Chapter 1
“We aren’t The Baller,” Diane says from behind her desk.
No shit, I think. That’s why I’m here.
The editor in chief of Pulse Magazine pushes her black curly hair out of her face and shuffles the papers I handed her a few minutes ago.
She returns them without a second glance and folds her hands on her desk.
“This is the big leagues, Sloane. I need something to work with, something to prove that you can handle this level of publication. And these—” She motions to the papers in my hands. “They’re fine, but they’re not Pulse.”
They may not be “Pulse,” but I’ve proven myself reliable and hardworking, despite the shit topics I’ve been assigned.
“With all due respect, Diane, my articles continue to be some of the most viewed on The Baller’s website. Since the relaunch two years ago, they’ve helped increase new advertisers and sponsors by fifteen percent the first year, and twenty-one percent last year,” I say.
“Look, Sloane, I like you, and I’d like to bring you on board, but you have to show me you can write about something other than what the basketball wives are wearing to brunch.” Diane stands from her desk, signaling the end of our conversation. “Bring me a real story, and then we’ll talk.”
The walk from one side of State Street to the other feels like trudging through the thick, muddy terrain of Florida swamps I remember from fifteen years ago, when my parents dragged me along on their “experiences over gifts” trip.
I dread returning to the building on the other side of the street.
Dread taking the elevator up to the fifteenth floor.
Dread the walk from the elevator to the same cubicle I’ve sat in for the last four years.
I know I shouldn’t complain. The Boston Baller is a great magazine, but Pulse is better.
Working at Pulse Magazine would allow me to write about things that matter, rather than focusing on the personal lives of the city’s hottest athletes, pop culture connections to our sports teams, and what the WAGs are filling their closets with.
The problem, however, is that spots at Pulse are hard to come by, and according to their editor in chief, I have yet to prove myself worthy of one of those coveted positions. But that’s all about to change.
The receptionist, Kaci, looks up from the gossip magazine I know she has spread open across her desk when I step off the elevator.
Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun on top of her head, not a flyaway in sight, and a navy blue blazer hangs loose on her shoulders, at least one size too big.
She waves her long fingers with a small wink as I walk by.
I almost make it through the maze of desks to the corner I have claimed as our own, but something—or should I say someone—grabs hold of my arm, dragging me down a side corridor.
“Did you hear the news?” a deep voice asks. Gabe Hart. A graphic designer at The Baller and one of my closest friends in the city. Beside him is Daphne Blaine, another writer and the third member of our trio.
“Good morning to you, too, Gabe. Thank you for almost giving me a heart attack.”
“You’re welcome. Now, did you hear the news?”
“I just walked in the door, how would I—”
A devilish grin spreads across his lips. “Troy got fired.”
Troy got fired? As in Troy Prescott, the pretentious, insufferable asshole who thought he walked on water and was God’s gift to The Baller? That Troy?
“Troy got fired?” I ask for confirmation. “How do you—”
“You’re not the only one with spies around the city, Sloane.
” Gabe winks, and I roll my eyes. One time—one time—someone texted me because they saw Gabe out and about, drunk off his ass, and suddenly I have “spies.” He has worked at the magazine for five years, and his favorite thing to do is gossip with the writers, which is exactly what he was doing when I met him on my second day.
Too engrossed in his conversation with Daphne, Gabe turned a corner and walked straight into me, spilling coffee down my chest. We’ve been friends ever since.
“Kaci told me. She walked in this morning as it was happening.”
“What was he working on?” I ask.
Gabe shrugs. “He was telling me about it last month, but I stopped listening. That man was good to look at, but damn, he was a snoozer when it came to conversation.”
“I’m sure they will tell us more during the meeting,” Daphne says, and glances at her watch. “Shit, we need to go before we’re late. Unless you’d rather listen to—”
I step out of the hallway before she can finish. I will not be on the receiving end of a verbal lashing for tardiness from our deputy editor because of Gabriel Hart.
The Baller occupies the entire fifteenth floor of Exchange Place, with an open floor plan and cubicles with short divider walls that “increase collaboration.” At least that’s the idea.
