by Allison Parr
“So!” He raked his hand through his hair. “So I finally found you, and now you’re trying to throw it all away!”
It was my turn to utterly still with incomprehensibility. “What?”
“Don’t you get it? This will piss off everyone.”
“It’ll blow over.”
“I don’t think you get it, Tamar. What the repercussions of publishing this will be.”
I studied him. “Well, hopefully it will be the athletic facility deal falling through.”
“And for you? You’ll have both the Leopards and Loft pissed at you. Do you know what that means? They’ll revoke your press privileges and they’ll slap a heavy fine on anyone who’s caught talking to anyone from Today News.” His eyes were steady. “I’ve seen it before.”
I dropped onto the sofa. “You’re kidding. It’s just one story.”
He stepped up before me. “One story that said two multimillion-dollar industries are cutting underhand deals and ignoring people’s health.”
“Which is true.”
“Yes. But they don’t want that highlighted.”
I stared at him. “So what is boils down to—it boils down to not that the NFL and Loft won’t be allowed to speak with Today Media, but that you won’t be allowed to speak with me. You won’t be allowed to be seen with me. We’re—we’ll be in a public feud.”
He crouched down before me and took my hands in his. “But not a private one.”
I let my head fall forward. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
He stared up at me. I tried to read the brown-black of his eyes, but he finally shut them.
I felt sick. He was going to tell me to scrap the story. I couldn’t scrap it, but how could I run it when it would ruin us? How could I run it when it meant we had to break up?
How could I not run it?
He stood, and I stood too, clinging to his hands. If he told me not to run it, what then? I had to. How could I be with him if he told me to bury this?
But I couldn’t be with him if I didn’t bury this.
So this was checkmate.
He dragged his eyes open. “You run the story. You have to.”
I let out a deep rush of air and my shoulders relaxed. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. “I know.”
He curved one hand around my cheek and tilted my head up. “I’m not letting go of you,” he said fiercely. “We’re going to figure this out.”
I tried to smile. “Are we?”
He groaned, and then his hands pulled me against him and his lips were on mine. Anxiety and fear weighed on us, but I pushed that aside and threw myself into the kiss. Heat ran threw me, a blazing wave of heightened emotion, all combined into a fireball I barely understood.
I drove my hands through his hair, wanting to keep him as close to me as possible, wanting to keep him from ever leaving, wanting nothing to be between us, no space or problems or articles on entire organizations. And if we were close enough physically, maybe I could forget the rest.
His hands trailed down my back, and then came up to frame my face. “I will never give you up.”
I wanted to believe those words so badly. I wanted to believe that we were strong enough to take on the antipathy of Loft Athletics and Today Media and the National Football League.
We would never give each other up. But that didn’t necessarily mean that we would get to keep each other, either.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tanya called me into the office almost as soon as I got in. I’d barely had time to pour my coffee and flip open my computer before a chat box popped on the bottom of my screen. Come talk to me when you have a minute.
Tension shivered through my body. Sure, be right there.
I hopped up and curved down the aisle toward Tanya’s office. “Hi Tanya.”
She looked up from a paper crumpled in her hands, her face white as a sheet. “What is this?”
I didn’t need to see the words to know she held my article, and I stepped back warily. “It’s the article you asked me to write.”
“You say that sixty percent of the Leopards wear Loft Athletics helmets.”
“That’s right.”
“And that Loft makes sure the most promising college football players get Loft helmets in school, and then they usually stick with them.”
“Also correct.”
“And that the Leopards management is smothering reports of how ineffective the helmets are because they don’t want Loft’s sponsorship for their new training facility to fold.”
I shrugged. “That’s what the doctor I spoke to said. My sources near the team say it’s common knowledge.” I shook my head, suddenly exhausted. I’d written in a haze of exhaustion, anger and caffeine: a surefire way to obtain writer’s amnesia. “I don’t know if it was the right thing to focus on.”
She shook her head, but it seemed to me to be in admiration rather than negation. “It’s good.”
Warmth filled me, even though I hardly remembered half my words. Yet the glow was tempered by the way Tanya pursed her lips. “If it’s good, why are you frowning?”
“Are you aware of the kind of attention this article’s going to get you?”
“Me?” Mostly I’d thought about how it could improve things for Abe and all the other guys, but I wasn’t a total idiot. “Well, I’m sure some people will be pissed.”
She lifted her brows. “And those ‘some people’ are the Leopards and Loft Athletics.”
I licked my lips a little nervously. “Yes. I suppose they are.”
She smoothed her hand over the desktop. “I want you to be aware that while this piece could make your career, it could also break you.”
I got it. Publishing an article shaming team owners would make me persona non grata to them. “You wanted us to do real news.”
“I guess I’m saying that I don’t feel entirely right, making you the sacrificial lamb.”
“It’s my story.”
“I assigned it to you.”
“Tanya.” I spread my hands. “It’s the truth. It’s what’s happening. Don’t you think people deserve to know that?”
“I do.” She swiveled back and forth in her chair. “I want to include it in the print issue.”
