Changing the Play

by Julia Blake

  “The fact that the boyfriend is the thing you’re correcting me on just proves I’m right,” he said. “You’ve got a free night.”

  “A better man would have let that go.”

  “Good thing I’m not a better man,” he said, swiveling around and raising an eyebrow at Mindy. His producer rolled her eyes.

  “Come get a drink with me,” he continued. “Unless you’re scared.”

  That laugh filled his phone’s speaker again. “You haven’t scared me since I saw you wipe out into a bench of Coconino High School players.”

  Automatically his hand went to his chin to rub the thin, pale scar he’d gotten that night.

  “You know Artemis in Columbus Circle?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m going to be there in twenty minutes.” Without another word, he hung up the phone and put it facedown on his desk.

  “Well, that was either the most brilliant or the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen you do,” said Mindy. “And I’ve seen you do a lot of stupid things.”

  “No you haven’t,” he said as he stood to put on his suit jacket.

  “I’ve wing-womaned all over Manhattan for you. That means I’ve seen you karaoke ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’ with some blonde you were trying to talk into bed. You still owe me for that one, by the way. Your singing voice is even worse when you’re drunk.”

  He remembered the night in question. Mostly.

  “That was two years ago. Let it go,” he said.

  Mindy smirked. “Never.”

  “I’ll bet you twenty bucks that I get Rachel to agree to grant this interview by the end of the night,” he said, smoothing his lapels against his chest.

  Mindy folded her arms. “Right. Because she sounded so willing to walk down memory lane with you. Are you sure she’s even going to show?”

  His phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. It was one of his college friends asking for fantasy basketball advice.

  “Got a hot date?”

  He looked up and caught Mindy’s smirk.

  “None of your business,” he said.

  “Who is it this time?” she asked. “A hedge fund analyst? A lawyer? A publicist? Or do I have to wait until you two wind up in the tabloids to find out?”

  He shot her a dirty look and put his phone away.

  “Why do you think Rachel’s not going to show?” he asked.

  “From right here it sounded like you were bombing pretty hard. Even if she comes, there’s no way she agrees to work with us.”

  “So take the bet.”

  Mindy adjusted her black-framed glasses in that way that reminded him of librarians and elementary school teachers. Only none of the teachers who’d taught him paired those glasses with leather leggings, long slouchy sweaters, knee-high boots, and piles of wood bracelets.

  “Fine,” she finally said, sticking out her hand to shake. “Twenty says you can’t convince her to let us do the interview.”

  He clapped his hand on hers and squeezed. “That twenty will buy a couple of sweet-tasting victory beers.” Just barely, damn New York prices.

  Nick glanced at his watch. It’d take him ten minutes to walk to the bar, which would give him another ten to settle in, order a drink, and wait. Every man had his game, and part of Nick’s was making sure that he was never the last one to show up to a meeting—whether it was a date or a drink with a source. He wanted to pick the location, the time, the mood. He wanted the other party on their toes, just a little flustered at finding him halfway through a drink.

  “I’m looking forward to taking your money, Ruben,” Mindy shouted after him as he walked out.

  Never going to happen, he thought as he made his way out of the newsroom. There was no way he was going to let Mindy or himself down.

  Chapter 2

  Rachel liked to be early to every meeting, but Nick chose a bar on the other side of midtown. By the time she’d managed to get out of her building and power walk her high heels the three avenues and seven blocks, it was 6:27. Twenty-two minutes after he’d abruptly hung up on her.

  Even though she’d been to this bar a handful of times before, something told her she was walking into his territory. She was going to have to do something about that.

  She nodded her thanks to an overcoat-clad gentleman who held open one of the bar’s smoky glass doors for her. Once inside, she had a quick word with the hostess to make a simple request but declined the offer to be guided to Nick’s table.

  Her eyes scanned the artfully lit space, falling on a sandy-haired man sitting with his back to the door, one long leg propped up on his knee. That must be him. She’d seen him often enough on the late-night edition of Sports Desk to pick him out of a crowd.

  As she slowly crossed the restaurant, she studied the way his navy suit stretched across broad shoulders and hinted at the power underneath. A crisp white shirt poked above the collar of his jacket, barely brushing the neat edge of his hair. Her fingers curled, pressing sharp nails into her palms as she fought a tingle of interest that was definitely not professional.

  The problem was, she’d always had a thing for men in suits. The buttoned-up perfection of sharp tailoring hid the promise of something carnal. She wanted to peel back the layers and uncover the unpolished, aggressive man underneath. What would Nick do if, instead of sitting down to talk shop, she pulled off his tie, unbuttoned that shirt, and ran her tongue over his heated skin? What if she climbed into his lap and . . .

  No. She was an agent. He was a reporter. There were lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and fantasizing about the enemy was a big one.

  Nick glanced over his shoulder. A slow smile slid across his face as he spotted her, and Rachel couldn’t help her sharp intake of breath. He’d been beautiful in high school—all-American good looks with a deep tan earned after days on the lakes—but time had roughened the edges to turn him handsome. He had the same strong chin and cheekbones, but his eyes held the weight of experience. Deep lines, no doubt from both laughter and anger, made him look as good as ice cream on a hot afternoon and just as sinful.

