Once Upon A Half-Time 1(24)

“I don’t need the money.” The hairs on my neck prickled. “Happy to help.”

“Nonsense. This calls for a raise. More responsibilities. More trust.”

I silently swore. “Great.”

“I need you to go on a little road trip. And you’re the only one I can count on for this job.”

That’s what I was afraid of. I bought myself some time and straighten the strap on my camera bag.

“Like…with the team?” I grinned. “Can I finally go to the London game with the guys?”

“Do this well, and you can go anywhere you like, whenever you like.” He paused. “But I need you to go solo somewhere first. Down south. To Gainesville.”

“Gainesville?” I laughed, a little too eagerly. “If I’m heading to Florida, can’t it be Miami or Key West?”

“I need you to visit the Cougar’s training camp.”

And there it was.

I wished it had shocked me more, that the affirmation of my worst fears wasn’t accompanied with his pleasant smile.

“Why would I go to the Cougar’s camp?”

I’d make him say it. Maybe if he heard it spoken out loud, he’d realize how horrible the implication truly was.

“Same reason you’re here,” he said. “I need you to take a few pictures.”

“Of the Cougars?”

“Of the Cougars. See how they’re training. What plays they’re running with Zane de la Cruz. Just head down there. Sit in with the fans. Maybe stick around if you can, get a couple other pictures.”

Did he honestly think the Rivets needed help to contain Zane de le Cruz? Sure, he was one of the league’s best rushers, but we’d signed Cole Hawthorne. We wouldn’t have any trouble shutting down another offense without any illegal pictures of their game plan.

This was it. I lowered my voice, but I stared him straight in the eyes.

He didn’t blink.

“You want me to cheat for the Rivets,” I said.

“It’s not cheating. It’s just a couple pictures.”

“Pictures that would give us an edge over the Cougars.”

“Elle, everyone does it. Every team has their little games they play with each other. Some coaches scout injury reports. Other will mess with headset frequencies during plays. You know that we’ve even signed players cut by division rivals, just to keep up with the intel other teams have on us. All you need to do is take a couple pictures.”

“And if the Rivets wouldn’t do this?”

“If everyone else has a leg up, we better do it too before we get pissed on.”

I didn’t believe him. “What if I get caught?”

“Not going to happen. You’re…you.”

Insulted? Frustrated? Trapped within the worst job opportunity imaginable?

“Because I’m a woman?” I asked. “No one would will think twice about a woman taking pictures?”

“Sure. If anyone gets suspicious, just…take some selfies with your back to the field. They’ll assume you’re a beautiful woman enjoying the sun in Gainesville. Take Wednesday and Thursday. Head down, enjoy the sights, and come back with all the pictures you can get me.”

“But what about the Rivets’ camp? I need to do my job here.”

“Elle, this is your job now.”

I stiffened. Cheating was my job…and it’d mean my job if I didn’t do it.

Damn it. This was my dream career. The perfect opportunity. I could cross the country, visit anywhere I liked, see everything I wanted. I had a good paycheck throughout the year, and plenty of time in the off-season to travel, see the sights, pick up the occasional wedding party or summer sports event to earn extra money.

I loved every part of this job.

But I valued honesty more.

“Peter, I don’t think I—”

I silenced as someone tugged on my shirt. I expected a giant linebacker or grinning tight-end.

Instead, I faced a rather respectable little boy, maybe five years old, dressed to kill in a perfectly fitted suit. A gold silk cloth tucked into his breast pocket, matching his tie—Rivets’ branded. He stared at me with green eyes the color of a swirling lagoon. His shock of blonde hair was messy, but he furiously smoothed the bangs that fell into his eyes.

He gave me an impatient scowl and shoved a flower into my hand.

“That’s for you,” he said.

The flower was partially crushed, and most of the rose petals inadvertently scattered through the tunnel. The boy had scuffed his dress shoes on the cement all the way up, and the impeccably polished black now scratched-up grey. He fidgeted on alternating legs, but I wasn’t sure if the little guy had to pee or if he was that uncomfortable in his little formal straight-jacket, all buttoned up and debonair like he was James Bond on assignment to deliver me a flower.