Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Ican’t leave until I see Jaxon and explain what happened.
Being caught on camera sleeping—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.
I cannot be 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 the fuck was 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 even understand this stupid game.”
“You fell 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.”
And that’s it. No chance to explain. No shot to fix it.
Just silence—and the crushing weight of it.
My goose? Cooked. Charred. Fried. Already scraped off the plate and dumped in the trash.
The usher’s name is Ray, and he earns every cent I paid him. He guides me out of the stadium and onto a busy San Diego street without a single person spotting me.
It’s nighttime now. People are out—laughing, eating, living their lives. Meanwhile, I’m spiraling from a PR nightmare and no clean way home.
I don’t have my car. I could rent one and drive back to L.A., drop it off there. Amtrak’s an option, but I’ll get recognized just as easily as I would at the airport.
So I make a bold choice.
I call Anne back.
I tell her the truth: I’m stuck in San Diego, and I need help.
And to her credit, Anne gives me exactly what I ask for.