Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Maggie
The phone rings for what feels like the fifth time in as many minutes, and I let out a low growl of frustration.
Since Brock is still refusing to even set up interviews with any of the people I pulled from the pile of resumes, I’ve been making him answer the phones.
But he’s in an interview with one of the local high school baseball coaches about their path to the state championship, so I can’t interrupt him.
It’s been quiet almost all day, and the minute he steps into an interview …
Did he tell people this was the time to call?
I wouldn’t put it past him, the ass.
Taking a deep breath, I pick up the phone and use my best receptionist voice. “You’ve reached the Brock Savage Show. How can I help you?”
A smooth voice answers, sounding vaguely familiar. “I’d like to speak with Brock Savage, please.”
“I’m sorry. Unfortunately he’s unavailable at the moment.
Can I take a message?” I’m getting so fucking tired of taking messages.
I grab the pad of hot pink sticky notes and set it in front of me, pen in hand, poised to write down the name and number of whoever’s calling for Brock.
I picked hot pink because I know Brock hates it.
A humorless laugh greets my answer. “Fucking figures.” He lets out a low growl.
Even though he hasn’t said his name, I cringe, my stomach dropping. I have a feeling I know who this is. “May I have your name and number?” I ask, sticking to my receptionist act. “I can have Brock call you back when he’s available.”
“Fat chance of that,” he mutters, adding something that I think might be French? I’m not sure of the words, but the inflection makes it clear he’s cursing.
“Jack Bouchard?” I ask, sounding far more tentative than I wanted. But he’s pissed, and I can’t blame him. I don’t want to piss him off more.
He’s silent for a beat. “Is this the assistant? No, that’s not right. You told him he needs to hire an assistant. Are you a new assistant or is this the social media chick?”
A soft laugh huffs out of me. “Social media chick, at your service. My name is Maggie.”
I can practically hear him grinding his molars, and I push forward, hoping I can smooth things over.
He might like to party and probably sleeps around, but he doesn’t seem like a complete jackass like Brock.
Definitely not the reprehensible fuckup Brock made him out to be.
“Look. I’m really sorry about …” I flounder, casting about for the right words.
“The hatchet job your boss did on me?”
Sighing, I close my eyes, rubbing them with the fingers of my free hand. “Can I take you out for a coffee or something? As an apology?”
Another long beat where I wait, almost certain he’s going to launch into a string of expletives—though possibly not all in English—and finish up by telling me to go fuck myself and to give Brock the same message.
Instead, he surprises me by saying, “I don’t want coffee. I need a drink. Meet me in two hours at The Salty Salmon.”
“The Sal …”
“The Salty Salmon,” he repeats. “Google it. It’s not hard to find. Tell the bartender you’re there to meet me, and they’ll show you to my table.”
“This isn’t a mafia front where you’re going to have me offed, is it? Should I send Brock instead? I can tell him that a hot fan called and wanted to take him out. Ohhh, better yet, I can tell him it’s a meeting with a network exec. He’d for sure show up then.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine, like he thinks I’m actually funny.
That’s a rare thing for me these days. Brock doesn’t understand my humor at all—of course he’s the type that thinks women can’t possibly be funny anyway—and my ex stopped finding me funny ages ago.
I can sometimes get Liam to laugh, but it’s harder lately since his dad’s been flaking so much.
“Don’t send Brock,” he says. “Much as I’d like to throw down with him, I don’t think that’d help rehab my reputation any more than that interview did.
But if you want to buy me a drink, I’ll take you up on it.
And no, The Salty Salmon’s not a mafia front.
No one’s going to take you out back and fit you with cement shoes or send you to sleep with the fishes. ”
Chuckling as well, I nod. “Okay. See you in two hours.”
After hanging up, I set the phones to forward to Brock’s voicemail.
If he’s getting angry calls from former interview subjects, I have zero desire to field those.
He can handle his calls his own damn self whether he likes it or not.
If he wants the content on his socials to stay at the same level it’s been since I took over, he needs to figure his shit out.
