Crush

by Crystal Hubbard

  “Miranda, please sit down.” Hodge’s use of her name made her shoulders tense. The last time he’d called her Miranda, it was because he’d gotten a complaint from a team owner who had been offended by a reference Miranda had made to his pitcher’s creative use of tube socks.

  “Whatever it is, I probably did it, and I’m sorry,” Miranda said as she sank heavily into a swivel chair.

  “Miranda,” Rex said, leaning toward her from the one cushioned wing chair in Hodge’s office. “I can’t allow you to cover high school sports any longer.” He took a Herald-Star off of Hodge’s desk. “It’s these photographs.” Rex handed her the issue. It had been folded open to her infamous “Bed Spread,” as the guys in sports had come to call it. “We got some complaints today, from Haverford and Parkington High parents who don’t think a woman of your character should have access to impressionable young people.”

  Miranda spat a furious epithet. “I didn’t authorize or support these photos in any way,” she ranted. “You put my private life on display, without my permission or knowledge, and now—”

  “You became a limited access public figure when you appeared on our cover and with every byline that appears in the paper,” Meg said coolly. “You’re fair game, Miranda.”

  Miranda’s knuckles cracked as her hands clenched into fists and she faced down Rex. “You can’t punish me because a few uptight parents have the wrong idea about what I do in private.”

  “So you aren’t engaging in premarital sex with Lucas Fletcher?” Meg said, her voice a slithery hiss.

  “That’s uncalled for!” Hodge shouted, nearly startling Meg out of her chic Ann Taylor pumps.

  “Rex,” Miranda started, straining to keep her tone calm, “Karmic Echo fans have been camping out in front of my building. The crowd shrank dramatically today, now that Lucas is on his way to Australia, but there are still enough fanatics out there to fill out an NFL roster. I can’t make a move without someone asking me for my autograph or a photo, or asking about Lucas. Your cover story, and your intrusion in my life, are the reasons why all these parents have burrs up their—”

  Rex stopped her words with a wrinkled hand. “You’re not being punished for these photos, Miranda. You’re being promoted.”

  Miranda’s head whipped around to look at Hodge. “What is he talking about?”

  Hodge sat back in his chair, his distaste for what he was about to say plain on his face. He tossed a pencil onto his desk the way a trainer would toss a towel into the ring to stop a fight. “No more wrestling for you, Miranda,” Hodge said on a frustrated sigh. “As of today, you’re on baseball and basketball.” He shot a dirty look at Meg.

  Rex delivered the deathblow. “You’re interviewing Jordan Duquette at one tomorrow afternoon. His contract is being renegotiated, and things could get pretty tense. We haven’t featured him in the paper since the season ended, and it’s time we changed that.”

  The wide-eyed shock Miranda showed Hodge became blind fury by the time she turned to face Meg and Rex. Their motives couldn’t have been any plainer. Lucas left for Australia this morning, she thought, and they know it. That’s the only reason they want me to meet with Jordan. “Shouldn’t I be interviewing Alec Henderson, too? He’s the team captain, and I’m sure he’ll have an opinion on what the team should do.”

  Meg’s shifty gaze lit on Miranda. “Is there a problem with the Duquette interview, Miranda?”

  Miranda shot to her feet, jabbing a finger at Meg. “Since when do you sit in on sports assignment meetings?” She took an angry step toward Rex. “Why are you letting this obnoxious gossip hound dictate the content of the sports section?”

  “Because our focus groups say that they’re buying my papers because they want to know what happens next with Lucas Fletcher and Miranda Penney,” Rex said.

  “It’s not everyday that a world renowned tomcat settles for a saucy little tomboy,” Meg piped in.

  “I like that,” Rex said, turning to look up at Meg. “The Tomcat and The Tomboy. What can you do with that? You’re brilliant, Meg.”

  “Oh, get a room for God’s sake!” Hodge shouted. He stood and, at six-foot-five, he had the immediate attention of everyone in the room. “I’ve had enough of this, Rex. This is my department, and I say who does what.” He left his desk and set a gentle hand on Miranda’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to sit with Duquette, you sure as hell don’t have to. It’s your call, Miranda.”

