrow my eyes and look in that direction, finding her right away.
She is talking to a guy in a suit.
Laughing, too, with her head thrown back and her shoulders shaking.
That’s her real laugh, the one she reserves for things that are really, really funny.
It’s usually followed by a snort and a hand over her mouth, trying to hide the fact that she’s giggling uncontrollably, and who the fuck is this douchebag who’s taking up her time?
I roll my shoulders and glance at Brandy, one of our interns. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her. “Can you make sure you get some video of the warmups and the pregame huddle so we can post it before kickoff?”
“Of course,” she says excitedly, and I know I’m going to come back to more content than I could ever need. “Thanks, Reid.”
I make my way to Avery. I get stopped a handful of times by people wanting to say hello. Allen, the head photographer, asks me about a player photoshoot next week. Britta, one of the cheerleaders, asks me if we’re still on for the feature I’m doing on the dancers tomorrow.
It takes me longer than I’d like to break free from the conversations, but when I finally make it over to the tunnel, Avery is still laughing.
“Hey,” I say, and she turns to look at me.
Her smile stretches wider when her eyes meet mine, and she tips her head to the side as she looks me up and down.
“Hey,” she answers. “New sneakers?”
“Oh.” I lift a foot, showing off the Nikes I bought two days ago. “Yeah.”
“I like them.” She glances back at the man in the suit, and I hate how he’s staring at her. “Reid, this is Andrew. This is his first time in Baltimore, and I was explaining some of our traditions to him.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, stiffly shaking his hand.
“You too.” Andrew doesn’t give me more than three seconds of his time before he’s looking at Avery again. Stepping closer to her and leaning over her shoulder. “Tell me more about the song, Avery.”
“Oh.” She brightens and pulls out her phone, tapping on the screen. “I can’t take all the credit. I met Rich Royce, the producer of the song, in a bar, and the idea came to us over a pitcher of margaritas. I can’t believe how receptive the public is to it, and it makes me happy so many people are cheering for us to win just so they can hear it.”
“It’s genius,” Andrew says, and Avery blushes. “I know the Titans have won Social Media Account of the Year the last three years, but I think the outcome is going to be very different this season.”
Avery glances at me and sticks out her tongue. “Hear that, Duncan? Your reign is going to end soon.”
“I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” I say, sliding my hands into my pockets.
I wish I wore something warmer than loose fitting joggers. I wish I had something more professional on than a white long-sleeved Titans shirt and a backward hat. Avery looks like the picture of corporate America with her nice blouse and pleated slacks, and I know she’s making a better impression than me.
“Reid and I have a bet going,” she tells Andrew. “We’re competing against each other for ticket sales and account of the year.”
“Should be an easy win for you,” Andrew says. “Just show your face in the videos.”
“What?” Avery frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You’re pretty. Gorgeous, even. Over fifty percent of the NFL’s viewership is male. You want season ticket holders? Show yourself off. Sell yourself as a perk of joining the team’s fanbase. You’re doing too much right now. Tone it down a little.”
“Oh,” Avery says softly, and she stares at the field.
“Who cares about the content you’re posting? Fans want to see hot women, and that includes you,” Andrew says.
My hand flexes at my side. I don’t like the direction this conversation is heading, and I want to intervene without acting like some self-righteous bonehead.
“I purposely leave myself out of the videos and photos,” Avery challenges. “We all do. No social media manager is front and center. The purpose is to showcase the players. To give fans an insider look into what’s happening on the field. It’s not a dating app. Or a place to meet women.”
“Maybe that should change, especially if they have a pretty face like yours. As for Social Media Account of the Year, well…” Andrew looks her up and down and grins. I hate his teeth. I hate the way his eyes gleam and how his attention hangs on her chest. I hate him . “I have a few ideas for that too. Provocative sells. Why do you think the Texas cheerleaders have more Instagram followers than half the teams in the league?”
The motherfucker laugh like he’s the funniest guy in the world, and my eye twitches. I glance at Avery, and she’s still staring at the field. Her shoulders curve in, and she’s hanging her head in a way that tells me she’s pissed. Hurt and upset.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I say sharply. “You’re diminishing her job, and that’s bullshit.”
“I’m not diminishing anything,” Andrew argues. “ My job is looking at data, and data doesn’t lie. Men are going to watch football no matter what. You want more people to come through the doors? Give them a reason besides four quarters of touchdowns.”
“Are we ignoring the rise in female viewership?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. “Thanks to Ella Wright, women are?—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He laughs, and I’m seconds away from strangling him. Cutting off his air supply and beating him to a pulp, and I’ve never been in a fight in my life. “Enough about that bitch. Speaking off the record, I hope she and Theo Asher break up. I can’t stand seeing her on my television screen every week.”
“But you want Avery to show her face?” I ask. “That’s pretty hypocritical of you.”
“I’m just telling you what the people want.”
“Get out,” I say, and Avery jerks her neck up to look at me.
“What?” Andrew asks.
“I said, get out.”
“This isn’t your stadium. You’re not the head of security. You don’t have a lot of pull here, buddy, and if you want to have a job tomorrow, I’d be very careful about what you say next.”
There’s a maniacal part of me that has the burning desire to support Avery. I don’t want to make this situation about me, but I want her to know I have her back. That not everyone thinks like this prick does.
I want her to know she’s valued. She’s appreciated, and she’s damn good at what she does. Fuck the bet. Fuck the game. This is bigger than that.
“Avery Sinclair is the best of the best,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Three years in the league, and she’s accomplished milestones others haven’t in double that time. She’s created a song every NFL fan recognizes. She’s cultivated a diverse following of a football team loved by millions. Take a look around, Andrew. You know what I see? I see men. I see women. I see kids and older folks who have waited fucking years for the Thunderhawks to come back to Baltimore. Avery has had a hand in that. Sure, they still have a ways to go with season ticket holders and loyal fans who are in this for the long haul, but every fucking seat is sold. The stadium is filled. You know why? Because Avery comes up with promotions to get people in the doors. She does weekly fan spotlights, telling the stories of people who have been watching football for decades. She documents the charity work the Thunderhawks do. She makes this environment fun. A community others want to be a part of. And if you think telling her to show her face in front of the camera is the only way she’s going to get fans in the door, you don’t know fucking shit about how hard she works. That’s an insult to the hours she puts in at the office. The late nights when she’s awake until three, four in the morning, making sure every single photo she’s going to post is fucking perfect . She’s going to wipe the floor with me this year in our bet, and it’s going to be a fucking honor to lose to her.”
I stop for a breath. I move my attention to Avery, and her bottom lip is trembling. I want to reach out and hug her. Since this clown clearly doesn’t value her as a professional, I refrain from pulling her to my chest and telling her it’s going to be okay. I’m not going to give him any more ammunition.
“Here.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. I hand it to her, and her fingers brush against mine when she takes it. “It’s our ticket sales numbers so you can compare them to yours. I have a feeling yours are higher, which means you’re winning, Sinclair. Congratulations.”
I turn on my heel and head back to the Titans’ sideline. The roar of the crowd is nothing but dull noise, and as much as I want to turn around and look behind me, I don’t. I keep my gaze ahead, staring at the scoreboard.
We might win by fourteen, but after hearing Andrew’s shitty comments, it feels a lot like a loss.