Chapter 8
Sloane
Exhaustion had settled over me.
In the last week and a half since I’d come back from Arizona, I’d seen my apartment for all of maybe two hours to do nothing but pack. The hockey schedule was brutal and I’d never experienced such extreme jetlag in my life.
If I wasn’t sitting at my comfy desk where my one personal item I’d brought from home was staring at me, I could be anywhere in the country. The picture was of me wearing a smile. Lately, it felt as if a permanent scowl was plastered on my face.
She looked happy.
I felt miserable.
She had life in her eyes.
Mine were dull and devoid of any emotion.
She enjoyed her life.
Me? All I did was work.
Something needed to give or I’d jump out the forty-story window. Even now, all I had to do was to look around and notice everyone else on the floor had gone home. That’s because they had a life.
Even as reporters.
How did that work?
Oh, yes. How could I forget? I was in a highly competitive market, the world of sports reporting dog eat dog. A far cry from how I’d started in the business but equally as cutthroat.
Lately, I’d gotten more than one cold shoulder, more than a few scowls, and even a couple of male reporters acting as if I’d sold my soul.
The whys didn’t matter to me.
Kicking them all in the balls had become a regular part of my fantasy world.
Even now, the images were colorful and particularly vicious.
I laughed and dumped my head into my hands, staring at my computer screen.
I was way behind in getting articles written, which was also unlike me.
I was always on the spot with getting them finished, no matter how difficult the subject or how tired I’d been.
The almost blank screen stared back at me, the cursor blinking as if tapping her bitchy fingers while waiting for me to get my act together.
Maybe my problem was that thoughts about Beck had successfully weaseled in and maintained a spot in the back of my mind.
He’d obviously made an impression on me, whether I wanted to accept it or not. The way we’d left things hadn’t been ideal, but then again, I’d enjoyed the last image of him, his naked body in full display.
There was no way of knowing if he liked the article. I’d been fair, including his aggressive stance on the ice. I wasn’t out to make friends.
At least I had a reprieve for a couple of days before being forced to jet off to yet another location.
When was my next vacation? Oh, that’s right. Cancelled until after the playoffs.
The one good aspect about being at the office so late was that I wouldn’t have any interruptions. Plus, the incentive was great. I’d told myself I couldn’t go home until the article was finished and a bottle of cabernet was calling my name.
“You’re still here.”
There went all thoughts of the wine. At this point, maybe I’d stop by a liquor store and grab some tequila. “Matthew. You’re working late.”
“Since when did you start calling me Matthew?”
“Since you became my boss.” My tone held my obvious annoyance.
Once upon a time, we’d been more. Although we’d been hot and heavy for a little while and I didn’t regret our time spent together, that had been before his million-dollar mentality had taken over.
Along with his promotion had come stock options as well as a change in both living status and temperament.
The cool guy who’d wanted to pen stories exposing corruption had lost his way in a sea of dollar bills and flashy cars. So much so, I didn’t recognize him any longer.
However, he’d given me opportunities that had allowed my career to advance. Yet no good deed ever went unpunished. He never allowed me to forget who I was working for. That hadn’t meant we’d agreed on almost anything or that I’d allowed him to walk all over me.
There were two office pools going around. One that I’d end up being in the news for slicing his heart out. The other that by the end of the year we’d be married.
Only one option lingered in my mind with glorious, bloody details.
He chuckled as if somehow, we were best buddies.
He crowded my space, which wasn’t difficult since I had ownership of a cube.
At least I had a view to kill for, the bright lights of the big city staring at me through the plate glass window.
Another reminder of the life I should be enjoying while still in my twenties.
“Why is it that you’re always so difficult to work with?” The question was tossed out casually, as if I was the problem.
“You can ask any of my colleagues that question. They’ll happily tell you I’m the nicest person on the floor. Now, since I have an article to finish as my boss is a slavedriver, what is it that you could possibly need? And don’t you have some blonde bimbo to rush home to?”
I knew better. He wasn’t involved, his fear of commitment as strong as his desire to take over the CEO position one day.
“Tawny will wait.”