  He stood as she approached. “Hi.”

  She shot him a tight smile. The hum of awareness in her body was just the natural effect of seeing an old crush. It would fade.

  He bent to give her the standard New York greeting between even the faintest of acquaintances, a brush of the cheeks that wasn’t quite a kiss, and nodded to the blue club chair across from his.

  “What’s your poison?” he asked, flagging down a waitress.

  She glanced at his glass. Brown liquor. Two ice cubes. No frills. From the sharp cut of his jacket and the perfect break of his trouser cuff, she guessed Nick was a scotch guy—enjoying a little luxury and okay with letting it show.

  “The Lagavulin 16 please,” Rachel said to the waitress who’d sidled up. “One ice cube.”

  Nick’s eyes met hers, a hint of surprise and maybe even respect about them. “You’ve graduated from Natty Ice on the back of the baseball bus.”

  “That wasn’t exactly hard,” she said.

  She didn’t mention that while the team was sneaking sips of beer out of opaque plastic sports bottles they’d filled in the locker room after a victory, none of them had invited her to join in. Not that it mattered in the end. She was sitting up front with Coach Callahan learning as much as she could. After a few weeks of ignoring her persistent questions, the older man had finally broken down and become her begrudging mentor. Soon he was encouraging her to figure out how to make sports her career.

  “You know, Coach retired,” Nick said.

  “Seriously?” The thought of the crusty, take-no-shit man ever hanging up his cleats seemed impossible.

  “Retired from high school, at least. When I last went back to visit my parents, he was coaching Little League. Told me he was going crazy sitting at home.
”

  “What are you drinking?” she asked.

  He waved at his glass. “I’m pretending to have a Templeton Rye.”

  She raised an eyebrow. She’d been wrong about the scotch.

  “Pretending?” she asked.

  He picked up the fizzing water that sat next to his drink. “Club soda. I rarely drink when meeting a source, but I like to make sure they do.”

  “Loosen them up a bit?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Has it ever worked for you?”

  “I’ve gotten some trade deadline scoops that way,” he said.

  “If you’re trying to throw me off my game, it’s not very smart to tell me all your strategies.”

  “Not all of them. Besides, I’ve heard you don’t do bullshit.”

  “You’ve heard a lot about me?” she asked, curious despite her better judgment. She knew more than a handful of reporters from NYSN, but she’d never worked with Nick. It was strange, now that she thought of it.

  “Sure,” he said, and shot her that wolflike grin again. “But I can’t reveal my sources.”

  She laughed. “Please.”

  “You have a reputation,” he said. “Tough but loyal. That last one’s not a word you hear used to describe agents very often.”

  Deciding that was more compliment than insult, she inclined her head. “I ask a lot from my athletes. I’m taking a big chance on them, putting up the money for them to train before for their drafts and signings.”

  He tipped his glass toward her. “I heard you sometimes wind up paying for their groceries for a few months at a time too.”

  The waitress set Rachel’s scotch on the table in front of her. The single ice cube glistened among the liquor, rattling as she raised it to her lips and took the first smoky sip filled with the faint memory of peat bogs and bitter Scottish nights.

  “If it’s necessary,” she said. “A lot of these kids are lucky if they can pay for their bus pass without scraping change together before their first contract. Then there are the established ones who need a different kind of attention.”

  “The ones who land in jail?” he asked.

  “I’ve been lucky not to have too many of those over the years.”

  Rachel crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. Body language, she’d realized a long time ago, mattered. Cool and not intimidated. Open to listening but unafraid to walk away. Nick might have made the call and chosen the venue, but as the agent, she held all the power.

  “This isn’t what you wanted to talk to me about,” she said.

  His eyebrows quirked. “Isn’t it?”

  “You wanted to ask me for a favor.” They all wanted to ask her for a favor. She dealt in access, and that meant reporters wanting interviews and the men she occasionally dated wanting to befriend their idols. She was used to the half-bashful, fumbling requests. It’s great to see you. How have you been? Do you think you I could meet [insert athlete here]?

  Ice cubes clinked in Nick’s glass as he slowly swirled the club soda. “I want to do a story, and it can’t happen without you.”

  “You can’t do the story without me or without my client?” she asked.

  His gaze flicked up to hers. “Both.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “You have no idea how much you intimidated me with your taste in scotch.”

  “Tell me who,” she said, ignoring his teasing tone.

  “Are you always this demanding?”

  “Efficient too,” she said. “Give me a name.”

  “Kevin Loder.”

  Slowly she placed her drink down on the cocktail napkin so that it perfectly lined up with the wet ring of condensation it had left behind, buying herself a moment to process the audacious request.

  “You don’t believe in starting small, do you?” she asked.

  “Kevin’s the biggest story of the NFL draft. He’s the only story anyone really cares about right now,” he said.

