Page 8 of The Backup Plan
THREE
Buffalo Wings
CAMERON
Cam smelled the sugary coffee drinks before he entered the room, and pressed himself against the wall just inside the open door, hoping to get his bearings before anyone noticed him. In a quick survey, he determined that the four girls and one guy in navy school shirts and white shorts must be the media team, each of them speaking noisily into headsets and striding from one side of the room to another over and over. Two photographers lugged lenses and lights, and a member of the stadium concessions crew tended to a buffet table that was largely ignored by everyone too busy sounding important and pacing.
He loaded up a plate of buffalo wings and had one in his mouth before anyone spotted him.
“Cameron Porter, finally.”
He glanced up mid-bite and shot a pointed look at the clock. He was five minutes early.
“My boss told me to expect you ten minutes ago.”
“My boss didn’t.” Cam glanced at her name tag and licked buffalo sauce off his fingers. “Nice to meet you anyway, Pippa. What are we doing?”
Her eyes widened as she looked him up and down. “Put the wings down, for goodness’ sake.”
“Why are there wings if I’m not supposed to eat them? I’m hungry.”
She shook her head quickly, like a twitch, and her sleek, dark bob swished over her ears. “You’re not hungry, and you’re not dressed, and you’re not ready. No, no, no. Shelby will kill me.”
“Coach specifically said to wear team gear and not dress up,” he said, setting down his plate. He folded a paper napkin and dabbed at his lips. “He said two-fifteen. It’s two-ten, and I am here dressed like I was told to dress. Whoever Shelby is can take it up with him if that’s a problem.”
“Please don’t be a pain in my ass, Porter.”
“You can call me Cam or Cameron, not Porter. And I’m not a pain in anyone’s ass when I have complete, correct instructions.” He dragged a finger through the puddle of sauce on his plate and slurped it loudly. “We’ll get along fine if you can chill the hell out and quit acting like I’ve done something wrong, when I clearly haven’t. Again, have your boss take it up with mine.”
“This is him?” barked a tall blonde as she shoved Pippa aside. “What the hell are you wearing, Porter?”
“It’s Cam. Cameron if you’re feeling fancy.”
“Your jersey says Porter.”
“Your name tag says Shelby, but I’d call you Susan if you asked.”
She stared. He didn’t really care if anyone from his team called him Porter, but she was not his team, and he wanted those wings.
“What am I supposed to be wearing, Shelby? Coach said team gear. T-shirt, pants, so what?”
“What the hell is that hat?”
He almost forgot he had it on. The Tennessee Volunteers cap felt as much a part of his head as his hair, and he fingered the frayed brim. “Lucky hat. Peyton Manning signed this for me.”
“You can’t wear another school’s hat at our press conference. You can’t wear a hat at all.” She snatched it off his head, and Pippa choked back a laugh. His dark curls were still damp from his shower, the top half flattened against his skull and the bottom ones drier and fluffing out.
He cleared his throat. “Can we meet in the middle on this? I will gladly wear a school hat if you can find me one. I’ll let my hair dry right next time, and you can comb it or fluff it or do anything you want except cut it.”
Pippa held her breath until Shelby pressed an expense account card into her hand. “Go to the varsity shop. I want a white hat with the shield if they have it, initials if they don’t, white shirt with a top-third logo in blue and gold, size large.”
“X-large,” he interrupted.
“Large.” She scanned him again. “Your pants are too big. They look sloppy. Pips, get him a pair of those navy joggers that have the logo on the thigh in gold.”
“Are my shoes all right, miss?” he asked, dragging out his slight drawl as he rolled his eyes.
She glared. “At least they fit and they’re clean. We’ll get you new ones later.”