Chapter 2
“How is the new story going?” Gabe asks, smothering his salad in ranch dressing.
I can practically hear the garbled screams of the lettuce as it drowns in the creamy concoction.
He tops it off with crumbled bacon and flax seeds, tapping the bottom of each container before setting them on the edge of the table.
In a few minutes, the server will swing by to take them, but before she can make a quick exit, he will ask her to bring the cheese that he requested not be added in the first place.
Our trio has had lunch at Farm Fresh almost every day since the cafe opened two blocks from the office last year.
I stab through my salmon quinoa bowl, refusing to meet either of their stares. The last thing I want to talk about is that damn story.
You would think when someone says their assistant will send over the information that means within the next thirty minutes. Hell, maybe even an hour.
It has been over twenty-four hours, and…crickets. The cherry on top? Neither Barry nor Andi is in the office today. I considered knocking on Laura’s door, but after the display she put on yesterday, I decided it was best to wait.
This story has waited this long; what’s a few more hours, right?
“It’s not,” I say before shoving a forkful of salmon into my mouth.
Gabe’s hand falls from his mouth. “What does that mean?”
“Haven’t gotten anything yet.” I shrug, scooping together another forkful of my bowl. “Maybe Barry changed his mind.”
Daphne scoffs.
“I’d rather write about the latest fashion trends among the WAGs for the rest of my life. I know nothing about EWE or wrestling. I am not the right person for this story, especially when it’s due in what, four weeks? He should’ve given it to one of the guys. They’re into all of that shit.”
“Did you stop to consider maybe that’s why he didn’t give it to them?
” Daph says, biting down on her straw. “You’re right.
They are fans of EWE, which means they might not be able to look at things objectively.
They would have rose-colored glasses on, but you…
you’ll have a fresher, more realistic perspective. Maybe that’s what Barry wants.”
“That thinking doesn’t exactly align with The Baller. We are in the business of making everything about Boston sports seem like sunshine and rainbows.”
“Unless you’re Clara.” Gabe chuckles.
“Unless you’re Clara.”
Clara, one of our resident senior sports columnists, is known for her deep sports knowledge and grueling comments and opinions.
Unlike the rest of the writers on staff, her articles and columns don’t carry the same underlying positive tone, regardless of what the topic is.
I’ve seen reporters at The Baller make tragic, career-altering injuries look like well-needed, deserved vacations that were planned from the start of the season.
But not Clara; she’s not one to sugarcoat things.
If it’s possible for her, maybe it’s possible for me, too.
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Gabe’s eyes light up as he gulps down a large sip of water to wash down the huge bite of salad he’d stuffed in his mouth. “You’ll never guess what Kaci told me this morning.”
“Do you two ever work, or do you just spend your days trading gossip?” Daphne asks.
“Both,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “But we’re getting off track. She told me the real reason Troy was fired…Apparently, he was sleeping with Laura.”
My mouth drops. “What?”
Daphne scoffs. “If that were true, why wouldn’t she have been fired, too?”
“Barry didn’t have any solid proof.” Gabe shrugs, tossing a crouton in his mouth. “So, on paper, Troy was fired for not doing his job, but off the record, he was fired for fucking his superior. Laura hasn’t done anything outside of being a bitch, so until there’s actual evidence, she’s still here.”
“You’re ridiculous, Gabriel,” Daphne says before she turns to me. “Have you tried reaching out to Andi? She probably got busy. If you email her, I’m sure she’ll send it right over.” Good old Daphne, always putting us back on course.
“Nope. Maybe she’s still wading through to see what’s worth sending over. Barry made it seem like Troy hadn’t done much, so—”
She interrupts me. “You’re only putting off the inevitable, and the longer you avoid it, the more work you’re making for yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Do you enjoy being a Goody Two-shoes?”
“Stop being so dramatic, Sloane. You could always say something to Laura. I’m sure she could get you the information.”
“I’d rather sit through an entire EWE show.” Been there, done that. I don’t need to do it again. Not that I would ever admit that to either one of them, or tell them how I went on a date with one of Elite Wrestling Entertainment’s biggest stars.
Wolf Bennett is how the world knows him, but I know him as Bennett James—the wrestler I went on one date with over a year ago, and haven’t spoken to since.
The man I spent hours with in the corner booth of a small diner on the outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona, after an EWE show I wasn’t supposed to be at in the first place.
He wasn’t anything like I expected a wrestler to be, and if he hadn’t been one, I think things could’ve been different.
I would never admit it to anyone, but I was disappointed when he took me back to Sophia’s and…
nothing. We didn’t even trade phone numbers.
When I woke up the next morning, I thought maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing, but the photo strip on my nightstand said otherwise.
Even if I wanted to get in touch with him for this article, I wouldn’t know how, and I doubt he’d remember me. That was what…April of last year? Imagine how many other fans he’s done the same thing with. There’s no way he’s going to remember a girl he didn’t even kiss goodnight.
“Well, at least that might help you write the article,” Daphne says, paired with a subtle tug in the corner of her plum-painted lips.
Scooping up some quinoa, I stab a tomato and a cucumber to form a barrier before lifting the combo to my mouth. “If I don’t hear from Andi by the time we leave the office today, I will send her an email. Deal?”
Daph shakes her head, and I’m shocked when the voice she typically reserves for her kids—and occasionally Gabe, when he acts like one of her kids—comes out to say, “Send it now.”
Gabe snickers behind his soda, and I glare at him.
