The Wrong Mr. Darcy

by Evelyn Lozada

  She should have added Band-Aids. What if it was cold?

  Her newest accessory hung from a lanyard around her neck. The lovely press pass. It was a good thing she’d remembered the pass, too, because she hadn’t seen or heard from the O’Donnells or Madeline all day, except for a note delivered by a butler, telling her what time to meet a car in the brick courtyard. She’d assumed she’d be riding with others from the house but she was alone. Which was fine with her. The ride was short and quiet.

  The security guard at the arena entrance ran her pass through some kind of authenticator, peered closely at her driver’s license for what felt like forever, and then asked her questions about her address and birthdate. The final nod to let her through was solemn.

  She stepped through the metal detector but then asked, “Where do I go?”

  “No one told you?”

  “No.”

  His eyes slanted suspiciously again. “To the right of the team’s bench, beside the tunnel from the locker room. You’ll see the TV cameras back behind the sidelines.”

  Hara felt a thin line of nervous sweat trickle down between her shoulder blades. She was too scared to look down, positive she had wet rings under her arms. Sure, she’d done a big-time interview last night, but this was a whole different beast, having to deal with her peers. Her older, much more male peers.

  The place already teemed with fans and employees. On the gym floor, TV and radio reporters lined the front of press row, talking into cameras and mics. Her heart ratcheted up to an impossible rate. Over half the press seats were taken, laid claim by jackets and bags. Most of the reporters stood on the sidelines, hoping for two minutes from one of the players in warm-up suits shooting on the court.

  Charles Butler led passing drills in the middle of the gym, but held up a second to flash a peace sign at her. She was just as surprised as the other reporters, who craned their necks to see who the star had acknowledged. Her lips curved up in a smile but he’d already turned back to his team.

  “You know the big guy, huh?” A short, ginger-headed thirty-something with a woolly beard and big eyes stood next to her on the edge of the court. He held a recorder in one meaty hand, the other jammed into a pocket of his chinos. He had the face for print.

  “I met him at Connor O’Donnell’s last night.”

  He nodded at her press pass. “You’re a reporter?”

  “Uh, yes. Newspaper on the West Coast.” It took her a second, but when she was able to get it out, she said it with confidence.

  He tilted his head, a curious, hairy bird. “There was press at O’Donnell’s party last night?”

  “I was the only one. I think.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I had an interview with Charles.”

  Am I bragging? I think I am.

  A flare of emotion lit up his face, bulged out his eyes, but his voice was steady. “Huh. That’s interesting.” He reached out a hand. “I’m Eddie. I cover the team for the Boston paper. I’ve been trying to get face time with Butler for over a year.”

  She shook his hand, her stomach twisting. Gloating had led to insulting the first big-time reporter she had met. “It kinda came out of the blue. The organization got Charles to agree to do an interview, and then held a writing contest to assign a writer. I won.” Her laugh was self-deprecating.

  “Huh. Interesting,” Eddie said again. “I entered that contest.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Every one of these guys sent in articles, trying for that interview. You must be good.”

  Before the scintillating conversation could go further, there was a shout behind her.

  “Watch out!”

  As she turned, a ball heading for her face changed course at the last second, swatted away by a large hand. She felt the tips of the fingers brush her nose before she had a chance to step back.

  Derek Darcy. Panting. He’d obviously sprinted to her rescue.

  She adjusted her glasses, which had been knocked askew. “Thank you.” She had no other words. The last time she’d seen him, he’d had his dream hand between her dream thighs.

  His copper eyes gleamed with annoyance, his real hands on his hips. “You’re the reporter, right? Hara?” At her slow nod, he said, “Well, if you can’t pay attention, you shouldn’t be doing this job. You can’t afford too many more blows to the head.”

  Before she could stop herself, she said, “I’m sorry.” But then she straightened her back and glared at him. “I appreciate your efforts, but you don’t have to be rude.”

