Page 60 of Against the Clock

Oh yeah, there’s something going on.

“Savannah?” I press. “Is there something you want to tell me?” I pace my cube, an easy task, considering it’s about three steps wide.

“It’s against the rules for a cheerleader to be involved with a player at all. From social media to, well, anything else. No fraternizing, no ma’am!” She giggles again, then lets out a long exhalation.

She’s seeing one of them. And worse, she’s a bad liar.

“Savannah, how would a player and a cheerleader be able to avoid each other that well?”

“Well, it’s pretty easy. You just ignore them, even at, you know, appearances. Polite but cold, that’s what our directors tell us. Just ignore them, even if you’re both in Vegas at the same time and don’t recognize each other.”

My eyes get round, and I try to process that statement. “In Vegas at the same time?”

“Oh you know, hypothetically.”

I crash back down in my chair, holding my cell phone between my jaw and shoulder, typing furiously into the search engine.

Beaver cheerleaders in Vegas

A dozen articles from the summer pop up, showing the gorgeous women smiling and posing, apparently there for a dance camp at UNLV.

I shake my head. This is her personal life. But… if it were to play out?

Sometimes, being a good reporter makes me feel like an asshole.

“Savannah, if you knew of someone being unfairly disciplined for fraternizing with a player that they didn’t know was a player at the time, you would tell me, right? I could protect you, it would all be anonymous. You said yourself the cheer rules were,” I pause, flipping through my notes on Savannah’s conversations with me to find the exact words, “misogynist and draconian.”

“It’s worth it,” she tells me, then repeats it: “It’s so worth it.”

It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

A sniffle crackles over the line and I hold myself still, worried about Savannah.

“Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine.” The words are soggy and she sniffles again. “It’s just, you know, we work so hard. They pay us next to nothing, and they have the weirdest expectations. Be sexy. Be classy. Don’t eat before weigh-ins. Do your hair just right. I love to dance, I love to perform, I love going out there in the uniform, but sometimes… I’m sorry. I’m just tired. It’s an honor to dance with the Beaver cheer team.” She sounds like she’s smiling again, as if she can smile hard enough to erase the fact she’s crying.

“Oh, Savannah.” I sigh, wishing I knew the right thing to say. “It sounds like you’re having a hard time.”

“No, no, I’m fine. It’s fine.”

I raise my eyebrows because we both know that’s a damn lie.

“I tell you what, Savannah, why don’t we try to meet up for coffee next week, and we can talk more about it? It doesn’t have to be on the record, not unless you want it to be.”

“No, no, that’s okay. Look, I gotta go, okay? But yes, you’re right about the rules. If you want, I can send you the official handbook, okay? Just don’t tell anyone you got it from me.”

I do a fist pump, then take a deep breath, steadying myself. “That would be great, thanks, Savannah. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will; you too.”

With that, she hangs up, and I stare at the pictures of the cheerleaders from Vegas still emblazoned across my computer screen. In one, the women are all adorably dressed, pointing at a street sign that says Las Vegas Boulevard, blinking lights and tourists all around. I squint, leaning forward and zooming in on the photo.

Behind the pack of cheerleaders is a sign for a wedding chapel.

I stare at it, then at Savannah’s bright smile in front of it. Her white-blonde hair is in a high, bouncy ponytail, and she looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world.

“No fucking way,” I say out loud. “No way.”

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