Chapter 59
FIFTY-NINE
Why am I even watching this stupid game?
I guess because I’m curious. I want to see if the Jumbotron will catch Ashley in the stadium, playing a better version of the devoted girlfriend to Jaxon Wilde than I ever could. If she’s there, then it’s confirmed—Jaxon’s replaced me with the runner-up.
So far, there’s been no sign of Ashley, but maybe that’s just because the game’s barely begun—and Jaxon is playing terribly.
I winced when he dropped what looked like a perfectly thrown pass. From what Jaxon taught me, the ball landed right in his “pocket.” He should’ve caught it and run for another first down.
Instead, the Bull Sharks are now forced to kick from centerfield.
“This is not good for the Bull Sharks,” one of the excitable announcers says.
“No shit, Sherlock,” I mutter.
These guys talk too much.
That’s why I mute them.
My doorbell rings.
Half-distracted, I leap off the couch and dash to answer it. I’ve been waiting for Kat to bring over a fresh, secure copy of Next In Line episode two’s script. According to Steven—one of the show’s creators and lead writer—I must guard it with my life.
As soon as I swing the door open, I’m met with Kat’s warm smile.
I really like her. She’s such a boss—a woman who puts her head down, gets things done, never complains, and handles every task—large or small—like it’s mission-critical.
“Hey, you,” I say, lit up with anticipation as she hands over the packet.
I nearly snatch it from her fingers.
“You want to come in? I’m having a little private party.”
Her eyebrows rise curiously, and her smile answers for her—she’s in.
“I’m watching Jaxon’s game,” I admit with an eye roll, feeling like a low-key troll in my own living room. “Don’t tell anybody.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” she says, shrugging off her thin jacket as she steps inside.
She follows me to the living room and eyes my indulgent spread—Filet-O-Fish sandwiches stacked like a fast-food Jenga tower, steak fries, and a bottle of wine.
Kat gives me a look: chin lowered, eyebrows raised, a gentle scold in her expression.
Yeah. I know.
“I’ll be okay with workouts and walking,” I say defensively, reclaiming my seat. “I just needed a day of indulgence.”
Especially after yesterday’s showdown with Blaine… and today’s game, which feels like the final nail in whatever Jaxon and I were—real or fake.
“I get it,” Kat says, grabbing one of the Filet-O-Fish sandwiches.
She sits a little stiffly, still unsure how casual she’s allowed to be around me.
“How about a glass of wine?” I offer, hoping it’ll help her loosen up.
She glances over her shoulder like someone’s there to give her permission.
“Well... okay,” she says. “Just one glass. I’m driving.”
I race to the kitchen to grab another wine glass.
“Are you going to turn the volume back up?” Kat calls out.
“If we must!” I reply with faux cheer.
As soon as the announcers come back on, one of them says, “And there’s Ashley Sweet today, supporting Jaxon Wilde.”
“That’s what she says,” the other quips. “But I’m not sure how much her support is helping.”
Thank God I don’t have one of those open-concept kitchens. I wanted separation between my rooms—because right now, I need it. Kat can’t see me stop short, gripping the counter, blinking back the sting in my eyes.
I won’t cry over this. I won’t.
Jaxon played me. Got what he wanted—me in his bed—and moved on to the runner-up, all while pretending I was the prize.
Asshole.
I inhale deep, straighten my spine, square my shoulders.
If Kat weren’t here, I’d change the channel. Probably cue up Netflix and lose myself in a show where men don’t lie. But this show must go on.
I paste on a smile. “Here comes your glass!” I call out, chipper as hell.
And I step back into the room, ready to finish the scene.