  He grunted and loped away, the muscles in his back working as he scooped up the ball and flung it to a teammate. Luckily, he was paying attention.

  It was hard to break her stare. Her subconscious had decided this jerk was the best choice for a sex dream? She bit her lip as he practiced a jump shot, every muscle in his legs, thighs, and ass taut. Her brain wanted a kind, smart man but apparently her stupid lady parts were hoping for a long, sweaty visit from Mr. Muscles. As long as he didn’t talk.

  CHAPTER 7

  There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.

  —Pride and Prejudice

  She couldn’t believe it. The game was over. The plays had been nonstop, with no time to breathe. Every time Hara glanced down to make a note, she missed something. She’d started writing without looking; the transcription was going to take a lot of guesswork.

  The mood in the stands behind her was sour.

  Boston had lost by two points. A heartbreak, so close right up until the bitter end. Then, in the last few seconds, Derek bungled a pass from Charles and that was it. The game was done. Too bad, too, because the rookie had played well up until then. For a defense guy, he’d scored quite a few points.

  The reporters were bounding out of chairs, flowing into the tunnel behind the team, their curse words echoing off the walls.

  The head coach led the press into a conference room. But by the time she could squeeze her way in, the cameras were rolling and print journalists were taking notes as the coach spoke in monosyllables from his spot in front of a wall covered in sponsor logos and imagery for the team. He called on the TV reporters first.

  Beside her, Eddie shook his head and muttered, “This fuckin’ guy. He always does that. Gives the talking heads priority.” He grunted. “Listen to the questions they ask. They’re clowns. They pay more attention to their hair than the game.”

  Listening to the dialogue up front, she couldn’t disagree—at least, not with this particular bunch. The coach didn’t seem to be saying much to them, anyway, almost every response consisting of, “I’ll have to watch the game tape before I can answer that,” or “We played with heart.”

  After a couple of minutes, the coach depleted his catalog of one-line, innocuous responses, so the group hustled into the hallway and over to the locker room. Just outside the door, there was a vastly oversize photo of a deceased coach, his eyes watching them as they jostled to be the first through the doors.

  She’d known this moment was coming, when she was going to have to go into the locker room. A lot of female reporters before her had fought for her right to capture the post-game energy and hype along with the male reporters.

  She was no quitter.

  Hara followed. She’d never had the opportunity to interview anybody right after a game, especially not well-known players. There was no way she was going to shy away from the chance.

  She’d read the stories. She knew what other women had gone through. And still went through, both in the locker room and in the abusive world of social media, from verbal harassment to physical attacks. Which explained why there weren’t many skirts in a sea of gray suits and khakis.

  The room was smaller than she expected, but a far cry from her high school locker room with its pitted cement floor and a grimy shower room facing rows of bent lockers. The Fishers had a well-maintained space, including a line of glass tables and leather office chair
s in the center, and a thick, low carpet underfoot with a massive picture of the team’s emblem embroidered into the center. One wall had a wide hallway leading back to the shower rooms and training room and medical bay. There were floor-to-ceiling lockers, and seats along three of the walls, each of which bore a plaque with a name and number, set apart by walnut partitions that offered no privacy whatsoever.

  The damp air and bite of body odor was the same as at her high school, though. Worse, even.

  The scrum of reporters hummed as the players returned from the shower rooms.

  A young rookie, Gus Lawrence, was using a wet towel as a snapping weapon and came close to getting punched by at least one varsity player. Most of the guys weren’t in the mood for horseplay, exuding sullen waves of disappointed energy.

  When she realized just how much skin she was seeing, her eyebrows shot up in surprise. The ridiculously tiny towels looked like they had been stolen from a Motel 6; they were unable to close around the players’ above-average-size bodies. Hara had thought she was prepared. But when a few guys strode past naked, their man parts free and bouncing off a leg with each step, her stomach twisted in anxiety. It was surreal. And very, very awkward.

