by Julia Blake
She flexed her hands, trying her best to keep from punching her boss right in his nose. “Why do you think I looped Emma in as soon as I got back to the office?”
He drew up close to her now, pointing a finger straight at her face. “You were supposed to have a handle on this. Fix this, now, or you’re out of a job. I will strip you of your client list, and then I will make sure that you never work in this business again.”
Enough. Rachel was done. Done with Image. Done with Rob. The timing might suck, but if she didn’t take the leap of faith and open her own firm now, she’d be waiting until the end of her career.
And so, staring at Rob’s red, sweaty face, she made a promise to herself. She’d get Kevin through the draft in two weeks, and then she’d quit. That would give her just enough time to gather up her client list and make sure all of her personal accounting was in order. It would be a fresh start.
It was also exactly what Nick had told her she could do, if she wanted to.
An emotion far more powerful than her anger with Rob rocked her, leaving a raw, open wound. She wanted to tell Nick she’d made her decision. That’s what couples did, didn’t they? They shared those moments, big and small, with their other half. Except now she had no other half. He’d gone and betrayed her, calling into question her integrity and grinding her heart into the ground all at once.
Facing Rob square on, she answered him slowly so he could understand the weight of her words. “I will fix this because Kevin deserves another shot. I won’t do it because you’re yelling at me. You and your anger aren’t even a consideration to me. If that makes you want to fire me on the spot, go ahead. But I can promise that you won’t find a replacement who has the Loders’ trust in time to make this situation right.”
“Are you threatening me?” her boss sputtered.
“I’m spelling out reality for you in big block letters so I can be sure you can read them. No one else at this agency has the contacts I do. If you want me to use them, you will get out of my way and let me get back to my client. Where I belong.”
Rob stared at her, his eyes bugging out. After a long, silent moment, he stepped back.
Without another word, she yanked open the glass door and strode down the hallway. She couldn’t fix her love life, but she was damned if she wasn’t going to fix Kevin’s future.
Chapter 20
NICK VO: The Anxiety and Depression Association of America estimates that 40 million people in this country suffer from anxiety. That’s a little less than one in five Americans.
KEVIN SOT: I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
NICK VO: But the question remains: Is an NFL team ready to take on an untested player with anxiety?
Nick watched the playback on one of the studio’s monitors as he stood on his mark, ready for the piece he and Mindy had crashed to wrap and the anchor, Gary, to toss back to him for a quick question-and-answer session before commercial break. This would be the third and last time he’d fronted the story that evening for Sports Desk, and already it was everywhere. Every sports media organization was doing its own pieces citing his reporting. Experts were weighing in. Former players who’d opened up about having anxiety after their careers ended were being contacted for interviews. For the first time in his career, Nick had gone viral.
He glanced down at the scripts in his hands. He had about fifteen seconds before his pretaped story would finish. He should be going over the questions Gary would ask, but he couldn’t shake loose the guilt that had settled over him the moment the story hit air.
What have I done?
He’d been able to push aside his fight with Rachel for the ride back to the studio, racing to put together the one story that every sports reporter in the country wanted. The thrill of a scoop, adrenaline, and two and a half cups of coffee pushed him through the hours of logging tape, writing and editing the script, and cutting the piece with an editor before it got kicked up the ladder from executive producer to news director to the network’s legal counsel. The entire time he’d been focused on his mission to tell the story of a draft pick with a secret that no one had expected.
But then, as soon as he’d stepped onto the set to wrap the piece the first time, what he’d done slammed into him like a 380-pound offensive tackle. Instinct had taken over. The desire to be a journalist—the driving force in his life since he’d stumbled into a college sports writing course on little more than a masochistic desire to hold on to something of the sport he’d lost—had kicked in so easily and pushed out every other consideration.
He’d chosen work over Rachel. And now, as he stood under dozens of hot lights with two cameras trained on him, he wasn’t sure he’d made the right call.
Gary read out the last line of his script before executing a casual yet practiced turn to lean on the anchor desk and address Nick.
“Nick Ruben joins us on Sports Desk tonight. Nick, Loder’s life story is pretty incredible, but you can’t help but wonder whether NFL scouts will be convinced it makes up for something like this.”
Despite the sourness in his stomach, instinct took over and he folded his hands behind his back, knowing he didn’t need the scripts he’d brought with him to use as notes.
“That’s right, Gary. The video we shot this afternoon is going to make some teams think twice about taking Loder in the first or second round come draft day,” he said.
“You pointed out in your piece that anxiety is actually pretty common. Why is it that this condition in particular is one that would make a general manager discount someone with his talent?” Gary asked.
Nick swallowed, knowing his words were going to be nothing more than a reflection of the very argument Rachel had thrown at him that afternoon.
