“Oh, hi. Nice to see you.”
“Yah, you, too.” His smile faded and his eyes scrunched into suspicious slits. “You know, if you’re here for an interview, don’t bother gunning for my job. They love me here.”
“I’m sure they do.” So much to say to that. But how in the hell could he know she was thinking of applying? “My flight was canceled. Thought I’d check out the newsroom before I went home.”
“Stahtin’ with the hoppah, I see.”
“Huh?”
“The hopper. The toilet.”
“Well, my next stop is a little more exciting.” She pointed at a large piece of equipment on display. “The old Linotype machine.”
“I think we’ve got some stuffed carrier pigeons upstairs.”
She laughed. “Any telegraph poles?”
“Oh, a whole string of them. Wanna see?”
Eddie led Hara to the elevators; they got off on the third floor. Over one of the entryways, she thrilled to see her favorite Walter Cronkite quote: Freedom of the press is not just important to democracy, it is democracy.
“This is sooo not like the newsroom back home.” Despite herself, she was inspired.
“I know, right? It’s pretty damn nice, compared to our old offices.” They walked into a well-lit, open space, with wide aisles and enormous windows, surrounded by glassed-in offices and conference rooms. Dozens of large, ceiling-mounted TVs peppered the huge room, so the staff could watch for breaking news and website analytics. One of the big news stories was, of course, the weather and the delayed flights.
“Goin’ to the game tonight?” Eddie asked.
“I’m hoping I can still get on a flight out. Besides, I wasn’t invited.”
“Invited? You’re press. Don’t you have your press pass?”
“Yes…” She tried to remember where she’d last seen it. “I guess. But like I said, I hope to be crammed into a tight space at thirty thousand feet.”
He shrugged. “Fine. You think you can get Butler to give me five minutes tonight?”
“Ha! You think I have power over Charles?”
“You call him Charles. I’ve been on this beat for five years but he’s never hung out with me at Tunnel. I’m not on his radar.”
“You know about the club?”
“The Boston Gossip Bitches—they were at Tunnel. They took pictures and posted them on their blog.”
Hara was surprised. “I can’t imagine I created much of a stir.”
“You didn’t. I mean, you’re hot and all, but those gals were going for pics of Tina and Charles fighting. They weren’t sorry.”
“Dammit.”
“What? That your friend was raked, or that you were scooped?”
“Don’t be a dick. Unless an athlete has gone totally off the rails or done something illegal, I’ve never written about anything other than their ability. I hate exploiting drama around private lives.”
“Fair enough. Though my boss would tell you it sells copies.”
“Every boss says that.”
“So, you’re not here to try out as a gossip columnist. That’s great, I guess. But what are you doin’?”
“That is an excellent question.”
He straightened his tie, clearing his throat in an exaggerated manner. “If you’re still around tonight, you can be my date.”
“Uhhh.”
“I’m going to pretend I’m not offended. I’m talking about the game, ijit.”
She wouldn’t accept a million dollars if it meant seeing Derek or O’Donnell again.
Then, through the haze of angst and anger she’d been packing around since yesterday, she saw another truth:
This was the job she’d chosen.
Was she going to give up just because her heart was betrayed and her ego had been kicked?
After working for years toward this goal, and putting up with years of shit, you’re just going to roll over, Hara Isari?
Maybe she wasn’t a great writer. Maybe she wasn’t even that good. But she could still learn.
Was she really giving up because someone else didn’t believe in her?
When had she become a quitter?
An image of a dimly lit staircase in a condemned tenement popped into her head. It was from her favorite poem by Langston Hughes, in which a parent tells a kid not to sit down when things get hard. He’d said that life could be like a scary set of stairs, but to keep climbing even when dealing with splinters or burned-out light bulbs.
If she had to get encouragement from a literary parent versus a real parent, so be it.
Fine. If she was stuck in Boston, Hara would take that as a sign from the universe. She would write a freaking phenomenal story. The haters could go screw themselves.
