Page 121 of Against the Clock

Every time a notification buzzes through on my phone, I’m torn between a serotonin boost and extreme anxiety.

The reaction to the cheerleader piece going live on USBC-Philly was immediate and explosive.

Half the Hot Dams are out for my blood. Literally, in some extremely disturbing cases. The other half of the Beavers fanbase is disgusted with the AFL’s treatment of the cheerleaders. I scrolled the comments for half an hour this morning before Cameron finally told me she was going to take my phone away.

Now I’m sitting in the makeup chair usually reserved for the lead anchors, the weather dude, and the other normal correspondents, getting foundation caked on my face so that I’m “TV ready.”

I’m scheduled to give a two-minute overview of the cheerleader piece, and my stomach’s in knots.

My phone buzzes, and the makeup artist glances away from my cheek to my eyes.

“You gonna get that one?”

I choke on a laugh. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She takes a hasty step back, squinting at me. “I can get you some water. Trash can’s over by the door. You’re wearing waterproof mascara, so go for it.”

She’s so nonchalant about me puking before going live that I stare at her for a second in disbelief, the nausea replaced by surprise.

“Do the other correspondents barf a lot?”

“Cameron tends to puke every so often before she gets in front of the cameras. Gotta be prepared, you know?”

“Right.” I frown, totally distracted from my own nerves as I wonder about Cameron. She never told me she was getting sick from nervousness. I had no idea.

I thought she loved being on camera. I thought she wanted to take over hosting the whole damn thing.

“You gonna puke?”

I shake my head and smile weakly at her. “I’m okay.”

“You know, I read the article,” the makeup artist says, resuming dabbing concealer under my eyes. I’m pretty sure she’s using so much contour that I’m not going to recognize myself, but whatever. “I think what you’re doing is great. I’m sick of assholes taking advantage of young women. Good on you for speaking up.”

“Oh. Thank you,” I say, surprised. A warm glow fills my chest, and I smile at her.

“Relax your face!” she barks, and I drop the smile.

“Yeah, I think it’s brave of you,” she continues once I’ve resumed my dead doll impression. “BeaverTok is already doing their absolute best to run your name through the mud and dig up anything nasty they can about you, and here you are, getting ready to go on camera and put your face out there even more.”

My fingers clench the arms of the makeup chair.

I think I’m starting to understand why Cameron throws up before she goes live.

“That’s not very helpful,” I manage through clenched teeth.

“It’s the reality of it.” She swipes some heavily pigmented blush over my cheeks, and I inhale sharply through my nose. “But you can rest easy knowing that you’re doing the right thing, even if it means the Hot Dams find out where you live.”

“Thanks-so-much-I-think-that’s-enough-for-now!” I shout in one breath, pushing her away from me and running to the bathroom down the hall.

My phone vibrates against my suit jacket, and I brace my hands against the sink, my heart pounding.

Hands shaking, I retrieve my phone and dial the only person I want to talk to.

The phone rings, and rings, and goes to voicemail.

I hang up, knowing Daniel must be at practice still, and call my dad instead.

“Hey honey.” His voice is a hot cup of cocoa, a warm blanket on a cold night, a fresh-baked cookie straight from the oven. A tear slides down my cheek, and I swipe it away before it leaves a canyon in the thick foundation.

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