by Amy Patrick
In his state of drunken invincibility, the stocky kid bowed up, frowning in offense. Then he apparently realized how far up he had to crane his neck to see Aric’s intimidating expression. He shrank away and joined his friends stumbling into the stadium.
We picked up our gear and headed for the sidelines, flashing our media passes at the security guard on the way in.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
Aric cut a glance in my direction and grinned. “Anytime. Reporter, photographer, bodyguard. Whatever you need.”
We staked out a spot on the sidelines and got some crowd shots. “Want to shoot a stand-up before the game starts?” I asked.
“Good idea. Give me a minute to think of something,” Aric said. He clipped on the lav mic, running the cord up under the front of his shirt and bringing it out at his collar.
While he came up with something to say, I set up the tripod and focused the camera on him. Uniformed players milled around behind him, some of them trash-talking and getting pumped up, others standing and looking out at the packed stadium. I’d never gone along on a sports shoot before. It was nearly overwhelming to be there on the field of a stadium holding more than fifty-thousand fans. And to be so close to the players. Aric was a big guy, but these boys were monstrously huge.
After a few minutes, Aric stepped over to the nearest section of stadium seating and said something to the maroon-and-white-wearing fans there. I guess he needed crowd participation for this one? He walked back to the sideline and patted his ridiculous beard to make sure it was still in place and told me he was ready. I slipped on a set of headphones so I could hear his audio over the crowd noise and hit the record button.
“I’m going to walk and talk, so follow me, okay? Three, two, one… If facial hair could win a football game, Mississippi State started with a huge advantage today over the Troy State Trojans…” While he spoke about the game, Aric strolled from his position at the player’s backs over to the base of the seating stands. Just above his head, bearded fans talked excitedly and waved cowbells. A few watched us expectantly.
“…reporting from Scott Field, I’m Aric Serrano, WPLM Sports.”
As Aric ended his stand-up, he pulled a move I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t captured it on camera myself. He jumped up and somehow threw his body backward, landing in the arms of the crowd, stadium-jumping in the sort of Lambeau Leap I’d seen players do on television. Everyone stayed in position a few seconds then set Aric down, hooting and high-fiving him.
“Thanks guys,” he said as he jumped back to the turf.
One of the enormous players who’d seen the stunt nudged the guy beside him. “We need to get that dude out on the field.” The two of them laughed and turned back toward their teammates.
Aric approached me with a satisfied grin. “Did you get it?”
I stared at him, astonished at the power of his body. “How did you do that?”
“Volleyball. I’ve always had a pretty good vertical jump.”
I shook my head at his nonchalance. “Yeah. Pretty good.”
State won sixty-two to seven. We grabbed a few interviews with players coming off the field then Aric chased after the head coach for a comment. I could’ve told him that was hopeless. In fact, Dennis already had. Coach Bobby Barlow hated the media and didn’t give one-on-one interviews. Ever. To anyone. Not even the national media or to Dennis, who’d been doing sports at WPLM for twelve years. Predictably, Coach Barlow charged ahead toward the field house, acting like he didn’t see or hear Aric.
“Come on, we’ve got to set up in the media room,” Aric grumbled, jogging back over to me and grabbing the tripod.
At the post-game press conference, Aric got in two questions and received two gruff, short answers from the long-time coach. It would have to suffice—it was all we had time for. We both needed to get back to the station and write and edit our segments.
“That guy’s a dick.” Aric scowled as we exited the field house.
“You’ve got to know Coach Barlow. He really isn’t so bad. Actually my dad—”
He turned to me with one hand raised. “I know your family’s all ‘Hail State,’ but take it from a guy who’s interviewed a lot of college coaches, Barlow is a dick.”
The area around the stadium was still busy with post-game tailgaters who’d decided not to fight the traffic leaving campus. We weaved among them, walking toward the news car. As I opened my mouth to argue further and explain my family connection to Coach Barlow, a familiar voice called my name.
