Page 54 of The Tiger in the Sack

C. Freeman. Right there after G. Jackson. Wednesday, nine am, Conference Room A.

I could call in sick.

Vito headbutted me again, harder. I kept reading the attendee list like something about it was going to change.

I cannot go to work today, said little Isak Bear McK.

One sharp paw, nails out, tapped my thigh. I ignored it and stretched out on the couch. Maybe I had a fever.

“I can’t call in sick,” I told him.

Vito stepped off the couch, walked to the door, and began scratching at the carpet directly in front of it. The full production. Both paws, maximum commitment, like he had detected something dead under the floorboards and was personally offended by it and intended to excavate it immediately.

“I’m the starting QB. If I call in sick the team doctor shows up, then the trainers, then Roper, and then some sports blog runs KINGMAN INJURED with three question marks before I’ve finished pretending to have a temperature.” I looked at the invite again. Vito scratched harder. “Not an option.”

Vito sat down, looked at me, and went back to scratching. He wasn’t arguing about the logistics. He was making a different point.

I accepted the invite.

I was going to walk in there and be so cool about this. Coolest person in the room. I had been in harder situations than a Wednesday morning meeting and I was a professional and she was a professional and it was going to be completely⁠—

Vito covered the last of whatever he’d smelled and walked back to his armchair.

Fine. It was going to be fine.

Conference Room A was on the second floor, which gave me exactly one flight of stairs to get my face right.

If I had the attitude right, I was good. But my face had been known to betray me and all my feelings along with it.

Monty was already there when I walked in, at the head of the table, which was somehow predictable and irritating in equal measure. He was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my first car. He looked up and greeted me with a nod and a smile that never met his eyes.

Coach Roper came in behind me, dropped his legal pad on the table, and immediately wrote something on it, which was probably a doodle of a cookie or something.

Gabrielle came in at eight fifty-eight and right behind her Fox sauntered in like he owned the room. He sat next to me and said nothing, which meant he’d already assessed the room and decided we’d be talking tea later.

Clover came in at nine. On the dot.

She set her laptop on the table. Opened it. Looked at Gabrielle.

Not at me.

At Gabrielle.

I was a piece of furniture she had clocked the location of and did not plan to interact with.

Cool. That was fine. I knew this was coming. I had prepared for exactly this. I was prepared.

Rutherford came in last and pulled out a chair right next to Clover. I wouldn’t have cared even a little bit, no not me, except he jerked his chin up in greeting and gave her a wink as he smacked his gum.

I was accidentally on purpose beaning him in the winking eye with a football later today.

Gabrielle turned her laptop around, displaying the cheer video that had taken over Instasnap, and let the number sit on the screen for a second before she said anything.

Four point three million views.

“Two days,” she said.

Fox leaned forward. “Is that… is that even a real number?”