A ping sounds from my computer the moment I log in, and a notification appears in the corner: The witch has landed. - K.
The hum of conversation diminishes as people scramble to get where they’re supposed to be before the witch walks through the door.
Who is this witch, you ask? Laura Meyer, our deputy editor, was hired two years ago to take some of the load off the editor in chief.
And while I’m sure her arrival was a blessing to him, she has made everyone else’s life a living hell.
You’d think she was the editor in chief, the way she acts.
When I turn away from my desk, I practically walk straight into the witch herself.
Fuck, where did she come from? Laura gives me a quick once-over, and I offer a tight smile when our eyes meet, before she turns to the man standing behind me.
Her brow cocks, a storm brewing in her blue eyes. “Gabriel, what are you doing out here?”
“Just going over a few things with Daphne about her latest assignment, ma’am,” he lies, letting the words roll off his tongue sugary and sweet.
Her gaze narrows, no doubt having already guessed he’s lying, but she doesn’t say anything else, rolling her eyes and stalking the rest of the way to the conference room.
That was…surprising. Laura has never hesitated to call someone out or remind us we aren’t getting paid to socialize.
I could see the comment on the tip of her tongue. Why did she hold back?
“Do you think her face is permanently like that?” Daphne whispers.
“Oh, definitely.” Gabe chuckles. “The woman doesn’t have any mouth lines or forehead wrinkles. I don’t think she’s cracked a smile a day in her life. Personally, I think she just needs a good fuck.”
“Gabe!” Daphne smacks his arm.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” He shrugs and smiles at me when I laugh. “See, you can’t!”
I shake my head and walk away. “Goodbye, Gabe.”
A moment later, I feel Daphne at my side as she loops her arm through mine. “Look on the bright side, at least we don’t have to listen to Troy every five seconds today, or ever again.”
We walk inside the glass-walled room where the rest of our comrades have already taken up almost every seat available.
Laura stands at the head of the table, furiously typing on her phone; the click, click, click of her nails sounds like bullets exploding out of the barrel of a machine gun.
Daph pulls me to the back of the room, and we take two of the remaining three seats left, earning a glare from the final member of the team when she arrives—the only seat left is beside the one always reserved for Laura.
Our editor in chief, Barry Holt, struts in with the opposite energy of his counterpart—unbothered and unhurried.
He looks like he just walked off the green, dressed in black slacks and a black performance polo, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case.
Barry lives thirty minutes outside the city in a Victorian estate house that I couldn’t stop drooling over the first time he and Mrs. Holt hosted the staff Christmas party three years ago.
Their home office was full of photos from his days on the golf course.
Not to mention, there is a country club on his route into the city, and I know from my dad’s own love of the game that you can get a tee time as early as six-thirty in the morning this time of year.
That would leave my boss enough time for nine holes before work.
Barry sinks into his chair, and with a surveying glance around the room, his gaze settles on me.
I adjust my posture, sitting up a little taller, as I try to ignore the somersaults my stomach is doing.
It feels like he can see straight through me, like he knows what I was doing this morning before I came in to work.
Maybe he does. He is friends with the deputy editor at Pulse, after all.
Maybe Brock told his old colleague he’s seen me meeting with his boss.
I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do to prove myself to Diane, but I’ll figure it out.
I have to. And if Barry does know what I’ve been up to, he doesn’t have the right to be mad about it.
The only reason I’ve been considering other options is because he refuses to take me seriously as a writer.
Every real story, he hands to Troy or other writers, and when I’ve asked for the chance to write one in the past, his response never changes: When the time comes.
“G’morning, team,” Barry says, leaning back in his chair.
He fiddles with a pen that was clipped to the placket of his polo.
His Midwestern accent has yet to disappear, even after twenty-five years in Boston, and it’s one of my favorite things about him.
It reminds me a lot of my father, a hardworking blue-collar man from northern Kentucky.
Laura finally sits in her chair as a quiet “Morning” resonates through the group.
She turns her phone upside down and folds her hands on the table, staring down everyone at the table.