Chapter Nine
Comparison
I turned, and there was Hale striding toward us across the grass from the colorful tent-packed tailgating area. He wore nicely-tailored tan pants, a crisp white dress shirt, and a luxurious dark blazer with a beautiful burgundy tie representing the MSU Bulldogs team color.
“Friend of yours?” Aric asked in a low voice.
Hale reached us and grabbed me up in a hug, swinging me around. He set me down and moved in for a kiss. I turned my head at the last second, causing his lips to land just to the side of my mouth on my lower cheek.
“Hi.” I was a little breathless from his tight squeeze and a lot nervous to see him while I was with Aric. Correction—working with Aric. No big deal.
“Hey there, beautiful. Great win, huh?” Hale beamed at me and sent a curious look toward my tall, attractive co-worker.
I took a half-step back, reestablishing my personal space. “Yes. Uh, Hale, I’d like you to meet our new sports anchor, Aric Serrano. Aric this is my, uh… Hale Gentry.”
They paused for a moment, sizing each other up. It was weird to see them together. They were both good-looking guys. Many people would’ve considered Hale the more handsome one, with his whiskey-brown eyes, dark hair and classic aristocratic features.
But there was something about Aric that commanded your attention—his voice, his uber-masculine, beachy athleticism, the piercing light eyes that drew you in.
They stepped toward each other and shook hands, Aric standing a few inches taller, Hale thicker and more seasoned-looking, though they were probably the same age.
The greatest contrast was in my reactions, looking from one to the other. I’d grown so accustomed to the loose-fitting, easy comfort of Hale, while there was nothing easy about Aric. He inspired a tug-of-war match of contradictory feelings in me, powerful attraction on one end of the rope and an equally irresistible urge to run away and hide on the other.
Despite their differences, I was surprised to notice a certain similarity between them as well. Each had a quiet confidence, an assurance that he was the real deal and had nothing to prove to anyone.
“Too bad it was such a blowout—I’d have liked to have seen a better game against Troy, like last year’s.” Hale started to elaborate, a local kindly filling in an outsider.
Aric nodded. “Right. That one was thirty to twenty-four. Still a win for State, but a lot more exciting for the fans when it’s close like that.”
Hale drew back, and his expression shifted to something like a grudging respect. “You’ve done your research. You just got here, right?”
“I’m a quick study. I sort of pride myself on getting to know my subject matter well.” Aric picked that moment to glance over at me and give me a flash of his brilliant smile.
Hale noticed, one of his dark brows rising in reaction. “Well, that’s good. Good for you,” he said in a polite tone that was not as approving as his words. He moved closer to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Of course, there’s nothing like the home field advantage.”
The guys stood and discussed the game (or whatever it was they were really talking about), while I wore a big artificial smile and forced myself not to shrug off Hale’s hand. Dread trickled through my belly. Any minute now Hale was going to out me to Aric, and I’d be left scrambling to explain why I’d repeatedly lied to him about having a potentially jealous boyfriend.
But he didn’t. In fact, Hale did more to suppo
rt my fabrication than I would have wished. He took every opportunity to touch me, called me by endearing nicknames, standing very close, making Aric look like an extraneous third wheel on a precision Italian racing bicycle. It all seemed a bit… strange. Had Hale always acted so possessive? Or was he doing it just for Aric’s benefit?
When I couldn’t stand the odd dynamics of the conversation any longer, I interjected with an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, we’d better get back to the station. Aric and I have lots of writing and editing to do. Right?”
“Right.” Aric winked at me.
We said goodbye to Hale, and the guys shook hands. As Aric and I walked away together, Hale said, “Bye sweetheart. I’ll call you.”
Sugar. I hoped he wouldn’t, but unable to protest without busting myself in front of Aric, I nodded and waved then walked quietly to the car.
