The roar of the crowd washed over Ivy like white noise as she sank deeper into her seat, hidden in the forgotten corner of section 327. This part of the stadium was practically abandoned. It was just her, a wide pillar blocking her from most of the view, and fifty empty seats that nobody wanted because the view was absolute garbage.
It was perfect.
Her phone buzzed on the seat beside her.
Another text from Jessica: Girl where are you? We're by the food court!
Ivy didn't answer it. She couldn't. Not when her hands were currently occupied with more pressing matters.
Like the silicone companion she had impulsively named Trevor during last week's post-breakup shopping spree.
Ivy was not proud of this. Not really. But when a boyfriend dumps their girl three hours before a game they had been planning to see for weeks, and when he had the audacity to say "I just don't feel the spark anymore" after six months of the girl practically begging him to touch her…
Sometimes a girl can make questionable decisions.
Especially when she was already at the stadium with a buzz from pre-game drinks and a frustration that had been building for literal months…
Trevor, it turned out, was doing a significantly better job than her ex ever did.
Her sundress was long and flowy, making it the perfect cover even though the pillar blocked the aisle view. She was angled just right, knees spread just enough, and slouched low in her seat like a very relaxed sports fan simply enjoying the game with unusual enthusiasm.
Nobody was paying attention to the weird girl sitting strangely. Everyone was watching the players on the field. Even if they did, they wouldn't get a clear view of her enough to be able to tell what she was doing. The walls at the sides of the section, and the pillar in front provided enough closure.
Some quarterback just threw something important, probably. Ivy didn't care. For the first time in months, her body was actually responding, and actually feeling something other than disappointment and sexual frustration.
Her breathing quickened, her eyes drifted shut, and the crowd noises faded into a distant hum as the building crescendo finally relaxed.
A sharp gasp cut through her haze.
Then another.
Whispers soon spread all around her like wildfire, rippling through the sections below and beside hers.
Ivy kept her eyes closed. It was probably a good play or a bad call. Sports fans gasped and reacted at literally everything. Someone had probably caught a ball or dropped their hot dog.
"—wait, is that—"
"Oh my God, is she—"
"No way. No fucking way."
"Someone call security—"
Ivy's stomach dropped as the whispers became coherent voices she could hear. The heat from her body instantly transformed from pleasure to ice cold dread.
"Hey look at that—"
'No,' she internally panicked, snapping her eyes open.
The stadium's massive jumbotron screen, the one meant to show replays and close-ups of couples kissing was directly pointed at her. Or the cameras rather.
The invasive, privacy-violating camera had somehow, impossibly, zoomed in on the one person in the entire stadium who absolutely was not in any position to be on camera that moment.
Her face filled the massive screen.
All four screens of it.
In crystal clear high definition, it captured her flushed cheeks, her spread legs planted on the seat, and her hand disappearing under her sundress. And the angle… the camera was position just right to make it devastatingly clear exactly what that hand had been doing.
Over seventy thousand people stared at the screen.
Then at her.
The seated section erupted. Gasps became shouts. Laughter. Screams. Someone's kid started crying, and phones were rising like a glowing wave, pointing at her and the jumbotron, recording every second of Ivy's complete humiliation.
The commentator's voice boomed through the speakers, confused and amused.
"Well, folks, uh... we seem to have a… technical difficulty on our hands here. Let's—let's get back to the game here boys…"
But the camera didn't move or switch. The operator was probably frozen in shock or scrambling to switch feeds. Either way, Ivy remained on display, her mortified face broadcasted to everyone in attendance and to the thousands watching from home.
'This isn't happening… This cannot be happening.'
Security guards in yellow vests pushed through the crowd below, heading straight for her section.
Ivy's body kicked into pure, animalistic panic. She lurched to her feet, nearly tripping over her own sandals. Her bag tumbled to the floor from her scrambling, scattering her phone, wallet, and keys across the concrete. She quickly shoved them all into her bag and started running.
Trevor remained very much present, lodged between her thighs, and there was no time for her to even address the object inside her.
She just ran.
"Ma'am! Hey, lady! Stop right there!"
'Absolutely not. Not a chance. Not a single chance in hell.'
Ivy vaulted over the seat in front of her, hands slamming into plastic, and her knee catching on the armrest as she swung over. She stumbled forward and nearly plated her face on the floor before catching herself. The concrete steps stretched upward endlessly and her sandals slapped against the ground as she ran. Behind her, heavy footsteps echoed as security closed in.
Phones tracked her movement and people around her were laughing. A teenager jeered as she passed. An elderly woman clutched her chest, scandalized. A group of college guys started chanting something Ivy refused to process.
The jumbotron finally switched to a beer commercial, but the damage had already been done.
It was too late. Everyone had seen it.