Tawny. The name was perfect. Maybe I was a little jaded, but with his promotion had also come a need to bed only women he considered subordinate to him. I sat back, tapping my pen on the desk. “Then what do you need?”
“Your article is trending.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Yeah, I had along with the thousands of comments the piece had obtained, both good and bad.
“Well, you should pay more attention to social media,” he suggested. “It is your bread and butter. Of course right now anything revolving around hockey sells.”
My boss was right about that. The crazy love was more insane than I’d realized. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Did you take any pictures?”
“I was writing a print article. Remember?”
“Yes, but you are also required to post on our Facebook and Instagram pages at minimum. Videos wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Don’t we have a media department?” I knew exactly what he was going to say.
With his head cocked, he offered the same slow grin as the day I’d met him so long before in a little coffee shop in Soho. “I was told you didn’t send them any snippets, any art. Nothing.”
I threw my head back while turning in my chair. “I’ve been a little busy trying to catch up. I’ll start taking pictures.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now, I have a question for you.”
“Of course you do. What?”
“Why didn’t you discuss the fact the Kendrick brothers are shifters?”
“Because I was writing an article on their talent, not their DNA.”
“You are aware the two brothers are beasts in disguise. Right?”
I’d known the man was jaded about sports, a purist as so many shifter haters liked to call themselves, but never had the fact that shifters played sports come into a single article.
Not once. I was surprised he’d been tasked with handling the sports reporters, but my gut told me he was being groomed for the paper’s editor.
“I’m aware, but I wasn’t penning a piece on their extracurricular activities. My article was about their phenomenal success in the world of hockey. Now that I’ve seen them play, I have to agree they are both very talented.”
I’d seen Matt react to various pieces of news, arguing his point without flinching. We’d sparred over athletes, even to the point of yelling by the end of the conversation. I’d never seen him so quiet, the sudden silence unnerving.
“The truth is that the only reason they are in the NHL is because they use their special talents. Now, while it seems there are people including coaches and other professionals willing to look the other way or to suggest they don’t use their curse of being monsters to their benefit, the fact is they do. ”
There was something very troubling about not only what he’d said, but how he’d made the statement. I rose to my feet, purposely backing away. When I was able to lean against the window, I folded my arms. “So you’re suggesting all shifters, no matter what sport, are involved in acts of cheating.”
He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, nodding as he did. “You could look at it that way. We have a responsibility to discover the truth.”
“Since when did we become basic paparazzi?” I tossed it out there on purpose.
“You know exactly what I’m getting at.”
“Maybe I don’t at all, Matt. From what I could tell, they simply play a good game, amazing in fact. They have real talent.”
“You’ve only been covering hockey for a couple months, Sloane. You wouldn’t truly comprehend real talent. That’s nothing against you. That will take time.”
“Whoa. Hold on. I’ve now watched almost three quarters of the games in a season.
That’s sixty-nine to be exact. I’ve watched players from various cities, from different backgrounds and trained by some of the best coaches in the business, many of which were star players themselves.
I’d read other articles and books on the subject and I’ve talked to countless experts as well as hundreds of fans.
I’m curious. How many games have you caught this year? ”
The numbers 6 and 9 lingered in my mind. I must be really tired if I could equate the number of hockey games I’d watched to a sexual act.
The jovial, almost condescending expression faded. “I’m not a hockey fan. Obviously, you are.”
Did he just give me a onceover? God. He had.
“Of course you’re not, but you do insist you’re an expert on the game. Hell, on the industry.”
“You should remember who you work for.”
I laughed and when he took a step closer, a moment of repulsion hit me. “You wanted me to write a scathing article on the brothers. My guess is going along the lines of the haters I’ve seen.”
“I want you to correctly address a concern that thousands of fans have. I knew you’d be perfect in providing the truth because you aren’t jaded by anyone or anything. If they are cheating, they deserve to be thrown out of the league.”
“Jaded. You mean including with money.” The little jab didn’t go unnoticed, but he left it alone.
Good for him since I wasn’t in the mood to back down.
“You care about that hockey player. Perhaps you’re losing your ability to look at all sides.”