  Which was precisely why she was going to have to put Nick in his place.

  “I’ve had requests to interview Kevin from every local and cable sports show and all of the national networks. I’ve turned every single one of them down,” she said.

  “I know.” He didn’t look even the littlest bit concerned. It was as though he’d decided long before he’d even picked up the phone to call her that he was going to get this interview. She was just an obstacle to hurdle over.

  That was it—the thing that was bugging her more than anything else. Nick didn’t want to reconnect with her. He wanted an interview no one else could get and the glory that went along with it.

  “You’re not talking to Kevin,” she said over the soft din of the half-full bar.

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one is.”

  “If I were a stupid man, I’d say you should give me the interview because we used to be friends,” he said.

  “We weren’t friends,” she reminded him. He’d been so much more to her, and she’d been nothing, just a footnote of his high school glory days.

  That easy smile was back. “Good thing I’m not a stupid man, then. You should say yes because I’m going to tell Kevin’s story better than anyone else.”

  The cockiness of the statement hung between them. He thought he had this wrapped up. He thought she was going to cave. Well, Nick Ruben was going to learn something about her: she might never take a swing, but she could still fight dirty.

  “That’s a big promise,” she said. “For a while there I was seeing a lot more of you in the papers for your dating life than the stories you were breaking.”

  She wouldn’t have seen it unless she’d known to look, but his fingers dug into the arms of his chair.

  “My dating life doesn’t have anything to do with this,” he said. “I’m a good journalist. I do good work. Great work.”

  He was right, but she wasn’t about to admit that because there was no way in hell she was putting Kevin in front of a camera with this man, or any other reporter for that matter.

  “Kevin is an intensely private person,” she said.

  It wasn’t a lie. The star wide receiver from Syracuse University was just as unassuming in person as he appeared in the media. He’d always been that way, ever since she’d first watched him as a fourteen-year-old freshman play at Xaverian High School in Brooklyn. Back then she was so low in the Image Sports hierarchy she wasn’t even representing talent. At games it’d just be her and a reporter from the sports department of a local TV station standing on the sidelines as Kevin streaked across the field with unnatural speed. He was unlike any teenager she’d ever seen play the game, but, while his teammates had boasted and bragged for the camera, he’d kept quiet. He was focused, determined, talented, modest. The whole package.

  “Kevin might be shy,” Nick cut into her thoughts, “but he’s projected to be drafted in the second round.”

  She sniffed. “Second round? He’s going in the first.” Late in the first, but still the first.

  “You’re kidding yourself.”

  “After that pro day he had? He killed out there.” She knew she should shut down the conversation, pay her bill, and walk away, but she never could resist the pull of a good draft debate.

  “Wide receivers in the first round are a tough sell,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Yeah, back in 2013. The NFL is even more of a passing league now than it was then.”

  “And you’re so confident that you’re not going to do any advance press with Loder?” he asked.

  “Yes. He wants to focus on training and doesn’t want any distractions before the big day. That means no interviews.”

  “Wherever he goes in the draft, Kevin’s going to have to get used to the attention. His story’s too good.”

 
His story. That’s what made reporters really salivate. A young kid from the Bronx stays in his home state to play college football and seemingly breaks out of nowhere, smashing ACC records in his junior and senior years. He rises to the top of NFL scouting reports despite his team’s lackluster seasons. He has one of the most remarkable overall showings at the NFL Combine in years. And he has a personal struggle he rarely speaks about. It was sports journalism gold.

  Rachel shook her head. “If Kevin doesn’t want to rehash all of that before the draft, he doesn’t have to. That’s why he signed with me.”

  “Kevin Loder was shot in the back as a kid. People want to hear his story.”

  And there it was—the hook that reporters loved so much. Kevin should’ve died at the age of seven, another stat in New York City’s bloody history of gangland violence. Instead, doctors at Saint Barnabas Hospital’s ER dug the bullet out, leaving behind a nasty scar and a slow, burning determination that fostered an unreal work ethic. Kevin Loder, the statistic who should have been, was the ultimate human-interest story.

  “I’m not interested in letting a bunch of journalists exploit my client so they can up their ratings. Kevin’s focused on the draft right now,” she said, her voice firm as she reached for her drink again.

  “I’ve already talked to his mother,” Nick said.

  Her hand froze with her glass halfway to her lips. Reporters had tried to pull a lot of shit on her in an attempt to force her hand, but this . . . this was a power play.

  “You spoke to Catherine?” she asked.

  His chin dipped in a nod. “I did.”

  All of her agent instincts fired at once. Years ago, when she had something to prove, she might have jumped on an attack from a reporter like this, threatening to bar him from any contact with her clients. But experience had taught her that men like Nick thrived on bravado. They enjoyed the masculine duck and jab of negotiations, trying to see who could best position themselves while knocking away at each other’s defenses until someone collapsed in a messy heap.

  That wasn’t Rachel’s style.

  Instead, she looked straight into his clear green eyes and said, “I’m calling bullshit, Nick.”