I thought that maybe I’d call Amy and invite her along—after all, she’d spent some time in the system, too. We could have some of the punch that the house monitors would make, some of the cookies the kids had made the night before, and watch them open their presents. Then, afterwards, we could come back to my place and spend the whole night together. The thought of it made me smile.
The sound of a knock at my door cut through my thoughts, and I frowned to myself, wondering who could be visiting on Christmas morning, when most everyone in the world had family to be with.
Maybe it’s Amy. Maybe she’d come by—maybe she couldn’t wait to see me again, just like I felt about her.
I rose from the couch and hurried to get the door as the second knock came.
“Coming!”
I didn’t even bother to look through the peephole; I just unlocked the door and opened it. Coach Simmons stood on the other side.
“Hey, Coach. Uh—Merry Christmas,” I said, stepping back from the door, feeling awkward.
“Good to see you, McClane,” Coach said, coming into my apartment. “I wanted to check up on you—you don’t have anyone over, do you?”
“No, I’m alone,” I said, gesturing to the seating area in the living room. “What’s on your mind, Coach?”
“I’m concerned about you, Finn. I mean, I know you need downtime outside of practice and games, but you should never let your personal life interfere with your job.”
I sat down across from Coach Simmons and stared at him. He’d always taken a kind of fatherly role with the team, and while he didn’t micromanage our lives, he took an interest in whatever we had going on.
“Where is this coming from?” I asked.
“I know that Heather’s been sending you on dates, but maybe you need to take a break from it for a while—get some more time to yourself,” Coach said.
“I’m still not getting what you mean,” I told him irritably. “What’s going on that I don’t know about?”
The coach looked away and then stood up, taking something folded up out of his back pocket. He tossed it to me.
The first thing I saw was the big, bold print showing that it was a copy of the Inquisitor, the tabloid that Amy worked at. I unfolded the newspaper and glanced at it, trying to figure out what Coach Simmons could have meant.
A moment later, I saw it.
“Finn McClane: Playmaker or Troublemaker? Scandalous Details Revealed.”
The headline screamed across the page, and I stared at it in shock, almost unable to believe it when I saw Amy’s name on the byline.
“There has to be some kind of mistake,” I said, shaking my head. Amy had said just the day before that she had nothing to turn in; she couldn’t have come up with any kind of story—much less something so scandalous as this—in one day.
“Finn McClane, star player of the Minnesota Magpies, is known as a wholesome, do-gooding role model…”
I was terrified for a moment that Amy had revealed my secret about the orphanage, but it wasn’t in the story. Instead, my stomach dropped to my knees as I read what she was accusing me of.
“…This other side to McClane includes lewd and depraved sex acts with women hired by his manager, late-night parties at exclusive clubs where management looks the other way, and orgies, amongst other sexual exploits…”
“You know this isn’t me,” I said, pushing aside the sense of complete betrayal I had for the moment. “You know as well as anyone that that’s not even close to my kind of scene.”
“I thought I knew, but this…” Coach shrugged. “It’s pretty persuasive.”
“You know me,” I insisted. “You know the kinds of things I do, and what I definitely don’t.” I shook my head. “This isn’t me.”
“But there are a lot of people who are going to believe it,” the coach pointed out. “It’s going to make problems for you in the league, and with your sponsors.”
“I’ll think of something,” I said, forgetting for the moment about the potential damage to my career in the face of the shock that Amy had written something so terrible about me, in spite of everything that had happened between us.
I couldn’t believe it. Why would she go through with it without even warning me? She’d said, just the day before, that she had nothing on me, and I’d believed her completely. Was she just playing me for a fool the whole time?
“You’d better call your manager,” Coach said. “Heather will have some ideas for how to take care of this, and you need to strike while the iron is hot.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks for telling me about this, Coach.”
“I figured there was no sense in just sitting around at home being worried,” Coach Simmons told me. “You have plans for the day?”
“I’m going to hand out some gifts, actually,” I said.
“That’d be a good piece of press to counter that,” Coach said, pointing to the tabloid story.
I shook my head. “I’ll have to think of something else,” I told him. “This is something I do just for me. I’ll call Heather and we’ll come up with something.”
Coach Simmons rose to his feet, and I gave him a quick hug and a slap on the back.
“Merry Christmas, man,” he said, smiling at me ruefully. “I hope you can at least enjoy the rest of your day.”
“I’ll call Heather and then try to forget about it for the day,” I said. “You’re sure I can’t get you something hot to drink? It’s freezing out there.”
