Page 33 of Against the Clock

“He’s going to try to figure out an angle to exploit. He’ll see it as a way to get an in with the team, or something like that. Honestly, your sex life or lack thereof is none of his damn business, and I am happy to walk us both down to HR and help you file a complaint about his ass.”

“You and I both know HR doesn’t give a fuck.”

I stare at her, Cameron’s expression growing darker by the second.

“So you ignore whatever it is he tells you. Besides, you said it was a one-night stand, right? The Hot Dams will have a field day with it for a little while, and then they’ll move on to something new next week.”

I nod, a miserable knot tightening my stomach. “Right.”

“Right,” Cameron echoes.

Neither of us sound convinced.

“It was a one-night stand, right?” she asks, sipping her mimosa and narrowing her eyes at me over the rim.

“Of course,” I squeak out, then clear my throat. “Of course it was a one-night stand.”

Cameron snorts, her eyebrows raised.

I grab the mimosa again, and a flurry of bubbles pop to the surface through the orange liquid.

“He asked me to stay at his house for the weekend, while he’s gone.” The knot in my stomach gets tighter and I drop my hand to my lap, folding and unfolding the cloth napkin.

Her nostrils flare as she inhales, tipping her chin up and staring at the restaurant ceiling.

“He was just being nice.” Wasn’t he? “You know how I feel about football. The last thing I want to do is get involved with a football player.”

“That ship has fucking sailed, friend,” Cameron says, refocusing on me.

“There’s no way I am going to put myself through a football wife lifestyle,” I say. “You know how hard things are for my dad. You know how I feel about the AFL.”

“It sounds an awful lot like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

The waitress reappears and we both snap our mouths shut, then thank her as she sets plate after plate in front of us. I don’t even want to eat anymore. I’m in the middle of a freakout.

Cameron picks up her fork, then puts it back down with an enormous sigh.

She leans across the food, pitching her voice low.

“I know the AFL screwed your dad over. I know he’s struggling, but he played decades ago.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but that doesn’t stop her from plowing forward.

“They’ve changed concussion protocols since then.”

“Stop,” I tell her. “Just stop.”

I make myself cut a bite of waffle. The fork and knife make a sharp, unpleasant ping against the plate. Despite the blueberry syrup, it tastes like ash in my mouth.

But Cameron’s Cameron, and one of the reasons she’s a great reporter is because once she has an idea in her head, she doesn’t let it go.

“Do you like him? Because if he’s inviting you to stay at his house, it doesn’t sound like he thinks it was a one-night stand.” Her face pinches then clears, as though she’s realized something. “Didn’t you tell me he called you his future girlfriend?”

“He did,” I say, my voice all high and funny. It’s not the mimosas’ fault, either.

“Eat,” Cameron commands. “Eat, and think about swallowing the idea that maybe he doesn’t think he’s a one-night stand. And leave the mess of your dad out of it too, and think about whether or not you want Daniel Harrison to be more than a one-night stand.”

I glare at Cameron but do as she says, forcing another forkful into my mouth. Cameron grins at me.

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