Chapter 4
Chapter Four
~DANNY~
Imake no apologies for what I wrote. Some would call it my attempt at a takedown piece, but it wasn’t.
Did she piss me off with the bit of flack she threw back?
Kinda. I’m not used to them giving it back.
Usually, women, or just athletes in general, get thrown a hard-lined question that makes them question their place and they fold into themselves.
But not Mackenzie.
She gave it back to me as good as she got it.
Part of me wanted to be proud of her, but my editor wasn’t happy that someone had one-upped me like that.
Martin likes it better when we’re the ones dishing out the jabs, not letting them catch us looking vulnerable.
He knew that was what had happened. Nick was with me and told him as much.
I hadn’t always wanted to ask the hard questions of athletes after a tough loss.
I knew what that felt like, believe it or not.
I didn’t want to be the one who made them feel so low.
It happened by accident, actually. One of the pitchers from the Tampa Bay Rays recognized me as the son of a football all-star who was good enough to have played with the likes of Emmett Smith. The fullback who had been unstoppable.
He knew there were some issues there with Dad—the whole world did.
My dad hadn’t been photographed at too many of my swim meets.
He liked being reminded that his son was at the Olympics, because it gave him clout, but he wasn’t really there to support me.
He would always give quotes like, “The kid’s doing alright—for a swimmer.
” Sure, I was highly decorated, but not enough for dear old Dad.
I’ll probably never be enough for him, and my mother realized that long ago.
She left my dad when it was obvious that he wasn’t going to be the best support system for me.
The alimony and notoriety she had for being married to an NFL player had served her well.
She worked on the board of the Tampa Bay Children’s Hospital and was able to do some good with local nonprofits.
My dad took care of her enough so that she didn’t need to work and was always at my side when I swam.
The shot the pitcher took at me, though, hit a nerve.
I’d fired off my question from the hip, asking him how it felt to have been ranked as the better pitcher on the field, then choking.
He didn't know what to say. He was perfectly happy dishing it out to me, but getting back wasn’t something he was prepared for.
Martin had eaten it up. A few local morning shows had picked up the footage of the pitcher’s face when I had asked that question.
Of course, there were also pictures of me and talks about how I used to swim.
How a career-ending shoulder surgery had done me in.
The lawsuit that had followed and the money earned for damages because I would never again be a swimmer.
All of it had been aired out. Martin didn't care about that part, though. He knew I was prepared to go for the jugular, and he liked that. He liked that kind of journalism. But that wasn’t what I had set out to do.
I wanted to cover athletes who were making a difference both on and off the fields, courts, or in pools.
I would always cover the matches. I loved the competition.
I loved how my blood flowed with adrenaline when I was around the contests.
It was exhilarating. It helped me keep that spark inside of myself alive that swimming always had.
My larger pieces were about how a linebacker was working in the Children’s Hospital, or how the soccer player worked Thanksgiving in the soup kitchen.
Not tearing a girl down because she happened to end up on the NWSL team a billionaire had created because he was bored one day.
He set it up as his home base and brought in his guys, even his bratty kid, who wasn’t really a kid anymore, but a twenty-something named August, to help run things.
Eventually, Aggie will run the team. The question is: will he run it into the ground?
But I will have to cover that, and with the same malice I went after Mac with.
“What are you so deep in thought about?” Nick asked, hitting the back of my chair.
I look over at the man who has become my only friend at this paper. He’s one hell of a wingman too. The whole dark-hair, dark-eyes thing has women going crazy. He looks like he’d been an athlete, but he has always said he isn’t a meathead. Whatever that means.
“Sorry, just thinking about that last piece. I wonder how she’s doing with it being out there in the wild.”
“What do you care?” Nick asks me.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t, I know that.
I’m just starting to get a little restless doing pieces like this.
I could have said more. Maybe written about how nice it was that the Cromwell’s were giving college athletes a chance to live out their dreams. Or that the stadium is bringing a lot of jobs to the Tampa area. ”
“And a lot of traffic,” he reminds me of the serious jam we got into leaving the stadium. Which actually worked out in my favor because I was able to write my article since I always travel with my iPad and keyboard.
“Yeah, that sucked,” I agree with him.
“I’m sure it won’t be as busy this Saturday as it was last Saturday. At least, if they read your article.” He chuckles like he thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
“That wasn’t the goal of the article. And I’m sure some of the tried-and-true fans of soccer will be there to support them.”
“We’ll be among them.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like there’s anything else on the agenda.”
“What? You not getting any action lately? What about that girl from the bar Friday night? What was her name—Jenna, Janice?” He waves his hand at me like it doesn’t matter. Because I’m sure to him, it doesn’t. “Didn’t you get her number?”
I nod. “Jessica was her name.”
“Whatever. Did you get the digits?”
“I did.”
“But you haven’t called her? And you definitely didn’t take her home?” Nick shakes his head.
“Nope, I haven’t done either of those things,” I confirm for him.
“What are you waiting for? What’s wrong with this one?
” He tries to sound annoyed with me, but I know he isn’t.
We hang out all the time. Even though we work together, our evenings out are still an adventure thanks to his antics and the way he likes to meet women.
“I set you up perfectly for that one. She was all hot and bothered that you were a swimmer and know Michael Phelps.”
“I don’t know Michael Phelps that well. We just swam together from time to time,” I tell him for what feels like the hundredth time.
Michael swam on the same relays and made the same teams. We’re the type of friends who will talk to each other in passing, but neither one of us is going to reach out and ask the other to hang out.
“She didn’t need to know that. She was all about hanging out with you two in some weird double-date night,” Nick says with a laugh. I can tell he’s still proud of himself for having his plan work so well.
“Either way, man, that girl was a nonstarter,” I tell him, rolling my eyes at him.
“No one said you had to marry her. Just fuck her.”
“You should really put that on a Hallmark card, bro.”
“Yeah, you’re the writer, not me,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, I’m the writer. The writer who probably caused that girl to run and cry as soon as she saw my article. I’m pretty sure I wrecked her Sunday.”
“She asked for it. Remember what she said about you? She called you out, fired back. Bitch got what she deserved. Don’t give her another thought. And if it bugs you that much, just focus on another one. Pick a new member of the team and go after her.”
I shake my head like it’s clearing a fog from my mind. “That’s not my style. I’m going to keep going after this one. There’s a bit of vigor there. I’m going to see this one through.” I smirk, thinking about how her blue eyes got all hot and fiery when she was sparring with me.
“Get ready, because it’s going to be game day before you know it!”
I snicker. “Yes, it certainly will be.”
My conscience creeps back in, but I push it down and remind myself that I have a job to do.
And maybe if I can get enough traction and accolades built up, they’ll finally let me write the kind of stories I want to write.
Time is all I need, and I have the perfect subject for my next few pieces.
Mac is feisty and just the right person to help me on this little journey of shock-brand journalism I seem to be building.