Chapter Five
Three Years Later
Heidi
There are no worse words in the English language than, “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
I was sitting in my boss’s office at the Indianapolis Sun, the premier newspaper in the Midwest, or so they liked to claim. But just like every other print medium in this digital world, it was slowly crumbling under the weight of technology. And I was the latest cog to be tossed aside.
“You can’t fire me,” I argued. “I’m responsible for most of your digital content.”
That wasn’t exactly true. I managed the freebie interns, made sure they got their content in on time, and rewrote half of it when it came in awful. Hank, my boss, gave me a sad look.
“Actually, that’ll be my job now.”
I blinked. “You’ll hate that.”
He nodded. “Yeah. And any help you can give me would be really appreciated.”
Help? Like do my job for him without pay? My face must have told him what I thought about that idea because he hastily switched tracks.
“And we’re not firing you. We’ll still take articles from you if they fit. Weren’t you looking at law schools?”
No, I wasn’t. My last year working here had taught me that I loved journalism. It was my parents who thought I should go into law and kept sending me school catalogs. Probably because lawyers got paid while journalists didn’t.
“You’re asking me to be a stringer,” I said. To send in articles that filled column inches but paid shit. And had zero benefits. “I can’t pay my rent on that.” Not when interns were doing all the grunt work for free. The only things that paid real money were cutting-edge articles that took ten times as much time to research and write. For the same amount of time, I could make triple at any fast-food restaurant.
“And I have a mortgage and two kids,” he returned. “I know it sucks, but at least you’re young enough to switch careers.” He looked at me mournfully. “I’ll write you a really good letter of recommendation. You’re smart, organized, and a great writer. The world’s your oyster.”
“My world is going to be asking people if they want fries with that.”
He didn’t argue, which was immeasurably worse. So I had two choices. I could continue to sit here and fight or I could suck it up, face reality, and see if I could make it as a stringer. For a little bit, at least.
“Okay, I’ve got some ideas for articles. Tell me which you’d like first.” I began rolling out my ideas, one after the other, starting with ones I’d already researched before. He shook his head. I switched to other ideas, my chest getting tight with panic as I moved steadily through sketchier concepts. By the fifth one, he held up his hand.
“Heidi, these are all about a twentysomething’s perspective on life.”
I nodded. “That’s why you hired me. To get the younger demographic.”
He exhaled loudly. “Yeah, my mistake. Your age group doesn’t buy newspapers, and my demographic doesn’t care what yours thinks.”
I didn’t have a clue what to say to that. I wanted to vehemently disagree, but he had the weight of statistics behind him. But now what? I needed to get something in print. It wasn’t just that I had to pay my bills. I also needed bylines if I wanted another job in journalism. I mentally scrambled, pulling ideas out of my ass.
“Um, okay, how about this?” I pitched ideas I wasn’t qualified to write but could figure out. I hoped. But he kept shaking his head, and I started to hyperventilate.
“Heidi, this isn’t what we’re looking for.”
Obviously, but what could I do? Maybe throw the ball into his court. “How about you tell me what you want, then.”
He frowned and dropped his chin on his thick palm. “We always need more sports stories.”
No! No! No! I was so not a sports fan.
“But not the usual stats and analysis stuff. We’ve got experts for that.”
But I could learn, right? I clutched at the suggestion, trying to think of an athlete they wanted. I knew the answer already but was hoping I was wrong. “You want human-interest stuff. In sports.”
He brightened. “Exactly! Got any connections there? Do you know someone who knows someone you could leverage?”
“Maybe if I say I’m from the paper—”
He shook his head. “We’ve got lots of junior reporters doing that. We need personal connections. Someone you met as a kid or that your parents know.”
My parents were in Chicago, and they didn’t know anyone famous. Ditto, my friends. In fact, I was the only one who had blundered into a celebrity, but I couldn’t say that. It was my darkest secret.
I racked my brains, but nothing came to mind. And as the seconds ticked by, I watched Hank’s expression close down. I was losing him. I had to come up with something or I’d be out on my ear. Stringers waited weeks to pitch ideas, and this was my only shot for the rest of the month.
“I’m good friends with Rob Lee,” I blurted. Oh God, I’d said it. My most secret sin and a lie to boot. I hadn’t talked to Rob since that night three years ago.
Hanks eyes bugged out. “The rookie phenom hitter who just joined the Bobcats? That Rob Lee?”
“Um, yeah.”
He rocked back in his chair. He’d been in journalism his whole life and wasn’t fooled easily. “You’ve got a close, personal relationship with the biggest thing to hit Indianapolis since the Bobcats started playing here.”
Back in the seventies, the Bobcats had been a force in American League baseball. By the time the eighties rolled around, they’d gone out of favor like the cloche hat. The decades since had seen bad coaching, bad players, and all-around bad attitude. The city and Joe DeLuce, the team owner, were desperate to turn that around.