  Psht. Naked. Big deal. She forced her back straight, her face impassive. Hara had been flashed before, by far less attractive men. Her father’s fellow inmates, and even the guards, had provided years of unwanted lessons on how to deal with sexual taunting. The reporters were breaking apart, surging as small groups around individual players, who were yelling at each other and, oddly, slathering their entire bodies with lotion before getting dressed.

  “Hey, jersey chaser. Who let you in?”

  It wasn’t a player. The comment came from a sneering reporter to her left, his hairpiece a different shade of brown than his natural hair.

  Hara pushed her glasses up on her head and batted her eyelashes at him. “My daddy said it was okay.”

  Charles Butler emerged, a towel loose around his waist, steam trailing after him. The room erupted. “Hey, Charles! Charles! What happened tonight? Charles!”

  The crowd followed him to his locker, including the loudmouth who’d been next to her. From their excitement, it was clear they were hoping he’d actually say more than his usual two-word responses, now that he’d given in and done a full interview.

  His post-game style didn’t change. He was polite and friendly, but once again kept his answers to the bare minimum. Hara was happy to keep her eyes on her notepad, scribbling away while Charles dressed. She didn’t want anyone to accuse her of being there just so she could ogle the meat sacks.

  A few more ballplayers trailed out of the shower room. Then Derek emerged and once again his appearance made her catch her breath.

  His lean, muscular body, dark skin slick from the shower, moved gracefully. Yet, he also walked with a slight stiffness, holding a towel around his waist with a tight fist. Was he sore? Or was he uncomfortable? Hara didn’t know how any athlete could stand to have their privacy invaded like this, whether or not the reporters were male or female. Would it be so terrible if the press, male and female, had to wait in the conference room? Or the hall? Would the excitement of the moment be lost between toweling off and pulling on shoes? The controversy had raged forever. But if male reporters were going to be allowed access, then so was she. Women had busted open the glass locker room door and Hara was staying in there until they all had to leave.

  The majority of reporters still clustered around Charles, trying to pry something headline-worthy free.

  Derek was alone, now in compression briefs and socks. He slid on a pair of basketball shorts as she approached, glaring at her. She controlled her own stare, trying not to linger on his broad chest or how it narrowed down to a subtle six-pack. She could see why women might want to sneak in and get a peek at these men.

  He spoke in a growl. “I mean, seriously, don’t you feel weird watching me dress?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said loftily, as if annoying an NBA player was an everyday event. “Let’s talk about tonight. That was a pretty impressive showing, racking up the points like that.”

  “Maybe you hit your head harder than I thought. Didn’t you notice? We lost.” He tugged a polo shirt over his head, his biceps flexing naturally.

  “A tough game, for sure.” She didn’t take his bait. “You were brought on because of your defense skills at Pepperdine. Looks like you’re expanding your role on the court. How’s the team feel about that?”

  “I think it’s important that I can be versatile, knocking down their balls and making the swishes—”

  “The Wreck really put ’em through their paces tonight,” Charles said loudly from his own locker. Now dressed, he came over to Derek and slapped him on the back. “I’m a little jealous. My bro here is tryin’ to steal my crown. At least he’s on my team.”

  Derek smiled slightly, more than she’d seen from him yet. “You know I got your back.”

  Charles turned and pointed at Hara. “You got a question for me, girlie?”

  The room went quiet. “Who’s she?” someone whispered.

  I’m Hara Isari, bitches. She paused. There was a choice: Ask a question about the game, or ask Charles if he was hiding something.

  “What made tonight’s game so tough, you think?” It rolled out, confident and smooth, like she knew what she was doing. Like she wasn’t a big, freaking coward.

  As the other reporters shifted and filled the space around her, he responded, “You know, our problem was defense right from the start, but that was a matter of everyone not being on the same page. We’re gonna get there.”