After stowing the gear, Aric slid into the front seat beside me. He didn’t start the engine, but sat looking out the windshield with both hands propped on top of the steering wheel. He paused as if thinking something over. “I’ve gotta say, I don’t get it.” He shook his head, his tone matter-of-fact.
I sat back in my seat and twisted to face him. “What?”
“I don’t see you with that guy.” Aric shrugged and started the car, pulling out carefully among the strolling tailgaters.
I stared at him as he drove. His directness had startled me. “You… barely know me. Hale is a great guy, and… and…” I literally couldn’t think of another thing to say. Any response I started to give died in sputtering indignation. I hadn’t enjoyed Hale’s sudden territory-marking exhibition back there, but where exactly did Aric get the stones big enough to pronounce judgment on my (ex) relationship?
“And what?” He glanced at me briefly, a challenge in his eyes.
“And—mind your own business, that’s what.”
“Okay,” he said with raised eyebrows and a you’re-the-boss tone. “Just calling them like I see them.” He paused. “It’s just—if you’re so into him, why does what I say upset you?”
“It doesn’t. I’m not upset. You don’t know your subject matter as well as you think you do.”
An infuriating grin sneaked across his lips. “Okay. You’re right. I apologize,” he said in the least sorry tone I’d ever heard.
We spent the ride back to the station in silence while I stewed over how casually Aric had dismissed my boyfriend of four years. Then I moved on to worrying about how well I’d been getting along without Hale after essentially dismissing him myself. Finally, when I couldn’t put it out of my mind any longer, I let myself wonder… what kind of guy did Aric see me with? And why did I care?
Chapter Ten
Tears and Cheers
The next day at work, I walked into the newsroom and immediately spotted a vase of gorgeous yellow roses waiting on my desk. Had Hale finally broken his streak? Oh, that would be bad timing. But they were lovely. A thrill flashed through me in spite of my reservations concerning the unexpected gift.
The sweet fragrance of the flowers drifted around me as I approached the huge bouquet. I fished out the tiny envelope hiding between the blooms and opened the card inside.
I’m sorry. Again. Not usually this dense.
Minding my own business from now on,
A.
A? They had to be from Aric. Aric had bought me flowers. Impractical, dead-in-a-few-days, waste-of-money flowers. I was frightened by how much that pleased me.
And what did it mean? Yes, he was apologizing for being rude yesterday, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that he had sent me flowers one day after I’d told him Hale never had. And why had I even told him something so personal? I’d have to be more careful from now on.
When Aric entered the newsroom a few minutes later, my stomach scrambled up the inside of my ribcage like a squirrel up a wooden fence. The expectant look on his face told me he was waiting for my reaction to the flowers. Okay, Heidi, just say something nice and get it out of the way so we can go on with our workday. Be appreciative, but cool.
“Thank you for these.” I stroked a velvety petal then snatched my hand back to my side. “They’re beautiful.” Appreciative. “But completely unnecessary.” Cool. Good. Well done.
A smile spread across Aric’s face. “Considering I behaved like an ass, I think they were totally necessary. Can we call them a peace offering… from one co-worker to another?”
How could I reject a gesture of platonic workplace peace? Especially one so beautiful. “Sure. Of course. Apology accepted.”
We collected our assignment notes and gear and got into the news car to drive to our first shoot.
“So… what do you call your mother?” Aric asked.
“What?”
“You call your father ‘Daddy.’ What do you call your mother… ‘Mommy’?”
“Oh. No, I call her ‘Mom.’” This was good, two co-workers making small talk. At peace. Because of a gorgeous bunch of roses I could still smell somehow and couldn’t stop thinking about. Stop thinking about them. “What do you call yours?”
“Lillemor,” he answered. “It’s Swedish. It means ‘little mother.’ And she is little.” He glanced over at me with a grin. “Like you. She’s had to stand on a stool to scold me since I was twelve.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t stop the swell of delight rising from my toes to the top of my head. “Lillemor. That’s nice. I like it.” He’d been talking to his mom on the phone yesterday, not to a girlfriend. Hmm.
