She scoffs. “I would have liked to not be having this conversation with you, Avery. I had high hopes for you this year. I know how much you wanted to be a part of this, and I just feel—if I may be frank—as though you’re throwing it away. You risked the team’s—your—reputation. I’m just… I’m disappointed. That’s all. Mr. Billings will take it from here. I’ve already said too much.”
HR guy—Mr. Billings—leans forward. “Where were you on the night of September seventh?”
“I—Well, actually, I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
He pulls a tablet out of the bag at his side and unlocks it, pushing it across the table to me. “Were you by chance at The Malted Mule?”
My eyes fall on the screen before flicking away to fix on his, my cheeks igniting. There are a few things I could do at this moment. My first instinct is to lie, but there I am. There’s no denying it. My face is fully exposed through the crack between Ramiel and Ty’s shoulders. Foster towers above me, and I’m smiling as my gaze is locked dead ahead, on Ty. I might as well be staring directly into the camera, given the angle. The picture is clear, though it’sobvious to me it was taken in a way someone thought was sneaky.
“Where did you get that?” I ask quietly.
“Someone pulled it from a social media account,” he answers calmly.
Judith continues to press a finger into her temple, her lips in a tight line. I would expect her to look angrier, but there’s something a little sad in her eyes. Maybe it’s pity. But unfortunately for me, Mr. HR and our team contracts don’t operate on feelings. This is the only evidence they need.
I’m done.
“I was at The Malted Mule. For trivia night. On a date.” Their eyes widen, and I scramble to finish my sentence, giving in to my typical too-much-talk urge. “With a guy that works there. But he wasn’t working that night. We were supposed to be on our own trivia team, but the people we were meeting didn’t show up and?—”
Mr. Billings swipes the screen, and everything in me sours. Staring back at me is a photo of Ty and me in our masks at The St. Mirada Masquerade. Neither of our faces is decipherable, but one thing is for certain—the menagerie of tattoos climbing up Ty’s forearms. Skull included and clear as day. My fingers are wrapped around his thick bicep as he leans forward, mouth twisted in anger at the drunk guy who spilled on me. Though his chivalry was appreciated, it didn’t come without consequences.
Holy smoking smokes. I’m cooked.
Mr. Billings’s tone is so calm it makes me uneasy. “Internet sources may not always be reliable, but with the admission of your presence at The Malted Mule?—”
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have stayed, I?—”
Both of them sigh as papers are pulled from Mr. HR’s bag. He shuffles them loudly as he moves on with the procedure, business as usual. Words likeconflict of interestandseverancebarely pierce my stupor.
Mr. HR Billings snuffles. “This is not a reflection of your performance, Miss Hinkley, but simply a matter of organizational policy. As outlined in your contract.”
I black out as I sign and leave the room, only coming to as I pass our practice studio. Ignoring the typical cacophony of the girls, I weave a sad little path all the way out to my empty car.
I had the one thing I’d ever truly dreamed of, and I took it for granted. I screwed up.
Despite the many times I’ve wanted to cry today, as soon as I sit in the driver’s seat, close and lock the door, the dam breaks, and I dissolve into a puddle.
I just got fired.
I’ve left dozens of jobs, but being fired is something totally different. It’s not a choice. I was forced to abandon it, and I suppose I only have myself to blame. Telling lies and keeping secrets only brings destruction. It serves me right.
All I can think about is getting back to my place, packing up and leaving. But where would I go? I can’t bring myself to stay at the place my choreographer hooked me up with. Not tonight.
Tears pour harder as I consider my predicament. Getting kicked off—fired—is far worse. The thing is, although it’s completely embarrassing to getkicked off the team, I’m not sure I’m crying sad tears. There’s something cathartic about them. I feel almost…relieved.Through blurry eyes, I shove my key into the ignition and twist, but Harriet sputters. She won’t start. If I thought things couldn’t get worse, I was wrong.
If I could cry harder, I would. But alas, I cannot. My phone pings and I lift it to see a text from Larissa, asking where I am. I can’t ask her for help, and despite my longing to reach out to Ty, I can’t. And that’s when it hits me. Is he getting the same talk today? Is he getting kicked off? But I know the answer to that one. Depending on the team, the ramifications for a player in this exact situation can range anywhere from a slap on the wrist to a hefty fine. I hope they aren’t too harsh on him. We made a mistake, but I still blame myself. I should have known better. He was just trying to be nice. That’s all it was.
Suddenly, my car is a coffin, locking me in, suffocating me. Throwing the door open, I heave my body over the side of the driver’s seat, desperate for a breeze. I can’t call Ty. I can’t call Larissa. If I called my Mom, she’d probably just tell me how much money Ellie owes her for losing whatever dumb bet they gambled. I slam the door shut, sealing myself back into the prison that is Ol’ Harriet.
So I sit. And stare. And wait. For what, I’m not sure.
The parking lot lights flicker on, blotting out the lurking darkness of the evening. A couple of gulls fight over a half-eaten pretzel four parking spaces over. When their tiff ends, I watch aimlessly as they fly away, wishing I could do the same. My eyes sweep across the vast lot. Cars stop and go and fuss out on the street ahead. Jealousy streaks through me at their ability to do something.Anything. I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually, the numbing silence is interrupted by a knock on my window.
I jump and turn to see one of the last people I would want to see after what happened.Larissa.Of all the days to find parking next to her, why did it have to be the day I got fired? She doesn’t even stop at her car. Her dark brows are knitted as she beelines toward me, and I slink lower in my seat. A mortification I’ve never experienced burns over my skin as girls from the team glance our way, stalling just long enough to catch a glimpse of my emotional circus before diving into their cars.
“Avery, what are you doing? Why weren’t you at—” Her eyes flip tohorrified modeas they appraise my face through the window. “Are you okay?” She jiggles the doorhandle, but I had enough good sense to lock it. “Open the door, Avery.”
“No.”
