Chapter 2 #2
That was the pitch that landed me the position over a dozen other people older than me, with more creds than me, some even better looking.
There’s no way I got the job because of my dad or because of my smile and I know it’s in spite of my accent.
Still have a Southern drawl to this day in tribute to my mom.
Except when I revert to my locker room upbringing.
Max and Tate head back into the tunnel as do several others, starting a tide of departures.
“Let’s call it a day,” I say to Maguire.
We walk back to the truck and I get into the driver’s seat as Maguire stows his camera in the back, then climbs to the passenger seat up front.
“That was fun,” he says. “I got to hand it to you. You have balls.”
“What makes you say that?” I put the truck in gear. I need to hear his impression of my so-called balls.
“Inviting yourself out for drinks? First with Sean Patrick and then Tate Fontanna and Max Devon? Ain’t that asking for trouble?”
“Which part?” I follow the long drive in a parade of vehicles to the stadium exit. I like that we’re in the city, or close enough to it, so it’s not far from the studio.
“The part where you’re a reporter asking to have drinks with players.” He shrugs. “And the part where you’re a flirty young looker and these guys are players at more than football.”
I laugh. “You make it sound dangerous.”
“For them maybe,” he says, making me laugh again.
“I like you, Maguire.” I pat his shoulder. “We’re going to work well together.” I mean it. He smiles and I realize I haven’t seen him smile until now.
“Swell. I need a little excitement on my way out of this game.” He winks at me and I hope he’s exaggerating about being on his way out, but I’m not going to think about that now.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I drive us back to the studio and park the truck in the underground garage in the studio building smack in the center of Boston.
“Time to get to work on putting the show together.”
“I’m heading home. Don’t underestimate your opponents,” he adds before he walks off to his car. He reminds me of my dad in that moment, giving me those parting words of wisdom, the kind I’d heard a million and one times all my life. The kind I’ll always take to heart.
The newsroom is quiet. Everyone must be out in the field or at home where they belong.
With no office, I head for my file-littered desk.
Slipping my shoes off automatically as soon as I hit the chair, I power up the computer and check the video file Maguire sent me.
They need a couple of fifteen- to twenty-second clips, so I start editing.
“How’d it go?” The unusually deep voice of my boss, Henry Most, almost scares me out of my chair.
“Fucking A, Henry. Warn a girl when you’re skulking around an empty office, why don’t you?” He raises his brows. I add, “Pardon my French.”
“That bad?”
“Whatever do you mean?” I get back to work, scrolling through the footage frame by frame as he sits on the corner of my desk, squashing whatever was there under the papers—and I’m sure there was something. I don’t bother mentioning it to him. This is the newsroom, not Sunday church.
“Did you get me something good or are we settling for more of the banal crap we’ve been getting lately?”
“You mean did I accomplish what you hired me to do?” I hate that the answer is no. “Not yet, but I’m still warming up. Let’s just say I got some seeds in the ground and for tonight a clip or two less banal than the usual.”
“But still banal?”
I look up at him to see his smirk. “You don’t need to prove to me you’re a tough guy.”
He laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m well aware you could probably out-tough me if it came to that. Even wearing four-inch spikes and hot pink nail polish.”
Raising my hands from the keyboard, I wiggle my fingers. “Aw, Henry, you noticed. I’m flattered.” Returning my hands to the keys, I resume the fine tuning of the final trim, leaning in to hear the last quip from the interview because I hadn’t bothered to put on the headphones.
Henry stands and knocks a couple of my files to the floor, along with a flattened PBJ sandwich that I never got around to eating.
I probably came to my senses and sent out for a salad.
Nostalgia only went so far. My dad used to pack a PBJ for me whenever he had to take me into the office, which was often enough for the ritual to stick, for the memory now to spiral into a wave of longing for the man.
“In the meantime,” he says, in a voice that promises a boss-like pronouncement, “I want you to do those in-studio human-interest interviews of a couple of players, preferably three of them. Let’s get them scheduled pronto before the season starts up.
I also want you to cover the upcoming Boston Awards Night Benefit. A lot of the players will be there.”
“Live?”
“No. Get us a few clips for the nightly show. You’re still working your way into the lineup, remember?”
“What is this, a sports team or a newsroom?”
“Sports news. Same thing.” He bends and picks up the sandwich with two fingers, gives me a look, but I remain calm, no smartass remark because I don’t want to explain with my emotions so close to the surface.
I need to keep my cool-as-a-chic-cucumber persona going.
He throws the flattened baggie into the trash. I release my breath.