“I’ve got heated seats in the car,” Coach said, shrugging off the idea of staying any longer. “And my wife is probably pissed that I’m not keeping her company while she cooks dinner and entertains the in-laws.”
I chuckled at that. “Better get home as fast as the roads will allow, then.” I clapped him on the shoulder again and walked him to my door, trying not to show how shaken up I was.
As soon as the coach was gone, I grabbed my phone and called Heather. I had Amy’s number in my contact list, and for a moment I thought about calling her instead—asking her what the hell had happened—but Heather, I thought, would have to know about the situation.
Heather picked up after the second ring. As soon as she answered, I almost blew up.
“What the hell is going on, Heather?”
“Oh, so you’ve finally seen the Inquisitor,” she said blandly. “I’ve been taking calls from your sponsors about it all morning.”
“Yeah, I read it,” I said, pacing back and forth across my living room. “What the—how does something like this happen? Did you say something to her about the dates? Because I didn’t.”
“You told her I set you up on dates, right?”
I paused. “Well, yeah, but I made it clear they were just social.” I combed my fingers through my hair and threw myself down onto the couch. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would she do something like this?”
“She obviously used the chance to get close to you to write what she felt like,” Heather told me. “I hate it for you, Finn, but you did choose to talk to a journalist I didn’t approve.”
“Don’t lecture me, Heather,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“There’s a reason that reporters from The Inquisitor are persona non grata,” Heather said. “Next time you run into one of them, you run it by me before you so much as say hello.”
I rolled my eyes at that rule; it was stupid and an exaggeration, but I could also see her point.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” I said, rubbing at my face with my hands. “It’s not—it isn’t what I would have expected from her.”
“Finn, you’ve known her less than two weeks, and you’ve only had a few interactions with her, right? You knew she was a journalist, so what did you expect? I get that you’re hurt, but as far as I’m concerned, this is exactly why you’ve got me working for you to vet people.”
I sighed. “I still don’t get it, though. She wasn’t like that.”
“Oh, because you
expect that the people who are going to screw you in the press will be up front about it? Come on, Finn—you can’t be that naive. She obviously got close enough to you to be able to figure something out, and then went right back to the paper with the trumped-up B.S. she was able to come up with. It sucks, and I hate it that you developed some feelings for her in the process, but it’s also not unheard-of.”
I ended my call with Heather feeling worse—and more foolish—than I had before talking to her. I wasn’t even sure if I felt like going to see the kids at the orphanage, but I resolved that it would boost my spirits a little bit, which was exactly what I needed after such a disappointing Christmas morning.
ELEVEN
Amy
I woke up on Christmas morning feeling hopeful and sad, all at the same time. I knew that something bad was going to come up at the newspaper, but I’d gone to sleep the night before telling myself that Finn and I were going to get together on Christmas, and that would make it all better. I knew he had some kind of plans for the day—I had eaten a nice Christmas Eve dinner with my parents, and we had exchanged our gifts for each other, and had the next day clear—but I didn’t know what he had in mind.
I decided not to call him right away; he had a right to laze in bed for a bit, and I desperately needed some coffee. I made up the French press and tried to force myself to wait, to not glance at my phone every few seconds to try and catch a text message or something from Finn. Some part of me was sure he’d message first.
He didn’t, and after I’d finished my first cup of coffee I couldn’t stand the suspense anymore. I went back into the living room, took a deep breath—why was I nervous?—and called his number.
It rang: once, twice, three times, and then four, and then the voicemail system came on. I ended the call without leaving a message and frowned to myself. Maybe he was still asleep, or his phone was on silent and he hadn’t heard my call?
I made myself wait a few minutes, pouring myself another cup of coffee before I called him again. This time, it went straight to voicemail.
I stared at my phone, trying to decide if Finn had declined the call or just shut his phone off. I waited for a few more minutes and tried again, feeling more desperate than I had during my previous attempts. Once again, it went straight to voicemail, without a single ring. I could only hope that maybe he had shut his phone off; maybe he wasn’t taking calls from anyone.
I wracked my brain trying to figure out how to find out the truth. There had to be someone I could contact to find out why Finn was suddenly incommunicado. I considered it for a few moments before I remembered Heather, his manager. She already wasn’t a huge fan of mine, but I was fairly certain that she would at least let me know if Finn was avoiding me.
I found her number in my notes and called her, tapping my bare feet on the floor as I waited for the call to connect. After two rings, she answered.
“Heather Cunningham speaking.”
“Heather,” I said quickly. “This is Amy Michaels, from the Inquisitor, I’m sure you remember. Do you know if something’s going on with Finn today? He’s not answering his phone.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line.