“Sure. If I don’t get a flight out, I’ll let you know. Can I get a tour first?”
Eddie took her around to the writers, editors, designers, photographers, and graphic specialists. They ended in the sports department. The small crew happily shared war stories; they also spent quality time poking at Eddie. It wasn’t until their editor showed up that they quieted down.
“Hara Isari. Saw your article on Butler come across the wire this morning. How’d you manage it?”
“Yeah? It’s out on the wire already?” She smiled, her heart trilling at proof she had managed the feat and now her words were in the hands of readers across the nation. Even if she got the interview because of her father, she’d done the work.
But then the implication of the man’s question set in. Was he asking how Thomas Isari’s daughter managed to get a job in sports? Or was he scoffing at the writing? Beating back the rising distress and disillusionment vying for space with her tentative, newly rebuilt self-worth, she said calmly, blithely, “Good luck got me here, I guess.”
Inwardly, she cringed. Totally just sold myself out.
“Seems to me our Eddie either needs to grow tits or work a little harder for his good luck.”
Nice. Top-down sexism. If she did stick with sportswriting, she’d only have more of this to look forward to … Hara decided it was time to go with a bolder response, cupped her hands under her breasts, and said with a smirk, “I’m pretty sure these little guys didn’t get me in the door.” Then to Eddie, she said, “But maybe your boobs are bigger than mine. Break ’em out, let’s see how that works for you.”
“Hey, I didn’t say it!” he sputtered in protest. “Besides, you don’t have to patronize me. I’m with those guys week in and week out; I’m not worried about covering the team. I’m not writing fluffy features, I’m writing real stories.”
Hara’s lips twisted in fury. He’d gone right for the nads and, in his condescension, didn’t even know it.
Before she could say anything, the editor snorted. “Eddie, take it down a notch,” said the asshole who’d thrown the grenade in the first place. “Everyone, get back to work.” The man wandered off.
“Yeah, Eddie,” Hara blazed, “fuck right off.”
The bullish behavior over the past few minutes had moved Hara from depressed to straight anger. Finally. She could do anything when she was mad enough. She’d just forgotten that. Her courage rose with every attempt to intimidate her.
The male reporter had the sense to dip his head, sheepish. “Yeah. I crossed a line. Sorry. It’s just a blow, you know? They’ve shut me out. And then you come along…”
“I get it.” She tucked her hair behind an ear, to see him clearly. “You’re not going to like this, either: I want to submit a résumé.” She tugged out the folder with her papers from her bag. “I promise, I’m not trying to take your job, but I do want a job. The universe continues to put opportunities in front of me”—he didn’t need to know that her father had kick-started the universe’s plan—“and I have got to jump on and ride it out.”
Eddie stroked his beard. “I figured.” After a second, he shrugged. “You gotta start somewhere, I guess. I’d just appreciate it if you don’t show me up.”
“No promises
.” Her phone beeped. It was a text from Carter. He could get her on a flight later that afternoon or tomorrow. Which would she like?
Hara slid her phone back into her jacket. “Damn.”
“I take it you’re here another night.” He sat on a desk. “Let me make it up to ya. Buy you a bag of arena kettle corn.”
The universe kept giving her the choice to move forward. She’d said she wouldn’t ignore it. When life got hard, she couldn’t just sit down.
“I guess so.” She pushed up her glasses. “I’ll meet you there. In press row.”
On the way out, she stopped in the human resources office. Handing over an application and her portfolio took willpower and a stern warning to her limbs about shaking in public, but she did it.
CHAPTER 10
An unhappy alternative …
—Pride and Prejudice
Hara poked Naomi’s buzzer but no one answered. She tried a few times, standing in a heavy drizzle, and was just about to find a quiet, dry corner in the restaurant, when the door finally buzzed open.