“I spoke to a couple of high-level sources in two different NFL front offices this afternoon,” he said. “Both of them told me that teams in general are worried about choosing players with any known mental health issues. Right or wrong, teams are worried those players are more unpredictable. The minimum salary for a rookie draft pick is $450,000 this year, and that’s a lot of money to invest in an athlete you’re not so sure about. And a player’s payday can go way up from there. Draft fans will remember that back in 2011, Cam Newton was signed to a four-year fully guaranteed contract for $22 million.”
Gary nodded. “And Washington signed Robert Griffin III to more than $21 million for four years, and he blew out his knee in his rookie season. He’s never really gotten back to that top-level play.”
“It’s a big risk,” he said.
All of that money. Rachel was right. It would’ve been life changing for Kevin and his parents. But it wasn’t just the money. It was the passion the kid played with. Hadn’t Rachel said all Kevin wanted is to be allowed to play football? In one five-minute package Nick might have ripped that all away from him.
“Thanks, Nick. An important story,” said Gary.
The anchor turned back to face the central camera and tossed to the commercial break.
In his earpiece, Nick heard the director say, “Nice job, Ruben. Just hang tight for me until we clear to break.”
Nick stood with his head down, clenching the papers in his hands until the monitor across from him faded to black.
“And we’re out. Three minutes until the top of the B block. Ruben, you’re clear. Gary you’re at the standing monitor next,” said the director.
Nick unbuttoned his suit jacket, unclipped his mic, and handed it off to the studio manager. As Gary walked by him, the white-haired veteran stuck out his hand.
“You did good work today,” Gary said.
Nick hesitated a moment. “Thanks.”
“You know, I’ve been telling the higher-ups they should start a long-form investigative series,” said Gary. “I’ve heard that new network Sporting’s got one on the books called After the Call. They’re putting some real money behind it. Seems like your piec
e would’ve been perfect for a show like that.”
“That would mean adding shows and staff,” said Nick, shooting Gary a look.
The older man laughed and shook his head as a makeup artist tapped a powder brush on his forehead. “Don’t remind me.”
Nick mumbled a goodbye and headed for the studio door with ninety seconds to spare. He wanted out of the studio, with the oppressive glare of a forty-five-light rig and a team of automated cameras all whirring around. Hell, he wanted out of the station and away from here. He couldn’t remember the last time his job had made him feel rotten to the core.
The heavy black studio door had just shut behind him when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Erica peel herself off the wall outside the studio.
“Were you waiting for me?” he asked.
“Walk with me,” she said, striding down the hall in front of him.
“Where are we going?” he asked. She was due on set for the eleven o’clock broadcast and usually spent this time prepping scripts with her show producer.
“To the edit bays,” Erica said, throwing the words over her shoulder without a glance back.
He sighed and dumped his scripts into a trash can. This day just wouldn’t end.
They rounded a corner into an area lined with little dimly lit rooms painted in black and covered on three sides with sheets of egg crate foam. That’s what made the rooms ideal for private conversations and the odd job interview. They were soundproof and private—one of the only places where an NYSN employee could reliably hide when they didn’t want to be found by upper management.
Erica opened the door to edit bay six. When Nick clicked on the desk light and settled into one of the two rolling chairs in the room, she shut the door and crossed her arms.
“If you’re going to yell at me, Mindy’s already done it,” he said.
“I’m not going to yell at you,” said his friend, “but I am going to ask you what the hell happened.”
He crossed his right leg at the knee, trying to buy himself some time. He could deny he knew what Erica was talking about, but she wasn’t stupid. He could also out and out lie, but he respected her too much to do that.
“Everything blew up this afternoon at the interview,” he said slowly.
“With Rachel?”
“You saw the piece,” he said.
“She wasn’t in the piece. This all happened off camera?” she asked.
Leave it to a fellow journalist to know that the conversations that happened off camera were usually the most important ones.
“Things didn’t go well.” He cringed at the memory. “I may have accused her of exploiting her client.”
Erica frowned. “I’ve worked with Rachel a few times over the years. I’ve never known her to be that kind of agent. A couple of the guys at her firm are, but not her.”
He huffed out a sigh. “I know. I was angry. She was trying to get me to kill the story.”
His friend tipped her head in acknowledgment. “She shouldn’t have done that. Everyone who knows you knows that you wouldn’t kill a story for a favor.”
He might’ve broken all sorts of ethical codes by dating his source, but at least he had that going for him. When he had a story, he held on to it with the determination of a bulldog.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Erica asked.
“What do you mean? You saw the story.”
“I mean, you and Rachel are dating.”
I don’t need you. He’d never forget her anger when she said those words, pushing him away as effectively as if she’d put her two hands on his chest and shoved.
“We’re not together anymore.” It actually hurt to admit that out loud. The short few weeks they’d been together had been his happiest in . . . He didn’t even know. Everything before her felt like it was clouded by a haze, as though he’d somehow been sleepwalking. He’d fought so hard for her because somehow he knew everything would be different with her, and it was. No woman had ever made him want to change. Rachel made him want to become the very best version of himself for her. And now she was gone.