Thankfully I didn’t have much time to dwell on that because we’d arrived at our destination, a one-story brick ranch house in a neighborhood a few miles outside the Pineland city limits. It was the home of a local woman whose soldier son had been killed in a terror attack overseas. I was really thankful to have Aric along to shoot the video. Stories like these were brutal to do alone.
You wanted to make a connection with the person you were interviewing, show them the empathy and concern they deserved when pouring out their pain. That was difficult if you were worrying about their audio levels and lighting and whether their head moved out of the shot when they spoke or gestured… or cried. Based on the results of our interview with the snake bite victim the day before, I had total confidence Aric would shoot this story expertly.
We walked up a path lined with mums to the front door where a fall wreath hung and a hand painted folk art sign read “Welcome Friends.” I knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman answered almost immediately. She wore jeans and a sweater, typical mom-clothes. Her black hair was neatly styled. But the bags under her eyes and her drawn, sunken cheeks told me it had taken Herculean effort for her just to dress and make herself presentable today. Her son’s body was due to arrive at Columbus Air Force Base later this afternoon. Colleen was assigned to go film the flag-covered casket being unloaded.
“Hi. Mrs. Dixson? I’m Heidi. This is Aric.”
“Yes. Y’all come on in.” The woman stepped back and held the door open as Aric and I entered her small living room. It was cluttered but clean. The fireplace mantel and sofa side tables held collections of small figurines and many framed photos of a young man in uniform. He looked around my age, maybe younger.
“Thank you for agreeing to do this today,” I said.
“Well, I want Jeffrey to be remembered. I want it to mean somethin’.” Her voice was soft and a bit ragged, as if she’d spent more time crying than not in the past few days.
I nodded. “Where would you like to sit and do the interview?”
“Right here, I guess. The sofa? Can I get y’all something to drink? Some tea?”
“That would be great,” I said.
Aric followed my lead. “Yes. Thank you.”
I’d accepted so she’d have something to do other than get nervous while we set up the camera and stand-light. As Mrs. Dixson scurried off toward the kitchen, Aric positioned the light and tripod and rolled a few minutes of video, getting tight shots of the various photos of Jeffrey.
/> I picked up one of them. He was so young. It was hard to believe he was dead. I couldn’t imagine how his Mom felt. I found myself blinking back tears.
Aric’s big hand settled on my shoulder. “All set. You okay?”
I nodded and touched the glass over Jeffrey’s face. “Yeah. It’s just—he barely looks older than Gordy.”
Mrs. Dixson returned to the living room with glasses of iced tea. Aric and I thanked her. I took an obligatory sip and invited her to sit beside me on the sofa. Aric positioned himself at an angle so she’d be facing the camera lens as she answered my questions. After a minute, he told me he was rolling.
Mrs. Dixson had seemed fairly calm, but now she made an uncomfortable sound. “I never been on camera before.” Her voice wavered. Her fingers, clasped in her lap, were trembling.
I covered her cold hands lightly with one of my own for a second and used a reassuring tone. “I don’t want you to worry about messing up. You can’t say anything wrong. This is not live—it’s recorded, so I can edit it to make sure it’s just right. We’re not here to make anyone look bad.”
“Am I supposed to look at the camera?”
I gave her the same answer I gave to everyone who asked. And they all asked. “No. Don’t even worry about the camera—you look right at me, okay?”
Interview subjects who stared right into the camera came across stiff and uncomfortable at best, like bad actors, or cheesy, like used car salesmen. At worst, they’d completely forget what they’d been saying, experiencing a sort of mesmerized state brought on by trying to have a conversation with a black, reflective lens.
By asking questions in a quiet, conversational tone and looking right into their eyes, I could usually get people to forget they were on camera at all. They’d often tell me after an interview how quick and easy it had been, when they’d been expecting to feel nervous or frozen on camera.
