“True.”
I sighed. She was right. This was my specialty. It was how I'd gotten the job in the first place. If I couldn't put out the flames, I needed to find a way to make the situation work to my advantage—to Fuerte's advantage. I just didn't see a way to do it. "So...can you get me a team? And a spot on Friday's newscast?"
"Maybe," she said. "Let me see what I can do."
It was the best progress I'd had so far, so I hung up with my fingers and toes crossed. Hell, I would've crossed my arms and legs too, if it hadn't made it so tough to walk and drive.
On the strength of Beckie's "maybe," I went ahead and put out the call for volunteers for the soup kitchen Thursday night via team email.
I decided it would be best to end the day on a high note, so I packed up and made my way out to the staff parking lot.
Hamish Armstrong was bent over, leaning into his tiny sports car, and soccer balls littered the ground around him. He kept grabbing for them, shoving them back into the car, only to have them pop back out. I could hear him cursing in his thick brogue as he went through the same actions over and over with the same result. Hamish was a teddy bear, but maybe not the smartest teddy bear. And I had no idea what he was doing with forty soccer balls.
"Hamish," I called to him, causing him to curse even more loudly and then pull his head back out of the car, turning to face me.
"For the love of God, I canna get these fecking balls into the car!" He bellowed as four more balls rolled out of the open car door.
"What are you doing with all these balls anyway?"
He screwed up his eyes and let out a deep breath. "Tryin' to do a good deed, lass. But I'm headed for failure."
"If you just need to move these balls, they'll fit in my car for sure." I pointed to my Explorer, parked a few feet away. Compared to Hamish’s Porsche, it looked massive.
He wrapped a big hand around the back of his neck and gazed out at the balls rolling all around the car. "That would be a big help," he said, his voice sounding defeated.
I began picking up soccer balls and tossing them into the back of my car. "Where did these all come from? They're nice balls," I said, looking over the red and black design with appreciation.
"Ya like my balls, do ya?" Hamish asked, tossing a few balls into my car and turning to give me a cheeky grin before he headed off to pick up a few more. He chuckled and came back to the car with more balls in his arms. "They're a gift from my sponsor. Told him I wanted something for the kiddos."
I felt my eyes widen as I picked up another ball trying to escape beneath Hamish's wheels. "How many kids do you have?" I didn't know he had any children.
He let out a hearty laugh and his cheeks turned pink under the scruff on his face. "None, woman. Not my kids. The kids on the soccer team I help out with."
Understanding dawned and I felt like a moron. "Got it."
We finished loading up the scattered balls and Hamish grinned at me when we were done. "Now you'll just have to deliver them. You free tomorrow night?"
"Nope," I told him. "And neither are you. I need the team at the soup kitchen for some feel-good PR ahead of Friday's HOT-LA exposé." There was no one in the organization at this point who hadn't heard about the upcoming exclusive. Theo had been whining loudly to anyone who would listen, and the promos on the channel in the evenings had been almost constant. Fuerte, unfortunately, was big news.
Hamish shook his head. "Sorry, lass."
"What do you mean, sorry?" I spread my arms wide. I needed as many players as could come. Hamish had always come through for me in the past when I’d asked for help with things, and I couldn’t help feeling let down.
"Other plans," he told me.
"I've got a news team lined up for it." It was a bit of a stretch, but Beckie had sounded more yes than no on the phone. "It's going to be huge. I need you."
He looked thoughtful a moment, gazing up at the lights snapping to life around the parking lot. "Tell ya what. I'll text you an address to bring those balls to. Bring your news team. This'll be better than the soup kitchen."
I had a feeling the soup kitchen wouldn't think so, whatever it was. "I don't think I can change plans now," I told him.
"Trust me," he said, a little smile tugging up his mouth. "You want to. Bring the cameras."
I let out a frustrated sigh as Hamish pulled a phone from his pocket. "Number?" He held it out to me, unlocked. I entered my contact information and Hamish sent me a string of extremely inappropriate emojis featuring anatomy I had no idea they'd made emojis for. He grinned at me as I swiped at the screen. I couldn't help the giggle that escaped my lips.
"Lovely."
"Had them made special," he said.
"I'm sure they come in handy all the time." I shoved my phone back into my bag. "I'm trusting you, Hamish," I said, realizing there was a good chance I was going to regret this.
He responded by typing something into his phone. My phone chimed in my bag and Hamish climbed into his car. "Thanks for helping out with my balls," he said. "My balls are clearly too big for my car. Goodness, I have massive balls."
"It was funny the first time," I told him, turning to get into my own car.
"See you tomorrow." He slammed his door and drove the little blue car out of the parking lot, leaving me in charge of his massive balls and wondering what I'd just gotten myself into.
Chapter 32
Textual relations
Fernando
As I lay in bed Wednesday night, I couldn't stop thinking about Erica. I could still smell her on the sheets—a mixture of oranges and something creamy and sweet. She smelled a little like Christmas, and that was my favorite time of year. More points for Erica.