  “The only thing sadder than an old jock throwing his weight around is an old jock standing in an unemployment line,” Rex said as he slowly stood.

  “Mr. Wrentham, is that a threat?” Hodge’s half step in their direction made Rex and Meg recoil. “How would you like to see this old jock on a witness stand, testifying to your harassment of my reporter?”

  “Harrassment?” Rex tittered, the chalky sound making Miranda’s skin crawl. “I’m merely expecting my reporter to do her job.”

  Hodge’s forearm muscles flexed as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re pimping Miranda’s past association with Jordan Duquette and her present one with Lucas Fletcher to sell this rag. Your motives are as transparent as the walls of this office. I’m sure the union’s lawyers will see it just as clearly.”

  “I can’t help but notice how vigorously you’ve come to Miranda’s defense,” Meg said. “It makes me wonder just how close you two have become over the years, especially in light of the fact that Miranda is the only woman in your department.”

  “Don’t be sordid, Meg,” Hodge said.

  “Don’t stand in my way, Jed,” Rex warned. “Or have you forgotten that your contract is up for renewal in two months?”

  Miranda moved with the lethal grace of a truly pissed off cobra as she put herself between Hodge and Rex. “I’ll meet with Jordan,” she said. “At the ballpark.”

  Meg started to speak, but Rex stopped her with a firm touch. “The photographer is expecting you and Jordan at Le Fin,” he said.

  Miranda bit her tongue to hold back the chain of swear words in English and Portuguese she wanted to spit at Rex. Le Fin was one of Boston’s coziest and most romantic restaurants. It specialized in seductive, gourmet desserts that tantalized the senses. It was the sort of place where couples went on first dates and returned to, months or years later, to stage proposals. “My interviews have never included photographs of me and my subjects,” Miranda said. “And I’ve never conducted one at a place like Le Fin. I won’t start now.” Not with Lucas half a world away, she thought with a pinch of anguish. “If you want me to interview Jordan, he and your photographer had better be in the press room at the ballpark.”

  Miranda knew that she had the upper hand after Meg and Rex exchanged a shady look before agreeing to her terms. They need me way more than I need them, Miranda realized. The thought gave her a small measure of security, even as she saw that it didn’t do a thing to protect Hodge.

  “You’re on administrative leave for two weeks,” Rex glowered at Hodge as he started for the door. “Effective immediately.”

  Miranda waited for Rex and Meg to disappear before she turned to Hodge. “Krakow’s our union rep,” she said urgently. “I’ll go get him, and I’m sure you can get that leave stricken.”

  Hodge laughed, shocking Miranda. Hodge rarely smiled, let alone chuckled, and this turn of events hardly warranted laughter. Miranda reconsidered her position when Hodge explained why he wouldn’t fight the leave.

  “This is a prime example of how stupid Rex is,” he said. “As of tomorrow, I’m on personal leave anyway. I’m finally taking my kids to Disney World, before they get too old to enjoy it. I put in for leave three months ago.”

  “But what about your record? Rex can still put the leave in your personnel file.”

  “Randy, you should know by now that there only three reasons people leave the Herald-Star,” Hodge said.

  “They quit, they retire, or they die on the newsroom floor,” Miranda said.

  “You got it, kiddo
.”

  “Thanks for sticking up for me. I really do appreciate it.”

  “I just want you to be happy, kid,” Hodge said. “If I can piss Rex and Meg off in the bargain, then I’ll just consider that a bonus.”

  Hodge winked, sending Miranda on her way with the knowledge that she had at least one powerful ally at the Herald-Star.

  * * *

  Miranda rubbed her mittened hands together, trying to keep her fingers warm in the freezing ballpark as she paced before the first row of seats near the gangway leading to the home team’s locker room. Fenway Park had been her second home at one point. It was there she had first met Jordan, and where she had lived out her humiliation at his betrayal. Hodge had offered to put her on the professional hockey beat, but she had insisted on going about her usual routine. Hockey would have been a nice change of pace, but the last thing she had wanted was for Jordan to think that he had gotten the best of her.