“I’m surprised you’d expected him to answer at all,” Heather said. “Considering today’s headline, why you’d think he’d want anything to do with you is beyond me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, sure—play the ignorance card. Look, I don’t have time to lay it out for you; my phone is ringing off the hook thanks to your work.”
Without saying goodbye, Finn’s manager ended the call, leaving me more confused than ever.
What is she talking about? I set my phone aside. Heather had mentioned headlines; there must be some kind of crisis involving Finn’s image in the press. I hadn’t turned anything in to Kent the day before, so it couldn’t be something from the Inquisitor.
I put on some warm clothes and went downstairs, to the newsstand around the corner from my apartment.
I looked at the newsstand, trying to find the headline that Heather was referring to. The Enquirer didn’t have anything, nor did the Minnesota Times, and as I scanned over the different options I started to think that Heather was making something up. And then my gaze fell on the Inquisitor. My heart sank in my chest.
“Find something you want to buy?”
I looked up to see Reggie, the guy who ran the stand, watching me.
“Yeah, the Inquisitor,” I said, snatching up a copy and handing a dollar to Reggie. I walked away from the stand, trying to wrap my mind around what I was reading. The headline was bad enough—but the article under it, written in my name, was atrocious. It was slander—libel, outright.
“McClane’s agent, Heather Cunningham, arranges lewd escapades for the Magpies’ star center forward, at clubs and private residences all over the US…”
I couldn’t believe what I was reading; it didn’t even have a passing acquaintance with the truth. I knew that nothing like that was going on in Finn’s life, and it was impossible to believe that anyone could even dream it up, much less write it about anyone.
The fact that the article had my name on it answered the bigger question looming in my mind as to why Finn wasn’t taking my calls. I wanted to rip the newspaper to shreds. How could something like this happen?
I read and re-read the story, ignoring the cold outside as I tried to work my mind around it. I hadn’t even turned in any notes—not that even the most speculative things in what I’d scribbled down in my research looked anything like what had ended up in the paper. It was a total fabrication.
Anger boiled up inside of me at the fact that a completely fake story had been filed and published under my name. Even beyond the fact that Finn wanted nothing more to do with me, the story opened me up to libel lawsuits, not to mention that there was no way any respectable paper would hire someone with a story like that in their portfolio.
I crumpled up the paper and shoved it into my bag, determined to get to the bottom of what had happened. I found my keys and walked back towards my building, to the parking structure attached to it. If I wanted to find out who had thrown me under the bus, I would have to go to the newspaper’s offices.
***
I had good reason to believe that no one would be in work that day, and as I pulled into the garage next to the office building, I figured that I would go in, find out who had been in the day before, and draw my conclusions from there. But, then, I spotted Kent’s car parked on the ground floor of the parking structure; the editor-in-chief had apparently decided to work on Christmas Day.
There was no one-else that I could see parked in the structure, so I picked a spot a few spaces down from where Kent’s hulking Mercedes sat, and hurried towards the building. It was frigid—one of the coldest Christmases I could remember.
Am I crazy, getting into this on Christmas Day? I wondered, but instantly dismissed the idea, taking the day’s edition of the Inquisitor out of my bag. No, I wasn’t crazy. There was nothing else for me to do that day, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it.
I went directly to the elevator and punched the button for the top floor. If Kent was in his office, I would go straight to him, and get the news straight from the horse’s mouth.
I almost couldn’t sit through the wait as the elevator rose through the floors; I wanted to jump up and down—I wanted to scream. My stomach twisted itself in knots, and my heart pounded in my chest, thinking that Finn could have actually believed that I was capable of writing something so utterly awful about him.
The door to Kent’s office was open when I came out of the elevator. Clearly, he was counting on being by himself in the office that day. My forward momentum propelled me through the doorway and into the editor-in-chief’s office before I could even make myself stop and consider what I was doing.
“What the hell is this?”
I pulled the day’s edition of the Inquisitor out of my purse and brandished it in front of the ol
der man, slamming it down on top of his cluttered, dirty desk.
“That, is your article,” Kent said, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting my gaze shamelessly.
“I never—ever—would have written something like this,” I protested, shaking my head. “First of all, this is pure slander! Secondly, it’s not even well-written slander!” I could feel my arms and legs shaking from the force of the adrenaline surging through my veins. “How could you even put that out with the newspaper’s name on it, much less mine?”
“It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s well-written,” Kent said with a shrug. “It hits the style guide rules, and it does what I want it to do; it drags McClane’s reputation through the mud.”
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