More thoughts of her swirled in my mind, and not just the images I'd basically screen captured inside my head to play later. I realized she evoked a feeling in me—of goodness, of optimism. I'd once thought she was some kind of militant feminist ball breaker, a woman who didn't like men, or at least didn't like me. But now that I knew her a little better, I could see she was simply determined and focused. What I'd assumed was dislike or annoyance had simply been her choosing to focus on something else.
Now? I wanted her focus on me.
I picked up my phone and texted her.
Me: Hey
Erica: Hey
Me: You sleeping?
Erica: Yes. I'm sleep-texting.
Me: So you're in bed?
Erica: Is this leading into some kind of attempt at sexting?
Me: Do you want it to?
Erica: Um...
Me: I'm thinking about you
Erica: Good or bad?
Me: All good thoughts. I can smell you on my sheets
I watched the three little dots dance for a while, but Erica didn't say anything. For a minute, I thought I'd made her uncomfortable. But then:
Erica: I wish I was there now.
Me: Come over?
Erica: It's late. I should sleep. So should you. Trace says practice was brutal.
Me: Trace is a pussy
Erica: Twin loyalty demands that I defend my brother.
Me: Go ahead.
Erica: ...
Me: Right.
Erica: Have you mentioned our date to him, BTW?
Me: Definitely on my agenda. You haven't said anything?
Erica: Nope. It's the guy's job to ask for the girl's hand
Me: In marriage, yeah. For a first date?
Erica: Same-same.
What was weird was that I didn’t recoil automatically at Erica’s reference to marriage like I might have in any previous dating relationship, though I didn’t believe Erica really saw a first date as an endeavor akin to marriage. I had to admit the thought of Erica as my wife wasn't as frightening as it should have been. And actually, it was kind of nice. I liked her independence, her fierce attitude. I liked a lot of things about her. I could see actually marrying someone like Erica Johnson someday. I’d never met anyone who I thought I could be happy
with forever, though it was something I definitely wanted.
Erica was the first girl I’d met in a long time who didn’t care that I was the “Fuerte Fire,” and clearly wasn’t dating me because I was a soccer player. I actually thought she was willing to date me despite me being a soccer player.
Me: I'll talk to Trace tomorrow.
Erica: Okay.
I took a deep breath, knowing Erica wouldn't like what I had to say next.
Me: BTW, I can't serve at the soup kitchen tomorrow night. I'm really sorry.
I couldn't let my team down—my other team, I mean. Those kids didn't have a hell of a lot, but I wanted them to know they had me. The team had meant everything to me as a kid, and if I could inspire even one of them to find something to dream about, something to reach for, I thought it would be worth the time spent and then some. I wanted to tell her, but I didn't want something that important to me used as another tool in the belt of the Sharks' media machine. It wasn't all Erica—there were commercials and promos done by our ad agency that used shots like the one Erica was trying to set up at the soup kitchen. And that was fine for the guys on the Sharks, but these were little kids who had enough to worry about. The last thing they needed was the media showing me as some kind of hero for spending a couple hours a week with them.
Erica: Your mom?
Me: I've got another commitment on Thursdays when I'm in town.
There was a pause, and I knew she was thinking about what commitments I might have that I wasn't willing to tell her about. She'd asked before about the team, and I just didn't feel right sharing it—not in the context in which she'd asked, at least.
I wasn't willing to use them that way, and though I knew Erica would understand, I still knew she’d see it as a way out of the mess I was in—that was her job. She was driven and focused, and it made her good at what she did—but I didn’t know if she’d be able to see past her job for this. It wasn't something we needed to talk about yet.
I knew I was letting her down either way. Erica had planned some big charity event for me, basically—to make me look good. I was telling her I wouldn't be there.
Erica: No worries. Hey, I need to go to sleep. Super tired.
Me: Okay, sleep tight, pretty girl.
Erica: You too.
And then Erica closed out our conversation by sending me a string of the most offensive and inappropriate emojis I'd ever seen.
She'd clearly been texting with Hammer.
Chapter 33
Rabbits in a Wool Sock
Erica
The team was off Thursday morning, so the stadium was quiet when I let myself into the corporate offices, and just a few of the HQ staff were in this early. I had another strongly worded email from Theo about Friday's coverage, and found myself staring at it for several long minutes, unsure how to reply. I'd set up the soup kitchen and a couple players including Trace were showing up there either way, but I hadn't heard from Beckie, and now Hamish was telling me I'd be better off delivering balls.
The only reason I was listening to him was because I suspected he understood what I was trying to accomplish, and when he said whatever he had going on was better, I believed it actually might be. One did not load forty balls into a car just to drive aimlessly around town. I thought there were probably some intended recipients somewhere, and I was eager to find out exactly what was going on.
I closed Theo’s email without a response. Whatever would be, would be. Theo wasn't the cleanest guy in the world, PR-wise. At this point I was mostly hoping any publicity would be seen as good publicity, and that the team could weather the fallout. I was pretty sure the Sharks would be fine. I really thought even Fernando would probably be fine once Theo calmed down. The Sharks really couldn’t afford to cut him this close to the season even if Theo did have a real reason to hate him—but it was still my job to try to head off the worst of it. I was a lot less sure I’d be fine. Theo’s threats rang in my head and I wondered if I’d be looking for a new job after Friday.
