Page 87 of Against the Clock

A blush starts to climb my throat and I clear it, trying to refocus.

“I wanted to see where you were on the cheerleader piece,” John tells me, steepling his fingers and inspecting me from over the top of his glasses.

“I have a source sending me the Beavers’ official rulebook, and I think there will be a lot of interesting ways to juxtapose it with the accusations from the cheerleaders. You know, the expectations of them versus the way the league uses them—”

“You have a new relationship with Daniel Harrison, right? Can you use him on the record to discuss AFL leadership’s role in the exploitation of their cheerleading teams?”

I blink. I should have expected that. Still, it hits me like a blow to the gut, the memory of my ex’s accusations ringing in my ears. I don’t answer right away.

“Mr. Harrison has already given me a few on-the-record statements regarding the cheerleaders.” The statement comes out slowly, woodenly.

“Is he willing to go on the record about the league’s treatment of them?” John doesn’t miss a beat and I have a sick feeling he’s been waiting to pounce on me about this since Daniel and I started trending.

“I understand your reticence to discuss your love life with me, and frankly, I already know more than I’d like to.” John leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and blowing out a breath. “But what you need to understand is that you have a unique opportunity at your disposal with your access to the quarterback of the Wilmington Beavers. I would be a shitty journalist and a shitty boss if I didn’t push you to use it.”

I clamp my lips shut, trying to keep the words in that will surely get me fired. My heart races and my stomach’s in knots.

“Kelsey,” John stretches out my name, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt before he perches them back on the bridge of his nose. “You have what it takes to make it in this business. You’re a great writer, you have good instincts, and you’re good at getting sources to trust you. Plus, you look great on camera. You test well with our audience. Don’t let some whirlwind romance with a jock blind you to your career goals. Take it from me, these sorts of things… they don’t last. He’s older than you, and he’s dated supermodels. Nah, I say get what you can from him, and do what you need to do to move up here.”

I cannot believe what I’m hearing. At the same time, I totally can, because this is nothing if not on-brand for John. Cameron would probably have a snappy response, but my brain has slammed to a stop.

“Are you wanting to segue into sideline reporting? Sports beat? Is that what this is about? Because BeaverTok and the Hot Dams have made it clear they would like to see more of you.” He scratches his chin and I try to formulate a response.

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to—”

“If you can do investigative reporting, you can be our sideline correspondent. You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out. You angling for that spot or not?” He narrows his eyes at me. “I bet we’d get great ratings if we had you at the post-game interviews with your boyfriend. Well, until he’s had enough of you.”

For fuck’s sake.

“I’ll give you an official update and draft of my AFL piece next week.”

“Make sure you get a good sound bite from the quarterback, even if you have to lead him to it.”

I stand up, unable to listen to any more of his nonsense, and plaster a smile on my face. “My piece has plenty of backbone without involving the thoughts of a quarterback who’s not qualified to remark on the inner workings of the league’s leadership. But thanks so much. I’ll keep that in mind, John.” I pivot, marching out of his office and back to my cube.

These sorts of things don’t last.

These sorts of things don’t last.

It plays on repeat in my ears, a high-pitched whine that has me sipping my water slowly, trying not to take it to heart. What the hell does John know, anyway?

I check my phone, half out of habit, half hoping that there’ll be a text from Daniel.

But there’s nothing but more work emails, and a text from Savannah. She wants to meet up.

It’s not from Daniel, but it perks me up a little, anyway. Fuck John and his antiquated bullshit.

These sorts of things don’t last.

CHAPTER 36

DANIEL

My shoulder’s fucked up again. That’s the thing about ball and socket injuries. Once you’ve dislocated something once, you’re way more likely to dislocate it again. Despite hearing the actual statistic more times than I can count, I can’t remember the exact numbers. It doesn’t matter, not really.

I’ve had my shoulder popped back into place at least a half dozen times now, and I’m not sure surgery did more than force me to rest and rehab twice as long as I would have liked to.

Days like today, when it aches and twitches, I know my time marking white dashes on a green field are numbered, same as the yard lines.