Chapter 60
SIXTY
“Oh… wow!” Kat shouts at the television.
I’ve gasped, my hand still clamped over my open mouth.
Jaxon just got smacked in the head with the ball. His arms flailed like windmills, but his hands never touched it. It was like watching a scene from a slapstick comedy.
Then the Jumbotron cuts to Ashley, who’s hugging some girl she came with—looking oh-so-distraught. But what grabs me isn’t her Oscar-worthy performance—it’s Genesis, in the row behind her, glaring down with a bitter grimace. And before the camera cuts away, Genesis rolls her eyes.
Yay, Genesis! She really is my friend.
“Did you see that?” I say to Kat, pointing wildly at the screen.
She doesn’t answer.
I turn and look at her. She’s sitting stiffly, her face a shade redder than usual. There’s something she wants to say, but I can tell she’s hesitant—like she doesn’t want to overstep. I get it. I’m her boss. It’s smart to tread lightly.
So I decide to dial it down. No more theatrics. No more flipping out over a guy.
“I’m surprised they’re leaving Jaxon Wilde in,” one of the announcers says.
“That’s Tibbey’s style,” the other responds. “He doesn’t mind losing a game. He wants Jaxon to play through it. Get over it.”
“Well, it’s going to cost them the game if Jameson keeps throwing to him,” the other chimes in. “Seems like Wilde’s got distractions.”
Kat erupts. “You see these guys? It’s always a woman’s fault when a man falls apart. That’s bullshit. A man doesn’t make me bad at my job. So why is it her fault if he’s playing like shit? That means he’s mentally weak. And it’s not even…”
I turn to her, startled. That’s the most personal thing I’ve ever heard Kat say—and it has nothing to do with logistics, scheduling, or production.
“Touché,” I say quietly, even though it sounds like I’m defending Ashley. “You’re right. It’s not her fault.”
Kat narrows one eye, lips pressed tight. I frown. Something’s off. But then I hear the announcer say, “Third and ten,” and I spin back to the screen.
The snap.
Micah Jameson is well-covered and scrambling. He lobs it—and this time, Jaxon actually catches it.
But he’s hit—hard.
The ball flies out as he crashes into the grass. One of his teammates recovers it, thank God, but Jaxon stays down. He’s rolling, gripping his ankle.
I jump to my feet, heart in my throat. “Oh no. Oh my God.”
I glance at the door, then toward my room, already thinking—I need to get to him.
But the Jumbotron flashes Ashley again. She’s hugging her friend, her eyes big and glassy.
Right. She’s his person now.
I slowly sit back down. “He’s not my problem anymore.”
“No. Don’t sit,” Kat says.
I turn to her. She sighs and slumps her shoulders.
“If I tell you this,” she says, “you can’t tell Anne. I mean it. She’ll fire me.”
Her voice is shaky, but her eyes are dead serious.
I get it. I might be her boss, but Anne is a barracuda—merciless and meticulous. If Kat crosses her, she’ll be shredded. And at this stage in my barely blossoming career, there’s not much I can do to stop it.
“I won’t say anything,” I promise.
Kat leans forward. “Jaxon couldn’t find his phone. Anne knows Roger arranged for someone to take it. But he found a way to call her. On Wednesday.”
My brows lift.
“He told Anne everything. Said he wanted you at the game. Asked her to tell you. I think… I think that’s why the seat next to Genesis Cartwright is empty.”
She pauses.
“It’s your seat, Zara.”
My heart squeezes.
Kat looks at me and finishes, “So… don’t sit down. You know what you have to do.”