Page 113 of Off Camera
I wish I wore something warmer than loose fitting joggers. I wish I had something more professional on than a white long-sleeved Titans shirt and a backward hat. Avery looks like the picture of corporate America with her nice blouse and pleated slacks, and I know she’s making a better impression than me.
“Reid and I have a bet going,” she tells Andrew. “We’re competing against each other for ticket sales andaccount of the year.”
“Should be an easy win for you,” Andrew says. “Just show your face in the videos.”
“What?” Avery frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You’re pretty. Gorgeous, even. Over fifty percent of the NFL’s viewership is male. You want season ticket holders? Show yourself off. Sell yourself as a perk of joining the team’s fanbase. You’re doing too much right now. Tone it down a little.”
“Oh,” Avery says softly, and she stares at the field.
“Who cares about the content you’re posting? Fans want to see hot women, and that includes you,” Andrew says.
My hand flexes at my side. I don’t like the direction this conversation is heading, and I want to intervene without acting like some self-righteous bonehead.
“I purposely leave myself out of the videos and photos,” Avery challenges. “We all do. No social media manager is front and center. The purpose is to showcase the players. To give fans an insider look into what’s happening on the field. It’s not a dating app. Or a place to meet women.”
“Maybe that should change, especially if they have a pretty face like yours. As for Social Media Account of the Year, well…” Andrew looks her up and down and grins. I hate his teeth. I hate the way his eyes gleam and how his attention hangs on her chest. I hatehim. “I have a few ideas for that too. Provocative sells. Why do you think the Texas cheerleaders have more Instagram followers than half the teams in the league?”
The motherfucker laugh like he’s the funniest guy in the world, and my eye twitches. I glance at Avery, and she’s still staring at the field. Her shoulders curve in, and she’s hanging her head in a way that tells me she’s pissed. Hurt and upset.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I say sharply. “You’re diminishing her job, and that’s bullshit.”
“I’m not diminishing anything,” Andrew argues. “Myjob is looking at data, and data doesn’t lie. Men are going to watch football no matter what. You want more people to come through the doors? Give them a reason besides four quarters of touchdowns.”
“Are we ignoring the rise in female viewership?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. “Thanks to Ella Wright, women are?—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He laughs, and I’m seconds away from strangling him. Cutting off his air supply and beating him to a pulp, and I’ve never been in a fight in my life. “Enough about that bitch. Speaking off the record, I hope she and Theo Asherbreak up. I can’t stand seeing her on my television screen every week.”
“But you want Avery to show her face?” I ask. “That’s pretty hypocritical of you.”
“I’m just telling you what the people want.”
“Get out,” I say, and Avery jerks her neck up to look at me.
“What?” Andrew asks.
“I said, get out.”
“This isn’t your stadium. You’re not the head of security. You don’t have a lot of pull here, buddy, and if you want to have a job tomorrow, I’d be very careful about what you say next.”
There’s a maniacal part of me that has the burning desire to support Avery. I don’t want to make this situation about me, but I want her to know I have her back. That not everyone thinks like this prick does.
I want her to know she’s valued. She’s appreciated, and she’s damn good at what she does. Fuck the bet. Fuck the game. This is bigger than that.
“Avery Sinclair is the best of the best,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Three years in the league, and she’s accomplished milestones others haven’t in double that time. She’s created a song every NFL fan recognizes. She’s cultivated a diverse following of a football team loved by millions. Take a look around, Andrew. You know what I see? I see men. I see women. I see kids and older folks who have waited fuckingyearsfor the Thunderhawks to come back to Baltimore.Averyhas had a hand in that. Sure, they still have a ways to go with season ticket holders and loyal fans who are in this for the long haul, but every fucking seat is sold. The stadium is filled. You know why? BecauseAverycomes up with promotions to get people in the doors. She does weekly fan spotlights, telling the stories of people who have been watching football for decades. She documents the charity work the Thunderhawks do. She makesthis environment fun. A community others want to be a part of. And if you think telling her to show her face in front of the camera is theonlyway she’s going to get fans in the door, you don’t know fuckingshitabout how hard she works. That’s an insult to the hours she puts in at the office. The late nights when she’s awake until three, four in the morning, making sure every single photo she’s going to post is fuckingperfect. She’s going to wipe the floor with me this year in our bet, and it’s going to be a fuckinghonorto lose to her.”
I stop for a breath. I move my attention to Avery, and her bottom lip is trembling. I want to reach out and hug her. Since this clown clearly doesn’t value her as a professional, I refrain from pulling her to my chest and telling her it’s going to be okay. I’m not going to give him any more ammunition.
“Here.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper. I hand it to her, and her fingers brush against mine when she takes it. “It’s our ticket sales numbers so you can compare them to yours. I have a feeling yours are higher, which means you’re winning, Sinclair. Congratulations.”
I turn on my heel and head back to the Titans’ sideline. The roar of the crowd is nothing but dull noise, and as much as I want to turn around and look behind me, I don’t. I keep my gaze ahead, staring at the scoreboard.
We might win by fourteen, but after hearing Andrew’s shitty comments, it feels a lot like a loss.
THIRTY-THREE
AVERY
