Page 56 of Off Camera
Gosh.
Reid.
I’ve tried to avoid thinking about him, but it’s nearly impossible.
The way he jumped in to help with Peter.
How he didn’t ask questions and justdid.
His blush when I jokingly asked if he had been bad—I could see the pink on his cheeks from across the bar.
When I got back from dinner last night, I had to hide my vibrator in my suitcase under a pair of socks so I wouldn’t use it to get off to the thought of his hooded eyes and his rough voice saying my name.
I felt safe with him, like I could tell him everything about my past and he would listen without judgment. Like I could explain why I throw myself into work until I’m run ragged and on the brink of exhaustion and he’d understand.
I’ve never felt that way with anyone before.
Our relationship is complicated now, though. Any future of an us—casually, romantically—has gone out the window, and sharing deeply personal parts of myself doesn’t fall into the category ofrival I want to crush like a fucking bug.
Even if I do still think he’s hot as hell.
I grab my phone off the bathroom sink and upload the video I’ve had in my drafts folder for a week. It’s a rapid-fire interview shot in our stadium tunnel, a montage of different players giggling when they see the tiny mic I’m holding and answering the questions I lob their way.
There are four hundred likes within seconds.
Comments start to pop up, and as someone who learned very early in her career toneverread the comments, I ignore the criticism coming from@urmomlovesme69.
A new DM lands in my inbox, and I already know who it’s going to be before opening it. It’s like clockwork with us; one of us posts, the other messages.
I head to the Titans’ Instagram to see if he’s lying.
It’s flooded with content Reid probably spent hours perfectly curating. Photos from their Super Bowl victory a couple years back. Their new jersey reveal and the schedule drop from earlier this summer. A “day in the life” at training camp and a tour of FedEx Field, the stadium where they play, through the eyes of a GoPro attached to the back of a golden retriever.
I know it all like the back of my hand except for the latest post in the top left corner of the page.
The assholedidupload a video seven minutes ago, a creative digital time-lapse of all the Titans’ logos to celebrate the start of their fortieth season.
Dammit.
Reid rarely posts in the morning.
I’ll never tell him this, but he’s not the only one who’s memorized schedules. When you’re in an industry of mass consumption and immediate gratification, everything you share has to be strategic and intentional.
It’s obvious he’s deviating from his routine—the routine I bet he loves—just to get under my skin, and I’m not going to let him.
I slip my room key in my crossbody bag and head down the hall. I take the elevator to the ground floor and say hello to a handful of women I’ve met at other leadership conferences, gradually making my way to the lobby.
The rosters for the flag football teams are random, and I grin when I see my friend Erin, a marketing director from LA, is one of my teammates.
“Good morning.” She hands me a large iced coffee in a to-go cup. “I thought you overslept.”
Nope. Just lounging in bed,notimagining Reid running his hand up my thighs with that cute smile of his.
It’s difficult to actually hate the guy when I can still remember the orgasms he gave me and how goddamn nice he is.
“Just a few minutes behind schedule.” I stifle a yawn to sell the act and sip the drink, grateful for the caffeine. “How are you? When is your flight tomorrow?”
“Early.” She groans and fixes her baby-blue tennis skort. “Whoever thought it was a good idea to hold this conference five days before the season is an idiot.”
