Chapter 16
Brooke
The interview is going fine until I realize I’ve been staring at the same line of my notes for the past thirty seconds while the middleweight on the other end of the phone talks about his retirement decision, his voice a distant hum that I’m not actually processing because my brain is somewhere else entirely.
“—and my daughter, she’s seven now, and I just kept thinking, I don’t want her watching me get knocked out, you know?” he says, and I can hear the emotion in his voice, the rawness of a man confronting the end of something that’s defined his entire adult life.
“Absolutely,” I say, scribbling in the margin of my notebook. “That’s a question I think a lot of fighters struggle with in their careers. When would you say that shift happened for you?”
He starts talking again and I force myself to focus, really focus, to hear the words and process them and ask intelligent follow-up questions, but Eddie Kovacs’s voice keeps bleeding through like a radio station I can’t quite tune out.
You came in with a story already half-written. You wanted Dominic to be guilty.
I wrap up the interview on autopilot, thanking the fighter for his time and telling him I’ll reach out if I have any follow-up questions. The moment I hang up, I drop my pen and lean back in my chair, staring up at the exposed ductwork and rubbing my temple.
The Sporting Standard office stretches out around me in all its open-plan glory, reporters hunched over laptops and the low murmur of phone calls filling the space and the distant clatter of someone in the kitchen making coffee.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a view of Bryant Park that I usually love, the trees just starting to turn with the first hints of fall color, but today I can barely see any of it because my eyes keep drifting to my phone, waiting for a notification that hasn’t come.
Miles Webb still hasn’t called me back, or emailed, or responded in any way to the voicemail I left him six days ago.
But I can’t say that I’m surprised. I’m the journalist who helped end his career, and even though he was the one who was actually doping, talking to me means revisiting the worst chapter of his life.
If I were him, I wouldn’t return my call either.
But he’s the only person who can tell me for certain whether Dominic knew what was happening, and until I hear from him, I’m stuck not knowing whether the story that launched my career was built on a lie.
The article on Roman and Dominic went live this morning and started trending almost immediately, which should feel like a victory.
My inbox is full of congratulatory emails from colleagues, and at least four people have stopped by my desk this morning to tell me how much they loved it.
Normally I’d be letting myself feel good for five minutes before the next deadline.
“I read your piece this morning,” a voice says behind me, and I turn to find Dara holding two cups from the good coffee place three blocks away. She’s wearing a marigold blouse that makes her brown skin glow, her braids pulled up. “It’s excellent, Brooke. Genuinely some of your best work.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking the cup she offers and wrapping my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “It came together better than I expected, considering David tried to blow the whole thing up halfway through.”
“Well, you managed to pull it off despite his best efforts to tank you,” Dara says, dropping into the chair across from my desk and crossing her legs. “I thought the whole thing was beautifully done.”
Dara is one of the best sports journalists working today, the kind of reporter who makes league commissioners nervous and gets players who wouldn’t give most journalists the time of day to open up and tell the truth. So her opinion matters more to me than most anyone else’s.
She’s also been my closest friend at this organization for almost a decade.
When we’d started here, we were two of only a handful of women on staff, and what began as professional solidarity turned into a real friendship when we discovered we had the same sense of humor, the same taste in overpriced sushi, and a shared obsession with our jobs.
“Speaking of slimy little David,” Dara says, “any word since you reported him?”
“Actually, yes,” I say, leaning back in my chair and taking a sip of my coffee. “David’s been on his best behavior since, and yesterday before I left, Harrison asked me to stop by his office.”
“Corner office CEO of the whole damn place Harrison?” Dara says, her eyes going wide. “I’m shocked. David’s been around so long I was worried nothing was ever going to happen.”
“Same here,” I say. “But Harrison at least seemed to be taking it seriously. It could all just be bullshit corporate ass-covering, but he seemed sincere and said he’d get back to me. I have no idea what about, but he went on and on about how valuable I am to the organization.”
“Well, you are valuable,” Dara says, nodding approvingly. “I guess threatening to quit over that shit ended up making some waves.”
I laugh. “Probably helped that I was genuinely pissed and not bluffing. I have enough connections that I could go anywhere, and they know it.”
Dara grins at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “I can’t wait to see how this develops. Maybe they’ll finally fire his useless ass and we can all stop pretending he does anything around here.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I say, raising my coffee cup to her in a toast.
My phone buzzes against the desk and I glance down at it automatically, expecting another congratulatory email. Instead, Dominic’s name fills the screen.
Dominic: The official celebration for the fight is tonight. Roman’s team rented warehouse space in Chelsea. 7pm. I’ll send you the address. You should come.
I stare at it for a second, not quite believing what I’m seeing. Dominic Midnight texting me something that isn’t actively hostile, and voluntarily inviting me somewhere. Wonders never cease. I should check outside for flying pigs.