“Quiet in here today,” Annette observed, pausing in front of my desk. Annette was from southern Georgia, and I generally enjoyed chatting with her, mostly because I’d learned some of the most colorful expressions of my life from her. When the air conditioning in the offices broke, she told me it was “hotter than two rabbits screwing in a wool sock” and when Theo had come storming in here last week, she’d commented that, “if brains were leather, that boy wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug.” I was keeping these gems on a little notepad in my desk for future use.
“It is,” I agreed, waiting for the latest addition to my list of hilarious southern sayings.
Annette and I stared at each other a long minute, and I felt both awkward and let down. Finally I couldn’t take it any more.
“Anything else, Annette?”
“Naw, girl. Just wondering why you’re looking like you just found out Chevrolet quit making trucks.” She leaned her generous hip on the side of my desk and made a sad little pout with her fuschia-painted lips.
“I’m okay,” I said, deducing that this expression must mean I looked sad. “Just worried about this news piece with Theo’s ex.”
Annette clucked and nodded, but evidently had nothing else to add. Great, even she thought I was fucked.
Before I could slide too far down the toilet bowl of self-doubt about my potential and likely upcoming careerlessness, my phone rang and Beckie's name appeared on the screen. Annette stood and moved off to her own desk across the big open office space.
"You owe me big, Johnson," Becky said.
"I owe you a big Johnson? I haven't been taking measurements, but I can ask around if you're desperate." I couldn't help it. Inappropriate humor was my default after years of sports PR.
"Funny. No. Although..." Beckie's voice trailed off as she apparently considered big johnsons. "That's a different conversation. I got you a news team tonight. They're free from four to seven and have agreed to do whatever you say."
Yes! Something was finally going my way. Though now I wasn’t sure exactly what I needed them for. I raised an eyebrow. "Well, the soup kitchen thing isn't happening... or it is, but I might ask them to come with me to cover something else."
"Erica, this is a big deal. You better have a plan."
"I have a plan. Tell them to meet me at the stadium at four. I'll text you if anything changes."
"Okay. I hope this helps you," she said.
"I hope so too. I think my job is hanging by a thread." I sighed. "I don't suppose the station is hiring? Need an anchor?" Beckie had actually gotten my dream job, and made it look easy. I tried not to let my envy affect our relationship, but there were definitely times when I wished I was the one in front of the camera. But PR fit me—I’d always been in the shadows. But maybe one day I could find a way out.
"Yes, they are handing out tickets for anchor jobs to people with no experience whatsoever. Come on down."
"That's not nice. And I have news experience..." I kind of didn't, but if you were to draw a very unsteady line, PR and broadcast news could be looked at as being in the same field, at least. They were certainly related.
"If you’re serious, we can totally talk about that later.”
A little spike of excitement went through me, but I realized this was not the time. “I’d love that,” I said. It was a little hard for me to reveal myself to her, to show her how much I envied what she had, but Beckie was my best friend.
“Definitely,” she said. “When this calms down, okay? In the meantime, treat the camera team well. They're doing us both a favor."
"Thanks, Beckie."
We hung up and I leaned back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head and leaning back as I blew out a long breath.
"That bad, huh?" Annette asked from where she sat, looking concerned. She was an older woman, and in some ways she mothered us all. I'd always liked her, and appreciated her concern (and the cookies she liked to bring into the office now and then) a lot.
"Might be okay," I told her. "If I can dig us out from under Marissa's crazy accusations."
Annette tsked and shook her head. "That lady's got a big 'ol hole in her screen door."
I stifled a laugh. "I think she's just desperate, really. She doesn't feel like Theo treated her fairly in the divorce."
"Well, Theo will squeeze a nickel till the buffalo screams, no doubt about that. If he'd done right by her, maybe she'd just go away quietly."
I wasn’t so sure. "Maybe, but it doesn't matter now. Just wish me luck tonight. I might have something that can at least distract everyone from Marissa's claims."
"Good luck, sweetie." Annette gave me a soft smile and headed for the door. “Gotta run a few errands. You okay here?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I smiled at her back as she left, thinking about the Chevrolet comment. Trace would like that one.
Time to get things moving. I picked up my phone just as the text came in from Hamish.
It was a senseless screen of dick emojis.
Before I could reply, another message popped up with an address and a time.
Me: Not the best neighborhood.
Hamish: You'll be fine. I'll be there early to protect you.
A few minutes after hearing from Hamish, Fuerte texted.
Fernando: How are you today?
Me: Good. You?
Fernando: Wishing I could see you.
Me: I'll see you tomorrow for our date! Where are you taking me?
Fernando: I want it to be a surprise. Wear a dress.
A little thrill rushed through me at the idea of dressing up for Fuerte, going out on his arm. I might work in PR, but image had never been very important to me personally. I had to admit to being a little torn though. While dressing up for Fernando was an idea I liked, being seen out on his arm was less compelling—not because I didn’t want to be seen with him, but because there was a chance I’d feel a little like one girl in a long line.
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 16
