Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Drake
“You can’t be serious,” I say, scanning the stats that my producer, Mario, loads onto the screen in front of me. “The odds that the Bobcats walk away with a championship this season are trash. I know you grew up in Indianapolis and your old man was a big fan, but that doesn’t change reality.”
Ron Jeffries, a sports analyst for over thirty years and sometimes a guest on Sports Take with Drake Bennett, groans through my headphones.
The man bleeds green, the color of his beloved Bobcats, and will fight anyone who dares to speak anything but accolades about his team. Needless to say, we quarrel often.
“How can you say that?” he asks me as if I’m the fool between us.
“Caparelli is on a streak. He’s had a hit in fifty straight games.
His batting average is over four hundred, and he’s been intentionally walked twenty-one times.
Couple that with their dominant pitching this season, and it’s hard to lose a damn game.
There’s no way we don’t end with a ring. Not a chance.”
“Those stats are great, but the team batting average is under the Mendoza line, and no player is good at getting on base. And if you want to talk about pitching, their entire staff consists of two guys who can reliably get the ball across the plate with a better chance than not getting blasted out of the ballpark. You can’t get away with two pitchers these days. This isn’t 1920, you know.”
He chuckles. “I’m going to hate coming back here in a couple of months and telling you I told you so.”
“Don’t lose too much sleep over it because it’s not going to happen.”
My chuckle joins his as Mario gives me a sign from his spot in the sound booth.
“Thanks for coming by again this week, Ron,” I say, grinning. “It’s always good to see you. And I’d love to have you back as soon as the Bobcats fail to make the postseason.”
“You’re lucky I like you, Bennett.”
I laugh as a short stinger, like a crowd cheering, leads me into the wrap-up.
“That’s it for this week’s episode,” I say into the microphone.
“I’d like to thank my guests for joining me this afternoon.
And make sure you tune in next week to catch Branch Best, wide receiver for the Illinois Legends.
He’ll be here to talk about the upcoming football season and his new charity, Sunny Days, whose goal is to raise money for childhood hunger.
We’ll be discussing ways that you can get involved, including a competition that I’ll announce live on the show, featuring one-of-a-kind Legends merch.
It’s gonna be great.” Mario points at me.
“And that’s my take. See you next time.”
The outro music plays as I slip off my headphones and set them on the table.
My shoulders sag as I get to my feet. I stretch my arms overhead, loosening the tension that inevitably creeps into my body when I’m broadcasting live.
I used to think that I secretly harbored a fear or anxiety about it.
After doing this for two years, I understand that it’s less about being nervous and more about the chair I use.
But once I leave this room, it’s out of sight, out of mind.
The computer screen lights up as the streaming numbers and viewer metrics are shared with me.
I glance at them, not paying too much attention because Lincoln Landry, Tennessee Arrows baseball team’s GM, was my first guest. He never fails to deliver great stats.
But as I turn to grab my notepad and pack up, I notice the metrics look suspiciously long.
“Holy shit,” I whisper as I absorb the information in front of me. “What is going on?”
“Are you seeing that?” Mario asks through the speakers.
I look over my shoulder. “Are those numbers real?”
“Yup. I watched it grow while you were live. Johnny called from upstairs and said they noticed it, too. Apparently, they’re calling it the Gianna Effect.”
A slow smile slips across my lips. “The Gianna Effect, huh?”
“I heard you debuted on her channels yesterday, and there seems to be a crossover between her fans and yours.” He smirks.
“Not saying they aren’t sports fans because many women enjoy sports—and a lot of them are smarter about sports than most men, but I think it probably has more to do with that …
what’s my wife call it? Tall, dark, and handsome? ”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Followers are followers. Maybe I’ll have to start streaming shirtless or something.”
“Let me know when that’s going to happen so I can call off work that day.” He fiddles with his computer, then looks at me again. “All right. That’s a wrap for today. Johnny wanted me to come see him right after the show, so I’m going to swing by his office before I take a late lunch.”
“If I don’t see you again today, have a good weekend, Mario.”
“You, too.”
He waves before disappearing from the booth.
I begin putting my things into my bag, pausing now and then to check the updated numbers.
The full video has been posted to my channels by the guys upstairs.
The likes and comments are out of control.
I scroll down about halfway, not sure what to expect, but am pleasantly surprised to find most of them are legit sports questions or comments.
A few trolls. Limited requests to do inappropriate acts.
A shit ton of private messages, none of which I’m inclined to read at the moment.
But the overall consensus is Sports Take got a major boost in visibility … thanks to the Gianna Effect.
My teeth tug my bottom lip between them.
She has an effect, all right.
It’s not a complete surprise that Gianna has this kind of power.
Her fanbase is rabid in the best way. Listening to her show is a MasterClass in marketing.
Her content is her signature, and she doesn’t shy away from it.
She’s vulnerable in a way that her fans can connect with, and her followers aren’t just an audience—they’re a community.
The woman is brilliant. Her mind is as fascinating as her mouth, and her competence as sexy as her body. There’s no woman like her. I’ve looked.
I grab my phone to put it in my pocket when it lights up.
Elodie: Talk me out of adopting a baby.
“Holy fuck.” I flinch and reread my older sister’s text. “Someone must’ve kidnapped her.”
Me: Understood.
Elodie: Understood what?
Me:
Elodie: ???
Me: Don’t worry. I got you.
Elodie: I’m so confused.
Me: That makes two of us.
I grab my coffee cup from this morning and toss it in the trash.
Elodie: I asked you to help me not adopt a baby.
Me: And I acknowledged your cry for help. I’m on the phone with the police, giving them your location. Help is coming.
Elodie:
Me:
As expected, my phone rings, and my sister’s name is on the screen.