  Eddie, the bearded ginger, beat her to the next question. “Are you saying the loss was Darcy’s fault?”

  “Come on, man, you know I ain’t sayin’ that.” The star went back to his space and grabbed his gym bag. “Well, I’m out.” Charles offered Hara a two-fingered salute. Then, making his way to the locker room door, he slapped Gus on the ass with a ringing smack, surprising a yelp from the rookie, but he didn’t say anything more to Derek.

  As the star exited, Derek quietly tied his shoes, ignoring any further questions directed at him. The other reporters faded away, seeking interviewees more talkative than Derek. She stood her ground. “Do you think he meant it how it sounded, Derek?”

  “Naw, my boy wouldn’t do me like that.” But he kept his face down.

  Hara felt bad for him. The young player had worked hard out there on the floor, performing better than expected. He wasn’t getting the attention he deserved. Then again, Derek wasn’t making it easy for the press, emulating Charles’s minimal-words policy but with a lot less friendliness.

  * * *

  Hara kicked away popcorn and avoided puddles of beer on the smooth cement floor as she made her way down the rapidly emptying main entranceway. She’d quickly written up a review of the game and amended a few sentences in her interview, and sent both off to Carter. Now she was free. That was that. Hara had covered the Charles Butler story and then made it into the locker room after a big game. Yay for notches in my portfolio. Life changing! So exciting!

  Then darkness descended and that snide voice from the locked closet in the recesses of her brain started whispering. She could have asked Charles anything. Instead, she’d chosen not to rock the boat. She was an idiot. A freaking coward.

  She’d shifted into the mindset of a manic-depressive. Her stomach surged with the emotional swings.

  “Hara!” Naomi, the stunning girl from the party, stepped out of an elevator, waving.

  The surge swung back up. She wasn’t completely alone here. “Hi! I’m so happy to see you,” Hara gushed, before she could stop herself. Swallowing, she brought it down a notch. “Whatcha up to?”

  Naomi sang out, a smile on her young face, “I’m hittin’ Tunnel. Come with me!”

  “You’re going to a tunnel?”

  “Ha! A nightclub. Some of the players and the girls are going, we’re in a VIP section. D’L
uxe is the DJ tonight, it’ll totally be worth it.”

  They were walking past Eddie, who sat on the edge of a cement garbage bin, intent on his small laptop computer, clacking away madly on the keyboard. Maybe she should have spent more time on her own story.

  Too late now. “Are you sure the players will be okay with me there?” Hara asked. She knew Naomi was only inviting her along because she thought Hara had some cachet with the team, having watched her being escorted to a private meeting with Madeline at the party. But what did she care if Naomi genuinely liked her or not? She could use Naomi’s connections, just like the girl was using her.

  Hara was being offered another shot at Charles.

  “Come on. Don’t be stupid,” said Naomi. “You are an exotic beauty. Beautiful women are never turned away, not when Charles is around. But you can’t wear your accountant clothes.”

  “I don’t look like an accountant!”

  “What do you have on under that button-up?”

  “My bra.”

  “What’s it look like?” Naomi asked. “Never mind. We’ll make a stop on the way.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “You’re goin’, girl.” She grabbed her hand. “It’ll be fun.”

  The universe was giving her one more opportunity. Damn it, she needed to get over herself and take it.

  Naomi did not live far from the stadium. Surprisingly, though she was in an amazing part of town, her apartment was tiny, a walk-up above a Chinese restaurant. Hara had assumed because she hung out with the hoity-toity crowd and dressed like a movie star that the young woman was wealthy.

  The modest well-kept studio was done in light grays, with small pops of black and red. Hara loved the chic decor. The “bedroom” was basically a nook big enough for a bed, though it did have a sliding door for privacy. In the main room, Naomi used black Ikea bookcases to cleverly create a closet that covered an entire wall, floor to ceiling, and fronted them with sliding barn doors. There was even a mini dressing room.