Dominic: And the article was good. Thanks.
Dara leans over my shoulder and reads the screen. “Well, well, well,” she says. “I didn’t know you two were speaking much after the mind-blowing sex.”
Dara was the first person I confessed to about my night in the gym with Dominic, the only person I confessed to.
“I never said it was mind-blowing,” I say, pulling my phone away from her prying eyes.
“And we’re not really speaking. I mean, we aren’t not speaking, but we aren’t.
..” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. “Forget it.”
Dara laughs. “That’s convincing. And you never had to say mind-blowing. I could tell from the way you walked into the office the next day like you’d just discovered a new religion.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “But in any case, you should go tonight.”
“It feels weird,” I say. “With the whole Miles PED situation hanging over everything.”
“I take it he hasn’t gotten back to you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Shockingly, ‘Hey, remember when my article destroyed your career and your coach’s career, can we chat about that?’ didn’t exactly inspire a quick callback. I’m probably his least favorite person on the planet, right up there with the USADA officials who suspended him.”
“And I take it you don’t trust Dominic’s answer,” Dara says, “so you feel like Miles Webb, disgraced former UFC fighter and confirmed PED user, is the only person whose word you can believe?”
I’m silent for a moment, turning my coffee cup in my hands.
“I’ve spent the last fifteen years believing with everything I have that Dominic is a lying son of a bitch.
I’m not sure I’m ready to let go of that, so.
.. honestly, that’s a question for a therapist with a lot more degrees than either of us have. ”
Dara laughs. “Fair enough. And what exactly are you hoping to get out of this call from Miles, assuming he decides to give you the time of day? Because if I remember him from the coverage back then, he didn’t exactly come across as the soul-searching, reflective type.
I have zero respect for cheaters who drag everyone else down with them when they get caught. ”
“Yeah, he wasn’t exactly Mr. Accountability,” I say. “And I don’t even know what I want him to tell me. Part of me wants him to confirm what I wrote fifteen years ago and tell me Dominic knew about the PEDs all along and I was right to publish what I published.”
“Because then your conscience is clear,” Dara says.
“Exactly,” I say. “I could go back to hating Dominic without all this guilt gnawing at me. And I could go back to my comforting, tidy little narrative where he’s the villain and I’m the journalist who told the truth.”
Dara tilts her head, watching me. “And the other part of you?”
I take a long sip of my coffee before answering. “The other part of me hopes Miles tells me Dominic was innocent.”
“Which would make you the villain,” Dara says.
“Which would make me the villain,” I say. “But it would also mean Dominic is who I’m starting to think he might be. Someone who maybe deserves better than what I gave him.”
“That’s a heavy thing to carry,” Dara says, her voice softer now. She takes a slow sip of her coffee. “If Dominic knew, you reported the truth and your conscience is clear. If he didn’t...”
She trails off, not needing to finish.
“Then I helped ruin an innocent man’s career because I was too angry to dig deep enough,” I say.
“Well, that isn’t entirely true,” she says, considering.
“You never accused him outright. You had the assistant coach all but confirming Dominic knew, the fighter keeping silent and being highly suspicious, and in all that you still only reported their words, not your own speculation.” She tilts her head back and forth, weighing it.
“Bad, yes, but you didn’t fabricate anything.
You reported what your sources told you. ”
I fiddle with my coffee cup, unconvinced.
“In any case,” she says, “maybe Miles will respond. You never know. That was a long time ago, and people process things differently. He might want to finally set the record straight, or he might want to leave it all in the past.”
I nod, and Dara’s phone buzzes. She glances down at the screen and her face shifts into work mode.
“Crap, I gotta run,” she says, standing and grabbing her coffee. “I’ve got that call with the Knicks GM in twenty and I still need to review my notes.” She looks at me. “Lunch tomorrow? Usual place?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “And good luck with the call. Go kick some ass.”
“I always do,” she says, winking and already moving toward her desk. “And go to the party tonight. Just maybe don’t sleep with him again until you’ve figured out the Miles situation. It’s only going to make things more complicated.”
“I’m not going to sleep with him again,” I say.
Dara just looks at me.
“I’m not.”
“Sure,” she says, grinning. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” I call after her.
She pauses a few steps away and looks back over her shoulder.
“Hey. For what it’s worth, if it turns out Dominic didn’t know what Miles was doing, there’s no fixing what happened fifteen years ago.
But what matters is what you do with it now.
” She shrugs. “And I know you. You’ll figure it out and do the right thing. ”
She walks away before I can respond, weaving through the maze of desks toward her corner of the office, and I watch her go before turning back to my laptop and the pile of unread emails I should be answering.
I pick up my phone and type out a reply to Dominic.
Me: Thanks. I’ll be there. Congratulations to you and Roman.