“Yes?” I ask, grinning.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I ask. “You’re the one talking about adopting a kid.”
She whines, “I know.” Her sigh is long and very, very dramatic. “I just met a friend for lunch, and she brought her three-month-old. Now I smell like baby lotion and spit-up, which should be gross. But it’s doing weird things to my uterus.”
“You know we have a mother and a sister, right? Because I have … Well, I don’t want to say that I have no experience with uteruses, but it’s usually the cervix when I—”
“Oh, my gosh. Shut the fuck up.”
I laugh, leaning against the table.
“It’s just that all of my friends are getting married and having babies,” she says. “And I’m quickly becoming ‘The Aunt,’ if you know what I mean. I’m starting to think that’s all I’m ever going to be. Always the aunt, never the mom.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“Drake—”
“No judgment. This is a judgment-free zone. You can treat this like a safe space.”
She growls, making me chuckle.
“All right,” I say. “I’m done joking. Please, drag me into your crisis. I have nothing better to do today.”
“I’m going to overlook your sarcasm.”
I consider teasing her again, but stop short.
As the oldest of the three of us at thirty-six, Elodie is typically calm and confident—even if her ideas and plans of execution equal mine when I was ten years old.
But there’s a slight panic to her tone today that has me backing off from giving her shit.
“Drake, do you think I’m too old to have kids? Have I missed a window?”
“No, I don’t. You’re thirty-six, not fifty-six. Hell, I think you can still have kids when you’re fifty-six.” I run a hand down my jaw. “Didn’t you just say that your friends are having kids? Aren’t they the same age as you?”
“Yeah, but they’re settled. Most of them are married. All of them are in committed relationships. The only thing I’m committed to is paying taxes and my nail tech. And not in that order.”
I laugh. “Did something go awry with the veterinarian you’ve been seeing?”
“I ended things primarily because he works so much. We rarely see each other now, and I don’t like the idea of sitting at home waiting for him day in, day out—which is a fair point.”
Sounds like she’s called in to Gianna’s show for advice. The thought makes me smile. “Absolutely.”
She pauses, the energy through the line shifting. “But what if I made a mistake?”
“The great thing about mistakes is that you can fix them. Worst case, you learn from them.”
“I don’t even know whether this baby thing has anything to do with him or not. I just know that when I held the baby today, it felt so natural. For the first time in my life, I could imagine myself holding a child of my own, and I don’t know what to do with that.”
This might be a revelation to Elodie, but it’s not to me. She’s always been someone who loves people. She loves making others happy and taking care of them. There’s never been a day when I didn’t see a child in her future.
Is that why she’s calling me? Does she need me to tell her that? Or does she just need a place to think about this out loud, and she knows I’ll always have her back?
“I think you need to take a deep breath and relax a little before you go filing adoption papers, okay? I’m not saying don’t adopt. But, if you’re going to do it, you need to give it more than fifteen minutes of thought.”
“It’s been twenty, but fine.” I can hear her relax through the phone. “Are you going to Mom and Dad’s on Sunday?”
“I plan on it.”
“Good. Just don’t bring this up in front of them or Evie. I might even be over it by then. Who knows?”
“Yeah. Who knows?” Me. I know that she’ll have forgotten all about this by then. “On another note, how did Dad do the other night? Evie sent me a few pictures and said it was going great, but Evie could be in a burning house and miss the fire.”
Elodie laughs. “It went pretty well. He got confused a few times, and we had to remind him where Mom went. He also tried to cheat in every hand of euchre. But, if you think about it, both of those things are pretty normal for him. Mom said his memory gets worse as the night goes on, most of the time, so she refused to let us stay the night. I think she didn’t want us to see it. ”
My heart aches as that bit of information pierces it.
I’ve tried to be respectful of my parents’ privacy as they navigate this new diagnosis.
I’m sure Mom feels helpless, and I know she wants to take care of Dad herself.
It can’t be easy on her. But, so far, she seems to have found a new routine and is managing it reasonably well.
At this point, having my sisters and me come barreling in, demanding answers and removing their agency, especially Mom’s, is disrespectful.
But where is the line? How do we help?
“I gotta go,” Elodie says. “I have a meeting in ten minutes, and I’m still sitting in my car from lunch.”
“Call me later if you want. Otherwise, see you on Sunday.”
“Thanks, Drake.”
“Love you.”
“Love you. Bye.”
“Later.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket. My head lifts toward the door when it creaks open. Juni from reception smiles from the doorway.
“Hey,” she says. “The papers you had me get from the Tennessee Royals are on my desk. I can put them in the mail room or bring them to you in a bit.”
“I’ll grab them before I leave. Thanks, Juni.”
She nods and backs out of the room.
I exhale, ensuring I have everything I need before I leave for the day. My head is still spinning from my conversation with Elodie. I’m not sure what to think about that. As I hoist my bag onto my shoulder, a sound captures my attention and shoves all thoughts of my sister out of my brain.
Gianna’s laughter.
My stomach tightens as I lean toward the sound, wondering what she’s laughing about.
I can imagine her smile and the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she’s happy.
The thin gold rings that adorn her little fingers are probably catching the lights above her.
I wonder if she’s wearing red or pink lipstick.
I also wonder why she chooses one over the other on any random day.
There’s so much about her that I don’t know, so much that she keeps locked up behind the set of walls that she’s built around herself.
I wish that I knew why she constructed those, too.
She never keeps any male friends around for long and seems to pick the lowest fruit on the tree, yet neither of those things bothers her.
If she thinks love is a choice, why does she choose the men she does?
I guess that if I knew the answer to that, I’d be the one giving out relationship advice.
“Better stick to sports, Bennett,” I whisper and walk out the door.