I don’t have time to be answering the phone and do my job. Not when it’s going like this.
And there’s no way in hell I’m staying any later than what he pays me for.
After picking up Liam from school, I drop him off at my parents’, finish up the last couple of things I needed to do for Brock today, then change into something less … frumpy before I meet Jack Bouchard for a drink.
I know it’s not a date or anything, but I rarely have occasion to get dressed up these days.
I dress in jeans and boxy T-shirts on purpose for work.
For one thing, sports guys tend to take me slightly more seriously if I’m wearing one of my many baseball or basketball shirts.
I’m the baseball fan in the family. Kyle is an avid basketball fan, so Liam is too because he idolizes his dad whether Kyle actually deserves it or not.
But being married to Kyle for so many years means my collection of basketball T-shirts is as big as my collection of baseball T-shirts.
I swap the T-shirt and jeans for a sleeveless wrap dress.
It’s easy and no fuss and looks cute, nice and comfy for the warm May day we’re having, and most importantly, doesn’t look like I’m ready to go clubbing.
I know that’s the type of woman Jack Bouchard is usually seen with.
Since I don’t fit that category of woman in any way—older, a mom, with my boobs securely tucked behind fabric—I don’t think I have to worry about him getting the wrong idea.
By the time I get to the right part of town, find parking, and follow the map on my phone to where it says The Salty Salmon should be, I’m a little on the late side.
The sound of my sandals slapping my heels keeps time with my hurried pace as I navigate around a cluster of pedestrians and find the door, yanking it open and slipping inside the dimly lit space.
Large televisions hang over the bar and in corners around the place playing different sporting events—baseball, golf, and what appears to be some kind of strongman competition.
I stop and stare at the TVs for a second, letting my eyes adjust. The interior is an interesting blend of modern masculine with a dark wood bar lit from beneath with blue neon lights.
Track lights illuminate the bar itself while the rest of the space is lit with pendulum lights over the tables in the cozy booths.
In addition to the TVs, a variety of sports memorabilia lines the walls.
A few of the comfy looking stools at the bar are occupied, but I don’t recognize Jack amongst them.
Taking a tentative step closer to the bar, I clear my throat, hoping to catch the attention of the man with salt and pepper hair wiping down the bar a few feet away. He stops and glances up at me, a polite smile tugging at his lips. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, well, uh, I’m here to see Jack Bouchard?”
One of his dark eyebrows wings up. “Are you now?” He looks me over, not even bothering to be surreptitious, then he jerks his head toward the back corner. “He’s in a booth over there. Want to put in your order before you head over?”
“Right. Of course.” I step closer and squint at the taps then pick one from a local brewery I know I like.
“I’ll have Cindy bring it over in a minute. Good luck.”
On that dubious note, I head for the booth in the back corner the bartender indicated, wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake both in offering to buy Jack a drink by way of apology and in dressing up for it.
Arguably, he could take my apology and run with it as an admission of guilt on the show’s part. He could potentially sue Brock for defamation.
That thought stops me in my tracks. Oh, god. Would he do that? He sounded really pissed on the phone.
Would I care if he did?
Shaking my head, I continue to the table. Brock did all that editing himself and posted the video before I even saw it. I don’t think I could be held liable.
I’ll have to be careful not to admit fault, I guess. I can’t afford a lawsuit on top of everything else. I’ve barely managed to pay off my divorce lawyer, finally accepting my parents’ help so I wouldn’t have that debt hanging over my head.
Craning my neck, I look around until I spot him. He’s sitting in the booth farthest back in the corner, staring at his phone. I pause a second to study him unobserved.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in the same room as a well-known athlete, of course.
Especially after Kyle’s show got picked up by the network, we had famous athletes around all the time.
But Kyle was more focused on basketball and baseball—I always thought he included baseball as a nod to my interest, but over time it became clear that it was really just a stop gap until basketball season started again.
Yeah, sure, he covered spring training and the World Series, of course, but if I’d been a football fan or a hockey fan instead, he still would’ve focused on baseball in basketball’s off season.