Which is why they’d snatched Rob Lee straight out of AAA obscurity.
He was the heavy hitter of his generation. He’d already been compared to Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Miguel Cabrera, just to name a few. With his Nebraska “aw-shucks” manner and his hard work ethic, he’d become a media darling, helped along, in no small part, by the Bobcat publicity machine. Everyone was talking about him.
Everyone, that is, except me. And Hank wasted no time in pointing that out.
“You’ve never mentioned him before. What makes you think—?”
“He’s got a mole shaped like a star on his left butt cheek. Down low and, um, near the crack.” What demon had prompted me to say that?
Hank’s eyebrows went all the way up into his thinning hair. “Well. That’s not what I expected from you.”
My face heated like a bonfire. My boss was looking at me in a completely different way. One that was vaguely disgusted and definitely pitying.
“You do know that he’s a playboy, right? DeLuce is trying to paint him as a choirboy, but he’s always got a woman on his arm. Usually two.”
I knew. After our disastrous spring break encounter, I resolved to put him out of my mind, but I couldn’t keep myself from following his career, starting with that all-important game right after he left my hotel room.
He’d played spectacularly, of course, then went on to a great final season before getting snatched up by the Indigos. I thought my obsession with the man would be over, but then I joined a specialized website so I could stream his AAA games. I even drove to Iowa just to see him play but was too embarrassed to talk to him. Especially after I watched him kiss not one, not two, but three blonde bombshell fans as part of his victory celebration.
He started getting press soon after that, and I subscribed to the Des Moines Register so I could read every word. I even watched his batting average as closely as a teenage girl measured her weight. Somewhere along the line, I gave up pretending this was casual and dove straight into my obsession. It was like fate when he came to Indianapolis and everyone started talking about him. But I never joined in. Never. Because he was my personal, secret passion and nobody needed to know but me.
Until I’d blurted it out in a moment of career desperation.
“Uh-huh,” Hank said when I didn’t respond. And then he just watched me with a heavy expression.
I swallowed my humiliation and pulled out my tough-negotiator persona. “What will you pay me for a one-on-one interview with Rob?”
He shook his head. “Not even his own mother can get that. The Bobcats have his mouth sewn shut.”
I lifted my chin. I responded well to challenges. “What will you pay me for it?”
Hank didn’t answer at first. He just looked at me as he rubbed his chin. “It’d take some work. You’d have to get it to me immediately. And you can’t go selling it the next day to someone else.”
“How much?” I pressed.
He finally grunted. “Two thousand if you get me something good by the end of the month.”
Two thousand dollars? That would cover my rent long enough to give me some breathing room. Long enough for me to figure out other options, because this wasn’t a cash cow I could milk. Odds were that Rob didn’t even remember me. But what the hell. I would be an idiot not to try.
I pushed to my feet, determination at war with total panic inside my chest. “Three thousand, Hank. Or I’ll take it to the Associated Press.” After all, baseball was a hot topic right then and Rob was the hottest.
Hank snorted as he held out his hand. “You get me that article and we’ll talk about the price then.”
I took a breath. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? “And a job.”
Hank frowned. “What?”
“If I get this article, if I prove to everyone that I can do it, then you’ll give me a real job as a reporter.”
“We’re cutting back—”
“But I’ve heard everyone say that you’ll find the money if the reporter is good.” I narrowed my eyes. “I’ve heard you say that.”
He took a long time thinking. Hank wouldn’t promise me something he couldn’t deliver. So I held my breath as he weighed his options. Then finally he nodded. “I might be able to sell that. If you get me this article when no one else can, I’ll find you a job somewhere.”
“On staff. As a reporter,” I pressed.
“Yes.”
“Deal.” I held out my hand. He took it in a firm grip and we shook. But there was something in his expression, a kind of sadness that belied the handshake.
“You don’t think I can do it,” I realized.
“Not in a million years.” Then he grinned. “But I’m dying to see you try.”
Oh hell. I was dressed wrong. I was in the press room at the ballpark before the Bobcats game against Detroit. Everyone was talking about the matchup between Lee and Cabrera as if this were a title fight instead of baseball. I’d managed to force Hank to get me a media pass to the pregame Q&A, but the moment I’d arrived at the ballpark, I knew I was out of place.
I’d dressed as if I were doing a political interview. A dark, professional dress, understated earrings, and my one indulgence: black Louboutin pumps with the bright red soles. Lovely, but I wasn’t interviewing the mayor. I was in a baseball park, which meant I either sank an inch into the dirt or clacked loudly with every step. I’d hoped to fit in better as I made it to the press area, but even there, I was dressed completely wrong. The men were in polos and the few women were in slacks. And every single one of them sported a Bobcats item, most of them baseball caps, but I saw Bobcats jackets on a couple of very large men.
Shit.