  Even though she hated the reason behind it, she was glad to be back on baseball. It was one of her favorite sports, truth be told, and she had missed it.

  Miranda was recalling some of the best games she’d seen in Fenway Park when Jordan appeared and climbed up to her row of seats.

  “You’re twenty minutes late,” she said by way of greeting.

  “I hit some traffic.” His brown cheeks were ruddy with the chill December air. “I didn’t know that our meeting spot had been changed until I was already at Le Fin checking my messages.”

  “Great,” she said absently. She lifted her backpack from one of the seats and led the way to the press room inside the stadium. Once there, Jordan took a seat opposite her at a small white table. Miranda took a pen, a reporter’s notebook and a microcassette recorder from her bag. She set the recorder in the middle of the table while Jordan took off his wool coat. Instead of his usual white shirt and khakis, he wore pleated wool slacks and an understated cashmere sweater.

  “Why are you all gussied up?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

  “Where’s the photographer? I was told that I’d be shot today.”

  “I wish,” Miranda mumbled.

  “Don’t be mad, Andy. This will be a lot better for both of us if we just keep it friendly.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” She hit the start button on her recorder and uncapped her pen. “Jordan, you had the best batting average and the highest slugging percentage on the team last season, and you’ve asked to be compensated for your achievement. What makes you think you deserve more than what your original contract entitles you to?”

  “I deserve more because I’ve shown that I’m worth more.” His charming smile was designed to blunt his conceit, but Miranda knew him well enough to know that he meant what he said. “If you looked at all of my numbers, you’d see that I had a career season.”

  “I’m aware of your stats. What I’d like to know is how much of your success you can attribute to the new coaching staff, and whether you think the team is stronger since Marty Grobin, whom you described as ‘disagreeable, flaky and a whiny cry-baby,’ was traded.”

  “Wow.” Jordan stroked his chin. “I said all that about Marty?”

  “Yes. Right before you attacked him in the locker room last season after that New York game.”

  “I punched him because he made a pass at you,” Jordan argued.

  “I was handling it just fine before you pulled your dramatic He-Man crap,” she snapped. “We weren’t together anymore at that point anyway, so what did you care if Marty Grobin wanted to take me to dinner?”

  Jordan stared at her. “Seeing Marty with you like that made me crazy. Almost as crazy as seeing you with Lucas Fletcher.”

  Miranda stopped the tape. “Do you hear yourself? You’re the one who threw me away, remember? You’re the one who shacked up in a hotel room with not one but two naked women.” The memory no longer had the power to hurt her it once had, but Jordan’s next words stung her all the way through to her heart.

  “You acted like you didn’t care if I strayed or stayed,” he said. “There’s so much temptation out on the road. Even guys with wills of iron give in once in awhile. What was I supposed to do? You never acted like you cared what I did while we were apart.”

  Her throat felt like it was closing. “That’s your excuse for what you did? That it was my fault because I wasn’t a clinging vine who needed to call you every minute of every day just to make sure that you weren’t sleeping with some woman you picked up at a game? I trusted you, Jordan, and you knew perfectly well how I felt about you.”

  “Actually, I didn’t,” he insisted. “You never said it. Not one single time. You never gave me your heart, Miranda.”

  “Funny how it got broken, just the same.”

  He rubbed his knuckles along the creases in his pants. “You never looked at me the way you look at Lucas Fletcher.”

  “I didn’t come here to rehash the past.” She steered the conversation back to safer waters. “I need fifty-five lines by six o’clock, so could you please just answer my questions?”

  He took her hand, startling her with his quickness. “I’m sorry, Andy. I humiliated you and showed a really nasty part of myself that night in St. Louis. There have been so many times that I’ve wanted to take that night back and do right by you. But I can’t go back in time. All I can do is look forward, and hope that there might be room for me in your future.”

