CHAPTER 47 TALLULAH HARD NUMBERS
TALLULAH
HARD NUMBERS
Nick placed his hands on the back of the chair, his frown so deep, it looked like it was permanently etched into his skin. “Nope. I don’t like this.”
“You’ve moved the chair already,” I pointed out. “What part of it don’t you like?”
“All of it. Every part.”
I threw him an amused smile and he grimaced. One of The Toronto Chronicle’s assistants clipped the microphone to my collar, sitting me down to test the volume. I whispered a thank you and returned my attention to Nick, pacing across the wooden floor.
“I didn’t think you’d be this close to him during the interview.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck, tension crackling from him. “I thought you’d just be typing something, and adding it in—”
“Nope, it’s a filmed interview. Tomasini’s request.”
“And then I thought there’d be a stage! And a desk between you two! Maybe a band or something—”
“Like a late-night talk show?” I said, puzzled.
“Exactly!”
I didn’t know how to calm him down, and it wasn’t like we had the time to spare. Tomasini was supposed to show up any minute.
The room bustled with the newsroom employees.
In comparison to my boyfriend’s mood, the difference was comical.
They were overjoyed, like cats who’d wandered into the cream factory.
There’d been rumors of Tomasini for years, half-baked articles, threats of lawsuits—there was nothing they could really pin on him.
The editor had groaned “yessss!” when I first called his office.
It was the perfect opportunity, an amazing setup for an exposé-style interview.
Tomasini scheduled it himself because he thought it’d be forty-five minutes of an intern preening his feathers. He already signed the liability waivers himself.
As far as the Chronicle was concerned, I’d presented them with a birthday gift.
The only thing was…I didn’t have actual evidence. I had fifty-two stories from Olympians that I’d carefully mapped out, but no one else was willing to stake their name on something so controversial. They were all anonymous.
It wasn’t enough. Everybody knew it, but I’d run out of time.
Either I’d get Tomasini to blurt out something incriminating and confirm the stories, or…well…
I didn’t want to think about the alternative.
“You’re going to be so close to Tomasini,” Nick said, still pacing. “I don’t want him to—”
“What, attack me?” I tried to joke. “This is a Chronicle interview. He wouldn’t do that. That’d be career suicide—”
Nick didn’t let up. “Let’s move the chairs farther apart—”
I pushed to stand, wrapping my arms around him to calm him down, resting my chin on his chest. “It’s going to be fine.”
“I don’t like this, Tallulah—”
“Nick, there won’t be another chance like this. Nobody can confront him like this, it’s a live interview he scheduled.”
“Tallulah…”
“I know, I know,” I said soothingly, gazing up at him. “But he hurt you. I can’t let him get away with that.”
Nick sighed, threading his fingers through my hair. “I’m a grown man. I signed the dotted line.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I whispered, pressing my lips to his chest for a quick, comforting kiss. “It isn’t right. Isn’t fair. And I don’t want him to keep doing this to other people, I know you don’t want that either.”
“Maybe we could send in an anonymous tip or—”
“Your own teammates were too afraid to do that. Do you really think that’ll do anything?”
Nick fell silent. “No. I don’t.”
“Are you worried about you? Your position in the league?”
“Tallulah, I’m worried because he has a hundred pounds on you. You could get hurt—”
One of the assistants walked up, headphones around his neck. “Ms. Walker? Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” I assured him, and redirected Nick to the back room. “You’re going to stay here.”
“What?” Nick said, dumbfounded. “No, I’m not—”
“I can’t have you up there. What if that tips off Tomasini? He has to be comfortable for me to get anything out of him.”
“I’m not leaving you in there alone—”
“There’s, like, ten people running the cameras and the equipment. I won’t be alone,” I said. Nick wasn’t convinced.
When another assistant warned me that Tomasini was walking in, I put my hands on Nick’s shoulders, stopping him from following me. “The overprotective boyfriend routine is sexy, but not now. He already knows we’re living together. I don’t want to remind him of it.”
Nick was very, very reluctant to stay behind. He finally stood awkwardly by one of the desks, hands shoved in his pockets. His words were a grumble. “Your makeup looks nice.”
“Thank you,” I murmured and hurried to close the door behind me.
I didn’t want Tomasini to see me as the “game-day staff” from the game in Toronto, I didn’t want him to see me as Nick’s roommate, I didn’t want him to see me as anyone but a wide-eyed journalism major to tell his deepest, darkest secrets to.
Every piece of individuality was stripped away. Nondescript black pants, a burgundy shirt, my hair swept up in a ponytail, and I’d donned new makeup steps designed by the Marrs girls to take away my distinguished cheekbones and the constant blushes.