Reaching the apartment, Hara found Naomi waiting for her, appearing an altogether different creature than she had the night before, with dark circles under her eyes, gray skin around her lips, her posture bowed. Even her hair drooped.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks. Want some brunch?” The girl poured cereal into two bowls and placed them on the tiny Ikea table. She seemed to float across the floor, weightless, to retrieve a carton of milk from the refrigerator.
“Seriously, you okay?” Hara frowned.
In reply, Naomi, who had unscrewed the milk container and sniffed it, suddenly recoiled, gagged, and sprinted for the bathroom.
That wasn’t good. “Naomi?” Hara knocked on the bathroom door. She could hear quiet retching sounds. “Can I get you anything?”
The toilet flushed and Naomi emerged, shaking slightly.
Hara handed her a glass of water. “How long have you known?”
“I found out yesterday. I should have guessed sooner. Mornings aren’t treating me so well.” Naomi sat at the table, hunched into herself. She pushed the bowl of dry cereal away.
“I can tell.” They sat quietly for a moment. Finally, Hara said, “You can’t be too far along.”
“No bump yet.” Naomi placed her slender hands over her stomach. “I’m guessing I’m about four to five weeks, maybe even six.”
“Charles? Did you tell him?”
“Yes. Last night. He left right after I told him.” She groaned and put a hand over her eyes. “I am a freaking cliché. He probably thinks this is on purpose, so I can ride his gravy train.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I have no idea.” Naomi wiped a hand across her mouth. “What do you think? What would you do in my situation?”
“Above my pay grade.” Run away, girl, be free, thought Hara. Derek had been the perfect reminder—professional athletes were treated like gods, and too many came to believe they were gods. And, obviously, a good chunk of them didn’t know what “monogamous” meant. Or what it meant to be a good partner. Who needed that turmoil?
“The only thing I know,” said Naomi, “is that I don’t want Charles to someday turn his back on me, accuse me of snagging a money source. I love him. I need him to respect me.”
Hara nodded. “Love” seemed a little much, but who was she to judge? “I get that. Respect means everything to me.”
They were quiet a minute more. The rain had picked up again, creating moving shadows in the dim room and a soft, liquid background music.
“Anyway,” Naomi said. “What’s your plan? What did the airlines say?”
“My editor got me on a flight out tomorrow. I know you said I could stay here, but I swear, if this is too much, I don’t have to.”
“Please. I’m fine with it. You should go to the game tonight.”
“I think I’ve talked myself into it.” She could focus on the failings of the Fishers’ second-year rookie, write a hit piece. That would be fun. “Are you going?”
“Nah. I don’t want to get jumped by Tina. The memo regarding their breakup hasn’t quite sunk in; like I said, she’s threatening to feed the press some story to make Charles look bad if he walks away. I can’t even begin to imagine her level of crazy if she finds out I’m pregnant.” She folded her arms. “I’m not tryin’ to dim the woman’s light, I got mad respect for her. She just need to see, she and Charles dead.”
Uh huh, thought Hara. What was in that bowl of cereal? Powdered delusion?
“Besides, he was pretty mad at me for jumpin’ him at Tunnel.” The girl’s lower lip quivered slightly. “I just wanted to spend time with him out in the open. But the organization will punish him if he is caught up in a scandal. I’ll let him take care of the Tina problem.”
Hara gazed at her, unsure of what to say. She wanted to ask how the girl let herself get pregnant if that wasn’t what she wanted, but again, who was Hara to judge? To be sanctimonious? She’d have to pay to get pregnant, at this point.
“Whatever,” Naomi said. “I have bigger—or littler—things to worry about right now. I’m going to take a bath, pretend everything’s normal.”
Hara changed into dry, warm clothes and sat down with her computer. Her next steps were murky.
Her phone rang.
It was Telmate. Her heart lurched. She wasn’t sure she was ready to talk to her father. But she couldn’t help herself. After accepting the call, she said, “Hi, Daddy.”
There was a rustling on the other end of the phone, a cough. Then, “Baby girl! Just checking in. How was the trip? Are you home?”
