Page 54 of Power Play Daddies

As soon as the door opens and people start filing out, I bolt for the bathroom. I barely make it to the sink before I’m throwing up.

It’s awful. My stomach feels like it’s turned inside out.

“Jesus, Daisy,” Logan’s voice comes from behind me. He must’ve followed me. “Are you dying?”

I rinse my mouth, trying to ignore how clammy my hands are. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” He grabs some paper towels, dabbing at my damp forehead like I’m a sick kid. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“It’s just the heat. And this damn smell. Seriously, does no one else smell the eggs?”

He chuckles. “Nah, just you. Poor baby. Still nauseous?”

I nod, leaning against the counter. “Yeah.”

“All right,” he says, stepping back. “Here’s the plan. I’m gonna grab you a ginger ale, and you’re gonna go charm Janice’s socks off in that meeting. Cool?”

I nod again, though the thought of facing Janice makes my stomach churn all over again. “Cool.”

“And after? You’re telling me all about what happens, okay?” He winks. “This might be the perfect time to pitch your digital transition idea. Miami Herald’s been stuck in the Stone Age forever.”

He’s right. This could be my shot.

I nod, even though my legs feel like jelly. “Yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

“Atta girl.” He pats my cheek, then grimaces. “God, you’re clammy. Seriously, ginger ale. Stat.”

He vanishes for a moment or two, and I hear a can fall into the receptacle in the vending machine.

“Here,” he says to me, shoving the sweating can in my face.

I gulp down the terrible taste in my mouth, washing it away with the fizziness of the ginger ale.

For a moment, I almost feel normal again. Then my stomach flip-flops again, and I close my eyes.

“Thanks, Logan,” I mumble, heading toward Janice’s office with my stomach rolling like I’m on a bad carnival ride.

Here goes nothing.

Janice’s office is cold. Like meat-locker cold.

The air-conditioning is cranked so high I’m shivering, but at least it’s better than the egg sweatbox from earlier.

She’s at her desk, flipping through a stack of papers. Her nails are painted with some deep, almost-black red that looks expensive. She doesn’t look up as I walk in.

“Sit,” she says, curt but not unkind. I do, my stomach doing a slow, nauseating churn.

“So,” Janice says, finally glancing at me over her glasses, “timeline. Do you have one for the follow-up stories? We need to keep the engagement high before the full article drops.”

I clear my throat. "I’m working on it. I was thinking of doing something behind the scenes—a ‘day in the life’ piece with the Ice Men. I’ve already drafted a few player profiles—just need to finish up the interviews. I also want to dive into the game-day atmosphere, the energy, the rituals, what makes their fans show up and stay loyal."

She nods, but her expression doesn’t soften. “Good. We need fresh content constantly. The owners are on me about engagement metrics. Just last week, we laid off two more people.”

She leans back in her chair, folding her arms.

This is my moment. I sit up straighter, ignoring the way my stomach lurches at the movement.

“Actually, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I think moving toward a digital-first presence could?—”