“I am not one of your children,” I say, turning back to her. One of her painted brows arches so high it almost disappears under her curtain bangs. “Whether you believe it or not, I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman, who—”
“She’s got a point, Lolo,” Gabe interrupts me. “I’ve never seen you turn down a story. This could be your ticket to becoming a full-time feature writer—no more WAGs or whatever sneaker is trending with players. No more gossip. You could start writing about the big stuff.”
As much as I’d like to argue, it’s useless.
My friends are right. This is my chance to prove I have what it takes to work at Pulse, but I don’t even know what or who this story is about.
Maybe if Andi had sent me the information, I could have figured that out by now, and… Okay, I guess I see their point.
“Fine.” I sigh and fork another piece of salmon into my mouth. “I’ll email her as soon as I get back to the office.”
With a triumphant grin, Daphne returns to her smoothie. “Oh! How did your meeting with Diane go yesterday?”
“She told me I need to show her I can write about things outside my norm,” I say, and shove another bite into my mouth. Daphne’s eyes narrow, scanning my face, before her lips curve into a smile.
“You’re going to use this EWE feature to write something for Pulse,” she says, and I nod. “How are you going to do that? You can’t take what you write for Barry to—”
“Two different articles.”
“Two?” Gabe’s mouth drops.
Daphne shakes her head. “That sounds like a bad idea, Sloane.”
I’m confident the story Andi is supposed to send over is about the upcoming fortieth anniversary of EWE, based on my earlier internet search.
While that’s not a story Pulse would be interested in, I think I have an idea for one they will be: a story beyond the public narrative that Amos Rafferty and the rest of EWE have so carefully constructed.
I’m going to find out what they’ve buried to maintain their (almost) spotless record.
“You just said it yourself, Daph. I can’t take the article for The Baller over to Diane,” I say, picking at the remnants of my bowl. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t write a better one and give it to her.”
After lunch with Gabe and Daphne, I emailed Andi for an update, which she ignored until well past eight o’clock last night.
“Urgent: August Feature,” the subject line said.
By that time, I’d already finished my skincare, changed into pajamas, and crawled into bed with a cup of piping hot lemon and honey tea.
If the story was so urgent, she should’ve sent it the day our boss assigned it to me.
Despite my curiosity when I saw the notification pop up on my phone, I decided it could wait until I got to the office this morning. I’m starting to regret that now…
I thought Barry was joking when he implied Troy hadn’t done much work, but I’d love to know what Troy was doing the last month and a half.
There’s nothing here. The only information included is the topic (celebrating four decades of EWE), the length (2,100 words max), and the due date (August 2), alongside a few notes from Troy that amount to nothing I can’t find online.
Did he even reach out to EWE? I skim through his notes, but there’s no record of that either.
Seriously, what in the fuck was he doing?
Before I can stop myself, I snatch my cell phone from my desk and find his name, pressing send.
It rings five times before the robotic female voice instructs me to leave a message after the tone.
I hang up and toss my phone onto the desk.
My shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh as my hands scrub across my face.
Troy had two and a half months; I have less than four weeks. How am I going to do this?
“From that look, I’d say it’s not going well,” Daphne says. She stands above me with a slight smirk that only serves to frustrate me further. “Nothing good in the email from Andi?”
“There’s nothing in the email.”
“Oh, come on. There has to be something—”
“He didn’t do shit, Daph!” I scroll through the information in one swipe. “That’s why I’m stuck writing about something I couldn’t care less about, because this idiot didn’t do his job.”
“Well, that’s nothing new,” she says, and I glare up at her. Daphne laughs again, lifting her hands in surrender. She leans over my shoulder, humming quietly to herself as she reads through the email. “Well, it seems pretty straightforward. Basically a puff piece, talking up the fortieth—”
The rest of her words are drowned out when my phone rings. I snatch it off my desk, quickly silencing it, before I see the name. Troy Prescott.
“Daph, I, uh…I have to take this. I’ll be right back.” I scramble to my feet, walking through the rows of desks until I reach one of the conference rooms down the same hallway where Gabe cornered me two days ago. Ducking inside, I lock the door and answer the call.
“What do you want, Sloane?” Troy asks before I can get a word in.
“What were you doing for the last two fucking months? There isn’t shit here, Troy!”
“I should’ve known he would give it to you.” He laughs, and I imagine him sitting back, a smug look on his face, relishing in the fact that he’s screwed me over…again.
Six months ago, I received a tip about the return of a major league baseball player who had been out with what should have been a career-ending injury.
When I proposed the story to Barry, he’d already assigned it to someone else.
Who? You ask. Troy-fucking-Prescott. I still don’t know how he found out, but he made sure to thank me for the tip later on.
“That story is a fuckin’ dud. You’re better off going back to the latest fashion trends.”
“What are you talking about?”
Troy sighs. “Listen, I may not have been the best colleague”—that’s putting it mildly—“but trust me, this story isn’t going anywhere. I reached out to EWE countless times, and you know what I got? Nothing.”
“Andi sent me your notes. There’s nothing in there about—”
“That’s because I didn’t give them my notes,” he says matter-of-factly. “Not that there was much to give anyway. Every time I’d try to get ahold of someone at that damn company, they’d send me the same six bullet points of useless information.”
“Maybe you weren’t talking to the right person.”
Troy scoffs. “If you’d like to try, be my guest, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
You might as well start packing up your desk now, Sloane, because you’ll be joining me on the other side of this story soon enough.
And Barry only gave you this story because he knows you’ll do anything to make it happen.
You’ve been begging for an opportunity like this for years. He’s using you, Sloane.”
“Oh, fuck off, Troy,” I say, hanging up. What does he know?