“No, my flight was delayed because of rain and lightning. I’ve got a ticket for tomorrow.”
“Shit.” There was a pause. When he spoke again, his voice seemed far away. “Are you back at O’Donnell’s house?”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “He is a righteous son of a bitch. But it’s you who I’m really mad at! How could you?” The last came out in a wail.
“Hara—”
“I know what you did. You made me look weak. And stupid! I thought you of all people believed I could do this. And now I’m questioning myself, ready to give up, because, like always, you had to lie and cheat and ruin my freaking life.”
He fell into a coughing fit. Finally, his voice cracking, he said, “What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about?! Goddamn it, you let me come out here thinking O’Donnell picked me because of my writing, when you were the one who reached out to him … You think this is how I want to succeed? Huh? I’m not like you. I actually try at life.”
I guess I’m going to let that sanctimonious flag fly, after all.
More coughing.
“Jesus. Get some cold medicine, you sound terrible. Why did O’Donnell do this, anyway? He owe you some gambling debt from the good old days?”
His voice was barely audible. “Something like that.”
“That’s just fantastic. He’s a crook, too. Freaking fantastic.”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion. I got you a chance, you took it, and now you’re going to start getting some notice from the big dogs.” Thomas was breathing heavily but kept going. “Hara, be pissed if you want, but don’t think I regret it for one second. I’m stuck in this shithole while you’re out there; this was the only way I could help. For the love of God, do not fuck this up just because you’re mad.”
“I’ve been getting by without your help for ten years.” Hara hung up on him.
She instantly regretted it.
He might not be a famous poet like Langston Hughes, nor was he creating beautifully worded analogies about dark staircases and life, but he was her parent. And he was offering the same kind of advice, albeit less lyrical. More, his particular set of hard life “stairs” were covered in urine and blood, and guys with shivs waited in the shadows, yet he kept going.
She didn’t like what he’d done, or how he’d done
it, but she understood why. He wanted her to keep climbing, make sure she didn’t get stuck like he had.
But he should have known she was not like him. She was not a cheat.
Naomi appeared in front of her, wrapped in a towel. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Hard not to, in my tiny palace, even with the water running.” She had the laminated press pass in her hand. “You left this in the bathroom. No matter how you got here, you’re here.”
The pass dangled between them. Hara finally took it. “I want to go, to be all tough and say screw it, I’m going to get something out of this while I’m here. And Derek can go to hell.”
“You mean O’Donnell?”
“Yeah. Him, too.” She sank onto the sofa, her chin in her hand, her voice softer. “But another part of me is so embarrassed. O’Donnell thinks I’m some kind of blackmailing fraud, and so does Derek. I’m sure he’ll say something to Charles. I cannot bear it, them thinking of me that way. I want to explode with shame. Having to see them will send me into seizures.”
“Or you could cover the game, get your stories out there, keep working on your craft. Prove them wrong over time. Success is the best revenge, right?”
“I know. I agree. I am going to go, do what I can, use the opportunity to work on my portfolio.” But what if she really didn’t have the talent? She didn’t know anymore. “It’s so not fair. I’ve always worked my ass off. And I’ve always tried to follow the rules, to do things ethically, so no one could put me in the same category as my father.” She shook her head and repeated what was looping in her head: “It’s so not fair.”
“Quite a pair, ain’t we?” Naomi folded her arms. “But you still goin’, even if I have to drag you.”
Hara, on the verge of tears, laughed instead. The girl in front of her weighed all of 120 pounds, and most of that was hair. “I thought you weren’t going to the game.”
Naomi shrugged. “Nah, boo, not unless you make me.” She turned to go back into the bathroom. “No offense, but I could use some alone time.”
* * *
The Fishers’ empty training room smelled of Lysol, rubber, and old sweat. Derek’s breath swooshed out as he pushed up the weight bar, though the load was light.
The Wrong Mr. Darcy Page 12
