Chapter Seven
Serena
"Hold the phone," Peyton says, shock coloring her voice. "You slept with him?"
"Um…" I cast a furtive glance around, praying my boss isn't listening in.
The last thing I need is for Jack to hear that I'm fucking Austin Hawkes.
He's already giving me the stink eye because of the new photos plastered all over the internet.
They aren't even that bad, but you'd think Austin and I were fucking against the side of the truck, judging by the way Jack has been scowling at me all day. "Maybe?"
"Holy shit," Peyton breathes into the phone. "Serena Marise Abrams, you bad girl."
"Shh!" I hiss, my gaze flickering to the patients on the other side of the glass partition. They aren't paying any attention to me, though. They're all scrolling on their phones, waiting for Jack to emerge from his office to see them.
Peyton cackles. Actually cackles. "It's not like Logan gives a shit if you're fucking Austin. Logan!"
If the floor doesn't swallow me right now, I'm killing my best friend.
"What's up, baby?" he asks in the background, his deep voice muted.
"Do you care that Serena is fucking Austin Hawkes?"
"I thought she hated him," he rumbles.
"That was last week. Keep up."
"Her business is her business," he says, and then pauses. "Do I need to have a conversation with him? I don't mind threatening him again."
"Again?" Peyton growls. "What do you mean again?"
I hide a smile behind my hand, like she can really see it through the phone.
"Shit. I mean, I don't mind threatening him for the first time ever," Logan amends. He's a terrible liar.
"You threatened him after I bumped into him last year, didn't you?" Peyton asks him.
"Obviously."
"Logan," she growls, exasperated. "You can't just go around threatening everyone!"
"Watch me, baby."
When she growls wordlessly, I laugh. "Are you really that surprised? He punched a reporter for you last year, too."
"Yeah, well, he forgot to mention that he threatened Austin," she grumbles. "I swear, he needs a keeper."
"He has one. You."
"I did not sign up for that."
"Yeah, you did," I remind her. "It comes with the territory when you fuck your boss and then marry him."
My boss would choose that exact moment to step out of his office. His bushy brows shoot toward his receding hairline, his eyes widening.
Fuck my life.
"I've gotta go," I hiss into the phone.
"Fine, but I still want details!" Peyton demands.
"I'll call you after the game tonight."
"What game?"
"Austin's game."
"Hold the phone! You didn't mention anything about his game."
"Can't talk right now," I growl as my boss stomps across the office toward me, his face the same shade of red as the pen in his pocket. Wonderful. This is going to go so well. "Love you. Bye!"
I quickly disconnect, shoving my phone into my desk drawer.
"Miss Abrams," Jack says, stopping a few feet in front of my desk. "May I have a word?"
"Of course. Um, I'm sorry for…" I wave my hand, refusing to actually say the words, talking about fucking bosses out loud to the literal last boss on the planet I would fuck. I'm pretty sure we're already creeping toward sexual harassment territory here. No need to make it worse.
He glances down at the carpet, then at me, then at the glass wall of the waiting area, where our patients are now pretending not to eavesdrop.
"Miss Abrams," he says, lowering his voice. "This is a professional medical office. Our patients expect a standard of discretion and decorum."
"Understood. I apologize for what I said, sir."
"I'm more concerned with your personal life being plastered all over the internet than your colorful language. I don't care what you do on your own time, but I'm going to need you to keep it out of the headlines."
A hot flush crawls up my neck. "Is there a particular way you'd like me to do that?" I ask, all sugar. "Short of not leaving my apartment, I mean."
His jaw ticks. "The optics are not ideal."
"The optics of what, exactly?"
"Of a member of my staff being involved in a public scandal."
Ah, there it is. He's going to fire me. I can practically feel the desire radiating off him.
I clear my throat, my heart pounding. "I didn't authorize those photos or the stories, Jack.
Frankly, it's harassment." I try to keep my voice steady, but my hands shake a little on the edge of the desk.
"If you'd like me to file a lawsuit over them instead of coming to work, that can be arranged.
But I have bills to pay, and I'd rather not be unemployed because the internet has jokes and opinions. "
He blinks, caught off guard for half a second before his lips press together into a thin, disapproving line.
"I simply meant to remind you that your role here is to maintain a degree of professionalism while running this office.
