Chapter 8 Juicy and Salacious
Chapter Eight
Juicy and Salacious
~~Aria~~
I’m seething with anger and fear.
Drakos and Noah saunter toward my little group.
Drakos has his hand on Noah’s shoulder as if he has a right, which he fucking doesn’t.
I’m ready to dress him down, but I caution myself.
At the least, this crowd is wary around me.
At the most, they don’t trust me one little bit.
A scene right now would drive the wary ones over to the distrust side.
Do I really want that? I’ve been working on my credibility with the team, an effort that proves difficult when my boss wants gossip and exposés instead of well-thought-out articles on the sport and the players.
I close my eyes for a brief moment and rein in my temper.
“Aunt Aria, can Mr. Drakos come to dinner?” Noah is earnest in his request. I glance at Drakos, trying to determine if he put Noah up to this. Drakos’s expression is completely unreadable, yet I imagine he’s amused by the position I’ve been forced into.
Despite my irritation, I’ll let Noah down easy. The less he sees of Drakos the better.
I bite back the smart-ass reply sitting on the tip of my tongue.
My nephew wouldn’t understand my sarcasm, and he’ll never know why this man is off-limits.
Finding out your father didn’t want you would be devastating as fragile as he is.
I struggle for a way to gracefully get out of this without causing suspicion.
“Noah, Mr. Drakos is very busy. He doesn’t have time to come to dinner.”
Drakos crosses his arms over his chest and smirks. The bastard is enjoying my discomfort.
“I’m sure he can make time.”
Both Drakos’s head and mine spin around toward the speaker. It’s Kirby. I can’t decide if he’s merely exercising his odd sense of humor, or if he’s seriously trying to push us together.
“Thanks, but we’re fine.” I hope I don’t sound as rude as I think I do.
“You heard her. She’s the boss. I’ll see you at the rink.” Drakos smiles to soften the blow.
Noah looks ready to cry, but I hold firm. I won’t back down on this. I can’t.
Noah’s lower lip quivers. I feel like a selfish shit, but no good will come of Noah getting close to Drakos.
He’ll only get his heart broken, and I won’t allow it.
Drakos had his chance. He didn’t want a relationship, and I’ll be damned if he’ll have one now, even if he doesn’t know who Noah really is.
Besides, the more distance between these two, the more likely my secret will be kept.
“We should be leaving too. These boys are uncontrollable if they don’t get enough sleep.” Gardenia winks in my direction. Jakob takes the hint and rises to his feet.
I say my goodbyes to the few people who’ll care. The rest will be relieved I’m gone. I hug Noah goodbye, ignoring how he stiffens and doesn’t hug me back.
“Be good for Gardenia, please,” I implore him. He glares at me and turns to his friends.
“He’ll be fine,” Gardenia assures me. “I’ll drop him off late tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you.”
I follow them out the door, and I can’t stop myself from glancing over my shoulder.
Drakos stands where we left him, hands shoved in his pockets in a deceptively casual pose that’s not the least bit casual.
The expression on his face sends fear coursing through me.
He’s picked up on something, and I fear he surmises my behavior goes beyond our hatred for each other.
I wave to Noah, who’s safely tucked into the back seat of Jakob’s SUV.
He doesn’t wave back. I hurry to my car, still a little wigged out after my incident in the parking garage.
Locking all the doors, I pull out of the parking spot and down the road.
It’s only five minutes to my tiny two-bedroom apartment.
It’s eerily quiet and lonely without Noah.
I am too keyed up to sleep and pace the living room floor.
I’m worried, not just about Drakos and Noah but about my sister and what other surprises might be in store for me.
She has a storage unit I wasn’t aware of, but before I go there, I must sort through the mail from the secret mailbox.
An uneasy feeling sweeps over me that something isn’t right about my sister’s situation.
I open the door to her bedroom. I’ve avoided entering since she died.
Everything is exactly as she left it. In the closet I find a couple large plastic bins.
Somewhere in these boxes might be the legal papers relinquishing Drakos’s rights to Noah.
I may need them. I’m not an attorney, but I suspect I might be in a precarious situation if Drakos changes his mind.
Anna didn’t leave a will, and while the courts did award me full guardianship, I need to start adoption proceedings.
Somehow, I’ll dig up the ten to twenty grand required for an attorney.
The sooner I wipe out all doubt that he’s legally mine, the sooner the threat of Drakos finding out the truth is neutralized.
I have no clue if the asshole will even care if he’s Noah’s sperm donor. If I have any say in this, he’ll never know because he doesn’t deserve to know.
Pulling the first box off the stack, I place it on the floor. I settle in cross-legged and pull out a handful of documents. My sister wasn’t known for her organizational skills. Everything has been thrown haphazardly into boxes and bins just to get them out of the way rather than deal with them
I riffle through it and find nothing of interest. It’s packed with junk mail, magazines, and other worthless garbage. I sigh. There’s no sign of any legal papers whatsoever. I can’t even find a birth certificate for Noah.