Now I knew why the security guy had laughed when I showed my credentials. The room was fairly packed, but we were still in the stand-around phase before the players came out. And as I entered, the nearest men stopped talking long enough to smirk at me. I definitely saw a few nudges and heard the chuckles. But it was one of the big guys in a Bobcats jacket who snorted loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. Then he rolled his eyes.
“Look at the fresh meat. Want to bet how long she lasts?” He might as well have said “look at the clueless girl” with the way he was waggling his eyebrows.
Part of me wanted to turn tail and run. I had no business being here and everybody knew it. But I wanted this. It was my last chance to make it as a reporter, rather than the law school student my parents would strong-arm me into becoming. And if I couldn’t manage a simple baseball interview, then no way was I going to make it my dream career.
I stiffened and shot him a glare. “I’m here for the same reason you are,” I said stiffly, then started looking around for a seat. There weren’t any. And now that I’d challenged the big buffoon, more people were turning to look at me. Especially since the jerk rolled his eyes.
“I don’t think so, cupcake.”
I shot him a glare. “I’m with the Indianapolis Sun.”
I thought that would shut everyone up. After all, I represented a big paper in our home city. But at my words, the man behind Mr. Obnoxious stepped into view and his expression was downright ugly. “The hell you say.”
Oh shit. It was Dirk Benson, the head sports reporter from my own paper. Damn it, he probably thought I was here for his job. I started to say something, but he never gave me a chance. He reached for my badge where it dangled from a lanyard around my neck and hauled it up to his nose, all but strangling me in the process.
Meanwhile, Mr. Obnoxious snorted.
“Guess your paper thinks she’s got better assets than you, Dirk.”
“The hell she does,” the man growled.
“I’m not here to replace you,” I said in a low voice. It didn’t work. I could hear everyone quieting just to listen in. “I’m getting an interview with Rob.”
He still had hold of my press pass, which is why I slipped. I’d been trying to step back to give us both some space, but he kept it firm in his large fist. The lanyard tugged on my neck and my heels slid on the floor. I was able to grab the top of a chair to keep myself upright, but that gave the bastard time to yank the pass from around my neck.
“The hell you are, missy. I’m the Indianapolis Sun here, and you need to get your ass out.” Then he grabbed my arm and used his bulk to march me toward the door. I glanced desperately at the other people, but not one moved to help. Probably because they’d heard me say I was from the Indianapolis Sun. That meant this was an internal turf war.
“Stop it!” I squeaked. “Let go of me!” None of it worked and, in my pumps, I had little grip to push back.
So I went with a right cross. I had two older brothers who’d had taught me a thing or two.
I hit him hard enough that his face snapped to the side. I’d aimed for his jaw, but instead, I clipped his nose and felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage. He howled and dropped me like a sack of potatoes. And in my impossible shoes, I went straight down.
I was still checking my teeth from the jolt up my spine when a dark pair of men’s shoes appeared in my peripheral vision. Then someone way above me said in a deep voice, “Is there a problem here?” I looked up—way up—and saw a man with dark hair, dark eyes, and a mesmerizing stare. He wore a well-tailored suit, but what made him distinctive was the suave violence in his body. It was as if GQ had outfitted a really good-looking gangster.
Security, obviously. And what could I say? I wasn’t stupid enough to start pointing fingers. Dirk was the regular sports reporter and in my naïveté, I’d hoped to get his help. Instead, I’d probably broken the guy’s nose. The last thing I needed was to get us both kicked out. So I took a breath and tried to cover.
“I, um, I just slipped in these shoes. Mr. Benson was, um, offering me his seat.” Okay, so I wasn’t immune to getting my digs in.
The security guy’s striking eyes narrowed as he peered down at me. “He wasn’t trying to manhandle you? And you’re not about to slap him with a sexual harassment suit?”
I blinked. Wow. That was rather extreme. “N-not for this.”
The guy nodded. “Okay then. Dirk? You know where the washroom is. And, miss, you can take his seat right here.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I did my best not to stagger as I finally made it to my feet. Now at my full height, the security guard was still way above me, but I didn’t have to tilt my head far. He even bent down to grab my notebook and purse before handing it to me.
Then we both stood there awkwardly while Dirk fumed. Was he going to make an issue of this? If looks could kill, I’d be a smoking pile of ash. But in the end, he shoved his way past us. Possibly because his nose was dripping blood like a leaky faucet.
I didn’t want to take Dirk’s seat, but there were no others anywhere. The guard helped me settle and then just as he straightened up, he pressed a business card into my hand. On the back, handwritten, was a room number and a time.
“What—?” I asked.
“If you could come to my office after the postgame interviews, I’d appreciate it.”
“Um, am I in some sort of trouble?”
He arched a brow indicating the room in general. The hostility was palpable. I wasn’t sure that anyone was a big fan of Dirk, but I was the pretty young upstart taking over for a competent older reporter. No one was going to rush to be my friend.
“Just be there.” Not a request.
Well, hell. Now what?