I blinked. “But that’s gone to copy.”
“I know. But not to print.” She ticked off the instructions on her hand. “We’ll publish it online this afternoon, and then we’ll get it in the magazine. Because this is almost certainly going to be one of the top stories this quarter.”
I had to fumble behind me for the chair, and slowly lower myself into it. “It’s...an angry piece.” I swallowed, second thoughts forming slowly, and going to Today Media’s CEO. “What about Stuart Kinglsey?”
She smiled tightly. “You just leave Stuart to me.”
That afternoon, she called an impromptu meeting. The rest of the team slowly congregated, clutching their second cups of coffee and exchanging wary glances at Tanya’s unusually forceful tone. Mduduzi winced in empathy and Jin came to my side in a silent show of support.
Tanya leaned against the wall and smiled like a madman. “As some of you may know, Tamar’s been working on a story about the Leopards and Loft Athletics—mainly that the Leopards are burying Loft’s negative ratings in order to make sure Loft’s sponsorship of the new training facility goes through. We’re breaking the story, people, so get excited.”
It took another hour to get everything ready—the accompanying photos, the copyediting, the formatting—but soon enough we were all gathered around Wyatt’s computer, getting ready to send it into the world. Tanya nodded briskly. “Let’s go, then.”
“We’re sure?” Mduduzi glanced at me. “Last chance for us to back out.”
It warmed me that he said “us” instead of “you.” I smiled grimly at him. “It’s the truth.”
And Wyatt hit publish.
* * *
Shit hit the fan immediately.
We huddled around Tanya’s wi
descreen computer, a window open showing the article page and another tracking mentions on Twitter.
Which blew up in seconds.
Our tweet to the link got re-tweeted over a hundred times in less than a minute. Then the other news sources started chiming in—CNN, Gawker, the AP, SI, Reuters—Sports Today Claims Leopards Deal with Loft Is Unethical. And: Helmetgate?
The NFL was deadly silent.
Eight minutes after we hit publish, Today Media’s CEO Stuart Kingsley stormed into the office, closely followed by the editor-in-chief of the normal news blog and the vice president of PR. Tanya stepped out of her office to meet them as they marched through the near empty newsroom, and we poured out behind her, a show of force that struck me as not unlike a rebel army.
The editor came within spitting distance of Tanya and pointed a stubby finger at her. “The fuck is this? I told you we didn’t want to rile Loft. And the Leopards? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“It’s called news,” Tanya said steadily. “Have you forgotten that’s what we report on?”
“Fuck that, Tanya.” For a man who made his living through words, he didn’t use a particularly large vocabulary. “Have you forgotten that Loft’s ads are what keeps your precious magazine afloat?” His angry, mottled gaze swept all of us. “Which one of you wrote this?”
I could feel the tension of the room, thick as the summer fog, but no one looked my way. No one spoke.
I stepped up. “I did.”
The guys groaned softly behind me.
Stuart Kingsley’s displeasure narrowed in on me. “And who the fuck are you?”
I folded my hands into balls to keep them steady. “Tamar Rosenfeld, sir. I started four months ago.”
“Oh?” His expression purpled. “Four months, is that it? And after four months you think you know enough about this business to undermine everything?”
I couldn’t come up with anything to say.
He closed in on me. “At least most reporters sleeping with their subjects have the good manners not to write about it!”
I raised my chin. “It wasn’t safe.”
“Then write it in your diary! You know what else isn’t safe? Losing the money that keeps us in business and putting your whole team out of a job!”
My eyes widened. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“I don’t care what your fucking intention was, I care about results. And you...” He ran a hand through his hair, and then jabbed a finger at me. “You’re fired.”
Pain sliced through me like a dull, dragging dagger.
Tanya stepped up behind him. “You can’t fire my reporters.”
“Don’t get me started on you,” he warned. “You’re lucky you’re not out of a job, too.”
She got right in his face. “You fire my reporter, I quit too.”
He stared at her. We all did. She had to be bluffing, but boy, it was quite a bluff. Because what if he called it?
He threw up his hands. “The fuck is this, a mutiny?” He spun around and glared at the guys. “The rest of you want to throw in the towel, too?”
Beside me, Mduduzi and Jin were silent, and I thought of how Mduduzi sent half his money back to his family in Zimbabwe each month, and how Jin’s fiancée had recently been laid off, and how they needed this money. And I didn’t blame them.
But I was surprised when Carlos stepped forward, and his voice didn’t quaver in the least as he said, “I will.”
Stuart regarded all of us with disgust.
Tanya lowered her voice. “Look, this is a real story.”
“That’s going to lose us a hell of a lot of money.”
“And bolster our reputation.”
“You should’ve run it by me!”
She lifted her head. “Better to ask forgiveness.”
“You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” He shook his head. “Let’s get a room.”
They stormed off, each attempting to outrace the other as they entered a conference room along with the other adjuncts. Mduduzi let out a low whistle. “Hope they’re not taking her to the guillotine.”