The other bin is full of junk too. A broken figurine, a bunch of clothes, some wigs, stockings, all sorts of crap, but nothing remotely useful.
I’ve wasted precious time when I should be going through the other boxes of mail, but I’m resisting for fear I’ll find out more information I’d rather not know.
I lean against the wall and sigh deeply. Surely there’s an online record via the Vegas courts. I’m a reporter. I’ll find the papers if it’s the last thing I do. The storage unit may contain what I need.
I sit down at my laptop on the small dining room table. I have an article about tonight’s game to write. I’ll be up half the night doing it. I’m going to report on the game like a real sports reporter rather than leaning into team drama or creating some if I can’t find any.
The next morning after only two hours of sleep, I check my texts.
Gardenia has asked if Noah can go to the zoo with them.
Of course, I say yes. Next, there’s a message from my boss demanding I call immediately.
He’s on the East Coast, and he expects his reporters, no matter what their time zone, to be available on East Coast time.
It sucks when I cover home Icehawk games, and he expects me to answer his calls at five or six the next morning.
Steeling myself for what’s to come, I call his number. This isn’t going to be pretty, but any conversation with him never is.
“Hi, Charles.” I force cheerfulness into my tone. I dislike this man, and I’m forever grateful I don’t live close enough to deal with him in person. He’s a jerk who doesn’t care about anybody but himself and his precious online sports news empire.
“What is this crap you sent me?”
“Nice to talk to you too.” I can’t stop my sarcasm. It comes naturally.
He grunts something unintelligible. “This article is garbage.”
I count to ten before I respond. I can’t say what I want to say. I spent hours on that article. It’s a great recap of the game, with quotes from players and coaches. I’m proud of the job I did.
“In what way?”
“This isn’t what our readers want to read. They can get this shit from any other online sports news. We give them the stuff no one else will.”
“Or we make it up.”
“If necessary. They want behind-the-scenes exposés and stories no one else has the guts to publish.”
I’m in a mood. I’m operating on very little sleep, and my ability to play nice with this asshole is severely compromised. “Maybe I don’t want to write articles for the National Enquirer of sports news. I want to be a legitimate journalist.”
“Don’t fool yourself. You don’t have the talent, or you wouldn’t be working for me.”
He just managed to insult himself and me at the same time.
The man doles out insults like most people give out candy on Halloween.
Unfortunately, he has me where he wants me.
He knows how badly I need this job. Not only do I have a child to care for, but there’s the maxed-out Visa and possibly more surprises of a financial nature on the horizon thanks to my sister.
“Give me something I can work with, not the usual drivel other sports media publishes.”
I want to tell him that he’s the one who publishes drivel, but I do know better.
He keeps going. “All Hockey News has established itself as being cutting-edge. We tell the stories no one else will tell. Give me a good scandal regarding the Icehawks. You’ve been going easy on them lately.
I didn’t hire you to gloss over the difficult stories.
Our readers want the behind-the-scenes scuttlebutt.
The Icehawks are heading for the playoffs for the first time.
Who’re the guys to watch as far as causing dissension among the team?
Who’s partying too much and not concentrating on hockey?
How about conflicts between players? I can’t believe I have to lecture you on the types of stories we require.
You’ve been with us for three years.” He’s clearly exasperated, but so am I.
“Four years.” I cringe at how long I’ve worked for this online sports tabloid. Charles’s social media reach is ridiculously high. Sports fans love their scandals as much as the next person.
I can’t compromise my integrity forever, but until I find something better, I have no choice.
Legitimate, well-done pieces of sports journalism might garner the attention of one of the more prestigious sports news sites and lead to a job offer.
I’m frustrated that I’m not getting the opportunity to do so.
Let’s face it, I never will. Charles won’t publish anything that’s not sensational.
He loves clickbait, and his followers eat it up.
There’s a good reason why he’s built this into a multimillion-dollar business.
The man may be without scruples, but he’s business savvy as fuck.
“Now that the Icehawks are in the playoffs, we have a huge opportunity to expand our reach as more fans jump on the bandwagon. Give me something they can sink their teeth into. Something juicy and salacious.”
“I don’t have anything like that.”
“Then make it up. Keep it vague so no one knows who you’re talking about. We’ll create a buzz, and our followers lap it up. I need that article in my inbox in two hours.”
“But what about the coverage of the Icehawks making their first playoffs? Shouldn’t we cover the game last night? My original article did all that.”
He’s silent for so long, I check my phone to make sure he’s still there. “Fine, I’ll put that out there and publish the good stuff tomorrow, but this better not happen again.” And just like that, he disconnects the phone.
I stare at the wall and fret. I have nothing like he wants and have no choice but to make it up.
I place my fingers on the keys and begin to compose a story that’ll please Charles and piss off every single Icehawk and their WAGs.
Sometimes I really hate myself. Maybe most of the time.