The guys behind me are the worst, talking about me like I can't hear them just because I'm two feet away.
"That's her," the guy in a Monuments' jersey hisses, elbowing his friend. "The one who gave Hawkes head in the hallway. You see those photos?"
His friend, his face painted half red and half gold, snickers. "I'd let her blow me any day. Look at those tits. You think she's gonna give him a halftime hummer?"
"Hey, Serena!" the first one shouts at me. I jump because the sound is so close to my ear. "Take one for the team, babe! We're down by six."
My hands curl into fists around my red cup. I count to five. And then I count to ten. I try to think about puppies.
It doesn't help.
"C'mon, baby! You could be a hero, you know that?"
His asshole friend cackles, spraying beer onto my shoulder. "I bet with a mouth like that, you could have him taken care of and back on the fie—"
I whip around so fast I nearly spill my own drink. "Will you shut the fuck up?"
They look at me with shit-eating grins, like they're thrilled the monkey in the cage actually speaks.
The guy in the jersey leans forward, his hazel eyes dilated. "You need a volunteer to help warm that mouth up before halftime, sweetheart?"
I don't think. I just jump up, dumping the rest of my beer over his head, cup and all. "Here's something to putinyourmouth, you disgusting jackass," I growl, my voice trembling with fury.
The beer splashes in a sticky arc, coating his face and jersey.
He yelps, leaping to his feet as the crowd around us erupts into oohs and jeers.
For a second, I think he's going to hit me, but he just stands there, dripping and howling with laughter, like I just made his whole damn night.
"You go, girl!" A woman across the aisle claps, cheering me on.
Her friend isn't as kind. She looks me up and down like I'm a bug she wants to squash. "Desperate slut."
The insult hits hard. I'm not sure if that's because it comes from another woman or if it's because Ifeeldesperate. And visible. And raw as hell.
This is a disaster, way worse than I imagined it would be.
I whirl abruptly, but someone's blocking my exit. My heart pounds against my ribcage, the urge to flee beating at me like a living thing.
A man in a suit, with a press badge on a lanyard around his neck, cuts through the aisle, smiling at me.
Great. Just great.
"Miss Abrams?" he says, just loud enough for me to hear. His eyes flick between me and the guys behind me. "Can I help you get out of here?"
I know he's not really here to help me. I'm content right now, and he's a vulture. But the alternative is more humiliation, more photos, more…of whatever the last hour has been.
I let him usher me to a side corridor, away from the main crush of bodies.
"You okay?" he asks, like he actually cares and won't just use whatever I say to generate a headline.
"I'm fine."
He waits for a second, then pulls out his phone, already recording. "Can I ask what you think of the coverage around you and Mr. Hawkes?"
I knew it was coming, but I stop dead anyway. My chest is tight, my body numb. "Are you kidding me?"
He blinks, already halfway through another question. "I just want to give you a voice, Ms. Abrams. You know, before the story gets too far away from you."