A blank face in a crowd, a chameleon to talk to.
“Tallulah!” Tomasini’s shout interrupted my thoughts.
My heart skittered at the sound. “There’s my star writer!
” If Tomasini was upset that I’d been selected as the contest’s winner—as per the update I made under Andrew’s account—he didn’t show it.
He grabbed my hand, shaking me in a handshake so hard, my arm ached. “You haven’t sent me a line.”
“I did email,” I lied. “Through Andrew.”
A shadow crossed his face, his jaw ticked. “Have you heard from him?”
“Andrew?” I asked innocently.
“He isn’t answering my calls.” His voice dropped to an irritated mutter. “I pay his fucking phone bill, how is he going to ignore me?”
“That’s unfortunate, sir—”
“This is a list of pre-approved topics,” a voice interjected, shoving a laminated copy in my hands. It was that same assistant from the Toronto game. I froze. I wasn’t anticipating Tomasini bringing someone, I thought with Andrew gone, he would’ve come alone.
I shot a glance at the Chronicle staff. The people behind the camera were wary too, shying away from Tomasini’s assistant while he inquired about the details of the interview.
This whole interview rested on the element of surprise. What could I do? How could I shove the assistant out?
“Sir?” rushed out of me. “Andrew has my contract.”
Tomasini frowned. “What?”
“The contract to write for you? I thought you ought to know.”
His eyes lit up. “You signed it?”
“Andrew has it,” I lied. A physical copy didn’t mean anything to him, I needed a reason for the assistant to fetch Andrew. “Andrew told me about the names on the book.”
“Names?”
“Andrew said you have a—” Think, Tallulah! “—personal issue when your name isn’t the biggest on the cover.”
“He said what?”
Tomasini’s question was such a hard dip in his tone, the room’s temperature cooled. Eyes snapped in our direction. I could feel them on me. But I ignored the anxiety, creeping up my throat.
“Andrew said it’s a massive ego thing for you,” I managed, taking the gamble. “If your name isn’t bigger than the title itself, you go into hysterics over it.”
Tomasini tilted his head, eyes flashing dangerously. “Did he?”
I swallowed. “Last time I saw him was at the Village.”
“Donny!” Tomasini barked to his assistant, peering around the cameraman’s shoulders. “Go get Andrew!”
“Uh, sir, don’t you want me to—?”
“Did I fucking stutter?!” Tomasini demanded. “I’m telling you to fetch, Fido! GO FETCH!”
His assistant scurried away, and as soon as Tomasini’s rage appeared, it was gone, wiped from his face like it’d never existed. That unnerved me more than the anger. How quickly he could tap into it, flipping between the two. I couldn’t imagine having him as a coach.
The unpredictability was scary.
Oh my god. Nick was right. I was in over my head.
Tomasini didn’t play by anybody’s rules—why would I think he’d play by mine? I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair, taking deep breaths. Once again, I was walking across a frozen lake, aware of every crack underneath my shoes.
If I didn’t get something out of this interview…the blame would fall on me.
My eyes flickered to the door to the back room, to where I’d hid Nick away.
Everyone else had failed my boyfriend. His past coaches, his teammates, everyone who’d witnessed how Tomasini treated him and did nothing.
Nick usually came home exhausted, jumpy at loud noises, drained physically and emotionally.
Everyone else failed him—I wouldn’t. This interview was bigger than my anxiety. It was protecting someone I loved.
“Are you ready to begin, Ms. Walker?” Tomasini smiled a smile with nothing to lose, unaware of what waited for us.
I nodded, exhaling. “I’m ready.”
I was slow and cautious with my topics, letting him unravel his favorite years from the Montreal Coyotes, allowing him to take the reins. The longer we talked, the more comfortable he became, lounging in his chair.
I rubbed my hands on my pants, palms clammy, yet the smile on my face never wavered. I nodded along, only prompting with a few words before he was off again.
My gaze drifted around the room. Everyone was waiting for the change, the shoe to drop.
I took a deep breath. “How difficult is it for young men to seek out mental health support?”
Tomasini’s eyebrows puckered for a frown. “Huh?”
“There’s a stigma against mental health support in general. For young men in hockey, in this highly competitive environment, I can’t imagine how difficult that’d be.”
“Uhhh…” Tomasini was fighting an internal war. Half of him wanted to roll his eyes, bored by the question. I could see it. The other half remembered his media training. “Yeah. Sure.”
“I’d like to talk some hard numbers,” I said.
“Hard numbers?” He grinned, my previous question forgotten. “Hit me with my stats.”