I clear my throat, my heart pounding. "I didn't authorize those photos or the stories, Jack. Frankly, it's harassment." I try to keep my voice steady, but my hands shake a little on the edge of the desk. "If you'd like me to file a lawsuit over them instead of coming to work, that can be arranged. But I have bills to pay, and I'd rather not be unemployed because the internet has jokes and opinions."
He blinks, caught off guard for half a second before his lips press together into a thin, disapproving line. "I simply meant to remind you that your role here is to maintain a degree of professionalism while running this office. I can't have photographers showing up here, invading patient privacy just to get photos of you. If you can't ensure that won't keep happening, perhaps this isn't the right fit for you."
For a second, I can't decide if I want to laugh or cry. "So…you're firing me because the world is nosy and takes everything out of context?"
He opens his mouth, then hesitates, searching for some phrase that won't get him sued. "Not firing. I would never… I'm merely suggesting that perhaps your…uh, notoriety, might be better suited for a workplace that doesn't value discretion quite so highly."
"Like porn?" I blurt, unable to stop myself.
He flinches, which is deeply satisfying.
"I'm not a porn star, Jack. I'm an office manager who went to a party. And then got her ass memed by the internet.It's not like I meant to spill wine and come face-to-face with a quarterback's penis."
One of the patients in the waiting room chokes on her Diet Coke. The other two stare at their phones like they're about to burn holes through the glass.
"Professionalism, Serena," Jack growls, his jaw clenching.
I stare at him for a long moment, taking deep breaths. I've worked here for two years. I'm always early, never call out, and the patients love me. But the second I show up on the internet, I'm suddenly a liability.
"Maybe you're right," I say, my voice icy. "Maybe I am better suited to working for someone who knows how to avoid harassment lawsuits."
Jack tenses, his nostrils flaring. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he thinks better of it, turns on his heel, and stalks into his office.
I let out a breath, willing my hands not to shake. The Diet Coke lady watches me with wide, delighted eyes, like this is better than any show she's ever seen. I give her a little wave, and she grins, then goes back to pretending to scroll her phone.
It takes a minute for my heart to stop racing, but when it does, what's left behind isn't pride or satisfaction or even anger. It's this weird ache, like something tiny and precious just got snatched out of my chest.
Jack isn't wrong, dammit. As much as I hate to admit it…he isn't wrong. Photographers showing up here is a problem, especially for the patients who depend on us. They don't deserve to inadvertently have their faces plastered all over the internet just because the whole world is determined to turn me into a joke.
I stare at the blinking cursor on my desktop, my hands limp in my lap. There's a new headline screaming at me from every open tab.
SHE'S GOT HAWKES BY THE BALLS!
HAWKES' NEW FLAME FUMBLES
It's all jokes and games—except it's my life and livelihood at stake…and I'm not laughing.
I'm still staring at the headlines when my phone dings with an incoming message. I pick it up, expecting it to be Peyton, demanding details.
It's not Peyton.
Austin: I can't stop thinking about you. Wait for me after the game tonight?
My heart rolls in my chest. For a minute—a split-second, really—I think about texting him back, telling him that I changed my mind about going. That this isn't going to work.
But I don't. I can't.
Me: Yeah, I'll wait for you.
I stare at the heart emoji he sends back for far longer than I'm willing to admit.
The stadium on game night is as loud, crowded, and wild as any hockey arena. By the time security escorts me to the seat Austin reserved for me on the fifty-yard line, I'm a ball of nervous energy.
I thought about asking Peyton to come with me, but I'm a little glad I didn't. I'm already getting all kinds of looks and whispers. If she were here, it'd only be worse, considering she was photographed with Austin last year. God only knows what the headlines would say about the two of us together at one of his games.
By the time Austin takes the field, the whispers have grown to a dull roar. I try like hell to block them out, but drunk football fans are relentless. Especially drunk football fans who have seen my whole ass. I try to focus on the game, pretending I know what the hell is happening on the field. But all I really see is the way every camera, every phone, every eye is turned in my direction.
The attention doesn't let up, not even after the first quarter.
