Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
“Oh my gosh… oh my gosh,” I repeat under my breath, trailing a stadium usher who’s power-walking me through endless corridors toward the suite I was supposed to be in before kickoff.
What a day.
Before this Jaxon Wilde situation was added to the mix, I could manage my schedule. I had a system. Now? I’m racing through a stadium, smelling like airplane air, my makeup melted down my face, my hair frizzed from the humidity rolling off the SoCal coast.
Unacceptable.
And I’m tired. So very, very tired.
“Wait,” I pant, stopping abruptly in front of the ladies’ room. I point to the door. “I just need to freshen up.”
The usher glances at her watch, tight-lipped like I’m testing the limits of her orders to get me upstairs now.
“Alright, just make it quick, okay?”
I nod and rush inside.
The mirror confirms what I feared—I look like I lost a fight with a Halloween costume.
So, I scrub off the makeup. Better to go barefaced than look like a trainwreck in foundation.
I yank my hair into a ponytail, then braid it.
Thank God I keep body wipes and deodorant in my purse.
I scrub away the airplane stench I hate so much and reapply a quick layer of fresh.
Then I finally pee—my bladder had been on the verge of bursting since before we landed. Between disembarking, signing autographs, and getting whisked to the stadium in the car Roger sent, I haven’t had a second to breathe.
When I reemerge, my usher speaks into her walkie-talkie. “Here she is.” Then, without waiting for a response, she stomps off. I follow.
When we reach the suite, Roger’s standing at the door, suited up like he’s about to take a deposition—and so furious I half-expect steam to shoot from his ears.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, lowering my head like a school kid caught sneaking in late.
“Strike one,” he hisses. Then he turns and walks off, leaving me to face the suite alone.
Everyone in the room is staring at me like I’m part of a museum exhibit.