“Am I fired?” I asked. “Do you think I should pack my stuff?”
Carlos shook his head stubbornly. “Not without Tanya’s say-so.”
Jin let out a low whistle from bent over his computer.
My stomach tightened. “What is it?”
“You got some reviews coming in.”
Of course I did. But I couldn’t even bring myself to care. I’d told the story, and that was that. They either believed me or they didn’t. They hated me or they didn’t. I couldn’t change people, and I didn’t want to.
Billy, the receptionist, ran back into the room. “Where’s Tanya?”
We nodded at the closed conference door. “Why?”
“Greg Philip is on the phone.” He knocked once and then let himself in, and out again before any of us had managed to look away.
Seconds or hours passed before Tanya leaned out of the room. “Rosenfeld, get in here.”
Mduduzi saluted me. I frowned at him. “I’m not going to my execution.”
The guys looked unconvinced.
I entered the conference room slowly, and closed the door when she gestured toward the table. No one was sitting, so I stood there too, with Tanya and Stuart and two other high-ranking Today Media staff that I’d never spoken to before. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad.” Tanya sounded more pleased than I’d ever heard her. “Philip wants a retraction and an apology.”
Stuart scowled.
I sat a little straighter. “For the truth?”
Her smile, though thin, was genuine. “They call it libel.”
I let out a shaky breath. “So what happens?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. We wait.” She leaned back in her chair. “We’re standing behind this story every inch of the way. Aren’t we, Stuart?”
He threw up his hands, and then glared at me. “This better be true.”
“Please, Stuart,” Tanya said. She’d calmed down an awful lot. “You live for this.”
He grunted, but he’d also calmed down a little, if I could judge at all by the fact that his face was merely pink, rather than magenta. “Do you know how much ad money you just cost me?”
“Talk to me tomorrow after marketing looks at our stats.” She looked back at me. “You’re not fired. Get back to work. You still have three stories due this afternoon.”
Somehow, I wasn’t even surprised. I took a shaky breath, and found that having a direction helped to stabilize me. “Will do.”
I went back to my desk but actually couldn’t concentrate on anything, so I swiped up my phone and climbed up to the fourteenth floor, where anyone in the building could check into a phone booth. I closed the door behind me, automating the light, and dialed Mom.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hi, sweetie.”
Her voice was so calming and normal that the world steadied a little bit. “Hi, Mom. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m grading memoirs. How are you? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
I let out a shaky breath. “I am at work. I, um, we just published a kind of controversial article I wrote and I’m kind of freaking out.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sure it’s okay.”
How was she sure? I wasn’t sure. She was my mom; it was her job to say everything was okay.
Then again, that was why I had called her.
“It’s about concussions.”
“Oh.” She sounded slightly interested, which was about three degrees warmer than she usually sounded when discussing football. “That sounds interesting.”
“Yeah, it is—except, I don’t know, it’s kind of a personal article that I wrote and now people are mad at me and I don’t really know what to do.”
“Is it a good article?”
I tried to think clearly. Was it a good article?
It was an honest article. It was a heartfelt article. It was written to the be
st of my abilities.
I took a deep breath. “It is a good article.”
“Then you remember that, and you don’t let anyone shake you.”
Easier said than done.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I went straight to Abe’s apartment after work. I’d barely shut the door behind me before I asked, “How is it?”
His fingers gently reached out and combed back my hair from my face. “Don’t freak out.”
I started freaking out. “Me? Never.”
“They issued the standard. No one’s to talk to you. Or to anyone from Today Media.”
My stomach fell out of my body and left me unanchored to reality. He’d warned me, but it was different actually having it confirmed. “All of Today Media? Not just Sports Today?” I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. “But who else would you talk to? It’s sports. It’s football.”
His hand fell away. “It’s not just football. It’s Loft’s parent company—Kravenberg, Inc.”
I almost gagged on my breath. “And what if you do? You get fined?”
He nodded.
“How much?”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Not an insignificant amount.”
I couldn’t take the unbearable closeness anymore, and I spun away and walked to the window, where I could brace my hand against the wall for balance. Outside, the whole world was white. “I’m sorry.”
He came up behind me and encircled my waist with his arms. “It’s not your fault.”
Maybe not. But it certainly felt that way.
* * *
The NFL held its silence for two days.
The other news channels were not so merciless. It went straight to the top of the networks. That first evening, every major channel reported on my story. We watched from the safety of the newsroom at anchors in expensive blue suits and the same faux serious expressions they used for typhoons and shootings.
“The NFL has been accused of favoring Loft Athletics.” Aurelius Stevenson looked positively gleeful, though he hid it well. “The popular sports website Sports Today first broke this story...”
“Go home,” Tanya said eventually. “Listening to this isn’t helping anyone.”
Abe had to attend an emergency meeting of the Leopards—that I’d caused—so I went back to my apartment. My roommates were all in their rooms by the time I got back, so I climbed into my bed in the quiet dark and nestled low with the blue-white of my laptop shining in my face.