Page 32 of Against the Clock

I’m an expert on football against my will.

The Hot Dams seem to think that the ruder, louder, and more obnoxious they are, the better their beloved team will do.

And now they think I’m fucking Daniel Harrison.

I bury my face in my hands.

“How bad is it?” I moan.

“You haven’t checked your socials today, have you?”

“That bad.” I collapse onto the table, my gold hoop snagging on my sweater. I sit up, my head tilted, my earring caught, and I’m too freaked out to even bother fixing it.

Cameron reaches over and detangles it from the soft mohair.

Two mimosas land in front of me. I drink one, and half of the other.

Cameron holds out a croissant and I pop the whole thing in my mouth.

“I would say not to gag, but I think we both know that’s not a problem,” she jokes.

I glare at her.

“Wrong time, wrong time, got it. Sorry.”

Another croissant goes down the hatch.

“You can’t avoid me with croissants all morning. We need a plan to deal with this. But first, I want to hear all about it. All the dirty details.”

“No,” I say, and the word surprises us both.

Cameron’s face clouds, anger furrowing her brow. Her voice drops, low and serious.

“Do I need to fucking kill him?” she asks. “Because I will make his life hell.”

“No,” I say, and this time, I can’t help but laugh. Maybe that’s the champagne getting the best of me. “No, it was all consensual. And great,” I say, a pang of unexpected sadness sending an ache through my chest.

Although that ache could also be from chugging too many mimosas.

“That’s a relief,” she says. “No need for a little light homicide after all. So… it was good, huh? About time you hooked up with someone.”

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “Cameron, the last thing I wanted was for a freaking one-night stand to be all over social media.”

“Oh please, they have a game tomorrow, right? The last thing the Hot Dams are going to be worrying about as soon as it’s game time is whether or not you slept with the quarterback.” As soon as she says it, though, she freezes, a croissant halfway to her mouth.

“Fuck,” I moan, and this time, I reach for the water, too buzzed from the champagne I stupidly threw down my gullet.

“They’re going to blame you for his performance tomorrow, either way. No matter what.”

“Gee thanks, Cameron, I can always count on you to bring your sunny perspective.”

“You wouldn’t be my friend if you didn’t like realism, excellent taste, and sarcasm,” Cameron replies, not missing a beat.

We stare at each other, though, and I can tell she’s worried from the little crease in her forehead.

“What’s John going to say?” I tap my nails on the glass of water, biting my lip.

Cameron’s forehead wrinkles even more at the mention of our boss.

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