  His earnest delivery touched her, but she wanted to get the interview back on track. “Let go of my hand,” she said softly.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, and I’m not trying to interfere with your thing with Lucas,” he went on. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry. And that I really, really miss you.” His reluctance showed as he released her hand and pressed the start button on the recorder. “Now, about the Marty Grobin trade…”

  * * *

  Miranda sat alone at a wide, circular table at Chikakó, the Brazilian restaurant Calista and Alec had chosen for the Christmas Eve Penney-Henderson engagement dinner party. She watched her sister, who was breathtaking in a tight, ice-blue cashmere dress that made her look like Miss Universe. She set her right elbow on the table and half-heartedly picked at the pork cracklings on a plate of mandioca. She had spent her childhood and most of her adolescent years envying Calista’s incredible beauty. Now, seeing her on the down slope to thirty, she envied her sister all over again.

  Calista looked so happy as she worked the room with Alec, chatting and laughing with various members of the Penney and Henderson families and flirting in Portuguese with Roberto Rosada, Chickakó’s owner. Alec fawned over his bride-to-be as though she were his fondest dream made real. He was the rare combination of a great athlete and a great man. He was never the most dazzling player on the field—that was Jordan’s specialty, the flashy combination of luck and aggression that made the highlight reels. But Alec was a strong, solid player. Where Jordan would tally three homers in one game after a two-week scoring drought, Alec would consistently score runners with solid singles and doubles. Alec had gone pro straight out of the University of Georgia, but he had planned for life after the pros with a double major in business and finance. With his ebony skin, tall, muscular build and dazzling black eyes, Miranda had no doubt that Alec and Calista would make beautiful children. Alec would be a wonderful husband and father, and Calista deserved nothing less.

  Miranda stared vacantly at the centerpiece, an ice bowl with slices of fresh lemons, limes, coconut and sweet pea suspended in it. “I deserve nothing less,” she muttered, startling herself out of her reverie with a desire that she’d never meant to acknowledge. She glanced around self-consciously, hoping that no one heard her. Thankfully, the Penneys and Hendersons were having too much fun to notice her talking to herself.

  Calista and Alec had invited their respective families to Boston for this big dinner party to give them a chance to meet. Miranda’s parents were only children and her grandparents were deceased, so the Penney clan consisted of four. Since Alec
’s family lived in Dorchester and was ten times the size of Calista’s, Boston had won out over Silver Spring as the site for both the dinner party and the June wedding. And, as Calista had pointedly told Miranda, “If we have the dinner party in Boston, you won’t have any excuse to get out of spending Christmas with your family.”

  Miranda sighed, missing Lucas all over again. The party would have been so much more fun with him there, and she would have loved introducing him to the family recipes Roberto had prepared at Calista’s request. Aña Penney hailed from Bahia, a region known for its neo-African cuisine, and Roberto had done an excellent job turning out dishes such as frango a passarinho, the fried, sliced chicken that had been a Sunday night staple in the Penney household. Lucas liked bananas, and Miranda was sure that he would have enjoyed banana frita, the fried plantains.

  Miranda’s favorite dishes were lombo à mineira, grilled pork loin with sautéed collard greens, and tutu de feijão, a mix of thick, sticky cassava paste flavored with smoked sausage, beans, scallions and egg. Not terribly impressive on their own, they made Miranda’s taste buds dance when served over rice flavored with dendi oil. She was sure that Lucas would have savored the meal as well as the chance to meet her mother and sister.

  She had wanted to visit him in Australia, but when she’d told him about Calista’s dinner party, he’d convinced her to stay in Boston by telling her that it was the “sisterly” thing to do. And she was doing it very well, if being sisterly meant sitting alone at the table while the plates were being cleared away to make room for the cornmeal pudding and caramel custard.

  Miranda caught sight of Alec’s parents, who smiled and talked as they danced to music dominated by a six-piece percussion ensemble that specialized in batacuda, the African influenced rhythms of Brazilian samba. Alec’s parents were natives of Jamaica. They had been married for thirty years, and as they danced, Mr. Henderson looked at his wife as though she were still the fresh-faced teenager who’d been his first girlfriend.