I can't have photographers showing up here, invading patient privacy just to get photos of you.
If you can't ensure that won't keep happening, perhaps this isn't the right fit for you. "
For a second, I can't decide if I want to laugh or cry. "So…you're firing me because the world is nosy and takes everything out of context?"
He opens his mouth, then hesitates, searching for some phrase that won't get him sued. "Not firing. I would never… I'm merely suggesting that perhaps your…uh, notoriety, might be better suited for a workplace that doesn't value discretion quite so highly."
"Like porn?" I blurt, unable to stop myself.
He flinches, which is deeply satisfying.
"I'm not a porn star, Jack. I'm an office manager who went to a party. And then got her ass memed by the internet. It's not like I meant to spill wine and come face-to-face with a quarterback's penis."
One of the patients in the waiting room chokes on her Diet Coke. The other two stare at their phones like they're about to burn holes through the glass.
"Professionalism, Serena," Jack growls, his jaw clenching.
I stare at him for a long moment, taking deep breaths. I've worked here for two years. I'm always early, never call out, and the patients love me. But the second I show up on the internet, I'm suddenly a liability.
"Maybe you're right," I say, my voice icy. "Maybe I am better suited to working for someone who knows how to avoid harassment lawsuits."
Jack tenses, his nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he thinks better of it, turns on his heel, and stalks into his office.
I let out a breath, willing my hands not to shake. The Diet Coke lady watches me with wide, delighted eyes, like this is better than any show she's ever seen. I give her a little wave, and she grins, then goes back to pretending to scroll her phone.
It takes a minute for my heart to stop racing, but when it does, what's left behind isn't pride or satisfaction or even anger. It's this weird ache, like something tiny and precious just got snatched out of my chest.
Jack isn't wrong, dammit. As much as I hate to admit it…
he isn't wrong. Photographers showing up here is a problem, especially for the patients who depend on us.
They don't deserve to inadvertently have their faces plastered all over the internet just because the whole world is determined to turn me into a joke.
I stare at the blinking cursor on my desktop, my hands limp in my lap. There's a new headline screaming at me from every open tab.
SHE'S GOT HAWKES BY THE BALLS!
HAWKES' NEW FLAME FUMBLES
It's all jokes and games—except it's my life and livelihood at stake…and I'm not laughing.
I'm still staring at the headlines when my phone dings with an incoming message. I pick it up, expecting it to be Peyton, demanding details.
It's not Peyton.
Austin: I can't stop thinking about you. Wait for me after the game tonight?
My heart rolls in my chest. For a minute—a split-second, really—I think about texting him back, telling him that I changed my mind about going. That this isn't going to work.
But I don't. I can't.
Me: Yeah, I'll wait for you.
I stare at the heart emoji he sends back for far longer than I'm willing to admit.
The stadium on game night is as loud, crowded, and wild as any hockey arena. By the time security escorts me to the seat Austin reserved for me on the fifty-yard line, I'm a ball of nervous energy.
I thought about asking Peyton to come with me, but I'm a little glad I didn't. I'm already getting all kinds of looks and whispers.
If she were here, it'd only be worse, considering she was photographed with Austin last year.
God only knows what the headlines would say about the two of us together at one of his games.
By the time Austin takes the field, the whispers have grown to a dull roar.
I try like hell to block them out, but drunk football fans are relentless.
Especially drunk football fans who have seen my whole ass.
I try to focus on the game, pretending I know what the hell is happening on the field.
But all I really see is the way every camera, every phone, every eye is turned in my direction.
The attention doesn't let up, not even after the first quarter.
The guys behind me are the worst, talking about me like I can't hear them just because I'm two feet away.
"That's her," the guy in a Monuments' jersey hisses, elbowing his friend. "The one who gave Hawkes head in the hallway. You see those photos?"
His friend, his face painted half red and half gold, snickers. "I'd let her blow me any day. Look at those tits. You think she's gonna give him a halftime hummer?"
"Hey, Serena!" the first one shouts at me. I jump because the sound is so close to my ear. "Take one for the team, babe! We're down by six."
My hands curl into fists around my red cup. I count to five. And then I count to ten. I try to think about puppies.
It doesn't help.
"C'mon, baby! You could be a hero, you know that?"