Erica studied him for a moment before finally saying, “Don’t let this be the end.”
Oh, it was the end. Rachel had made that more than clear when she’d walked away. “It’s over. Besides, Mindy already reamed me for dating a source. The whole thing’s gone to shit.”
“And now that the story’s on air she’s no longer a source,” she said. “Talk to Micah and tell him you’ve got to recuse yourself from all stories dealing with Rachel Pollard and her clients.”
“Just like that?” he asked in disbelief.
He could just imagine how well that would go over with the news director. Probably about as well as his Page Six appearances had. Micah wasn’t exactly an understanding boss.
“You’re also going to need to set some boundaries with Rachel. She can’t ask you to kill stories.”
“I know.”
“Or ask you to push for her clients to get booked on Sports Desk or any other show. She gets the same kind of treatment any other agent would.”
He shot her a look.
“Okay, fine. She gets the same kind of treatment any other agent of her level would,” Erica amended. “I get that she’s better than most of the guys we get in here.”
“By a mile,” said Nick, unable to resist bolstering her reputation even that little bit. But then he stopped himself. “She walked away from me, Erica. She broke it all off.”
“I don’t blame her,” she said.
He jerked back. “Hey, you’re supposed to be on my side. I’m the one who broke the rules here.”
His friend rolled her eyes. “You think she didn’t risk things by going out with you? Her job might not be at stake the way yours is if upper management finds out you were dating, but think of all the bullshit she deals with every day just because she’s a woman working in sports. You think dating someone in the business doesn’t open her up to all sorts of jerks who think they’ve got a shot too? And what about her reputation? That’s all anyone has in our industries. What happens if people start to think she’s handing out interviews to whoever she’s sleeping with?”
“We weren’t just sleeping together,” he snapped. “I love her.”
His heart stopped cold. He loved Rachel. Loved her.
“I—” But the rest of the sentence didn’t come out. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He just knew that for the first time in his life he’d fallen head over heels in love with a woman, and he hadn’t even realized it until he’d blown it all up.
“You look like someone just slapped you with a fish,” said Erica.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” he murmured. “We just started dating. We hadn’t even seen each other in fifteen years.”
But at the same time it made all the sense in the world. Rachel was strong and passionate and vulnerable and fun and smart. She made him believe that he might be all of those things too—that if he worked really hard at it, he could one day be good enough for her. There was a reason none of his past relationships had felt quite right. Why none of them ever lasted.
None of those women were Rachel.
“I also take back everything I’ve ever thought about you being a playboy,” said Erica, echoing his own thoughts. “It looks like you were just looking for a reason to grow up. Now you’ve found her.”
His hands gripped the arms of the chair as his throat thickened. “She’s gone. I let her walk away, and now she’s gone.”
Erica patted him on the shoulder like the sister he never knew he’d wanted. “Honey, she’s still in Manhattan. Why don’t you see if she’ll talk to you? Explain yourself.”
“How?” he asked, his words choking around the overwhelming emotion welling up in him. How did he come back from the things he’d said?
“Tell h
er you love her. That’s always a good starting place.” Erica smiled and stood. “I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to be watching the Cavs game—Luke thinks LeBron might get a triple double and wants us ready for highlights tonight. He’s trying to work on our banter. I told him banter’s organic. You’ve either got it or you don’t.”
He half listened to Erica’s goodbye as she stepped out of the edit bay and closed the glass door behind her, leaving him alone with the silence.
IT WAS past two a.m. when Rachel let her head fall against the wall of her building’s elevator. All she wanted was to shed her clothes and crawl into bed. She needed sleep. With Kevin scheduled on GMA in the eight o’clock hour, she’d be lucky if she got three hours.
Her feet ached, and her contacts were practically glued to her eyeballs. Her back hurt, and she was pretty sure that whatever mascara was left was probably smeared all over her face.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. She pushed herself out into the hallway, willing her feet to hold out just a little longer in the now-punishing stilettos.
Her head was down searching for her keys in her purse when a man cleared his throat a few feet from her. Nick. He was waiting by her door, looking a whole lot better than she felt. Because of course he was.
“Nick,” she said, giving full purchase to the weariness in her voice. “Are you lurking in doorways now?”
“Ernie let me up.” He sounded tired. Maybe he did feel as rotten as she did. It would serve him right.
“What’d you bribe him with?” she asked.
“Coffee again—black with three sugars.”
“You must be joking,” she said under her breath. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” The sarcasm dripped off her unfiltered words. She was too tired to care.
“I came to apologize.”
It should’ve made her happy to hear—perhaps another, bigger woman would have been—but all Nick’s statement did was get her back up. “It’s a little late for an apology, don’t you think?”
