Page 11
Harper
Ding.
The sound of my phone buzzing across my nightstand brought me out of a dream where I was tangled up in white sheets and a pair of hazel eyes were looking at me in a dark room, worshipping every inch of me.
Ding.
I searched for my phone. The only thing that could be going off this early in the morning was updates on previous stories that were covered by SC News and that could wait until I had a cup of coffee in me.
I wasn’t lying to Jamil that travel rarely bothered me anymore, but packing up most of my life and moving halfway across the country to cover a game all within seventy-two hours must have been my limit.
I felt like I was waking up after a one-hundred-year nap.
Ding.
“What could possibly be this popular already this morning?” I mumbled as I finally found my phone and pulled it toward me.
The light nearly blinded me as I clicked the screen on. Maybe I needed two cups of coffee this morning if I was going to be in any shape to cover the next series tonight. Once my eyes finally adjusted, I scrolled through the notifications on my lock screen.
“This can’t be right,” I whispered into the quiet of my new bedroom.
Every notification was a colleague praising an interview that came out late last night while I’d been failing at line dancing with Jamil.
The interview was everywhere by this morning.
My stomach was in knots and if I hadn’t remembered I only had one drink last night I would have assumed I was hungover.
The news everybody was raving about was Nick O’Connor, my newfound nemesis, interviewing Nate Rousch, the NHL darling, on the breaking news of his trade from the Chicago Lynx to the Texas Rattlers yesterday. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.
That should have been mine.
Nick O’Connor’s smug face mocked me on my screen as I watched him ask Nate about what went wrong with the Chicago Lynx and why he’d requested a trade from the team that had been working toward a championship with him at the focus of it.
His questions were predictable and safe.
He never pressed Nate on any of the rumors of his girlfriend cheating on him with a teammate.
Or even the rumors about the locker room needing new carpet after the fight that ensued between him and his teammate.
Nick was only there as a tool for Nate to paint the picture he needed as he moved to a conference rival of his former team.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
The covers went flying as I stalked out to my kitchen, suddenly wide awake. I angrily tapped at my coffee maker, thankful the network was nice enough to have this place fully furnished before I arrived.
“When will it be my turn?” Some of the coffee sloshed over the side of the cup as I grabbed it a little too forcefully. “Why couldn’t my dad get me a leg up in my job?”
You never would feel like you earned it if that was the case.
My shoulders slumped as I set my coffee down with defeat and pressed my hands into the counter on either side of it.
Every inch of my body was filled with rage that needed to be released and if I wasn’t in an apartment, I would have let out a scream.
But before I could go through with the idea blooming in my mind of taping a picture of Nick O’Connor’s face to a dartboard, my phone started to ring.
My boss’s name flashed on my screen, as if I’d summoned him myself.
I glanced at the clock—it was barely past seven in the morning, but that was eight his time.
After about five rings, I finally found the courage to answer. “Good morning, Mr. Wilson.”
“Harper! I was just calling to check in on you and see how everything is going. Did you get settled into the apartment?” I wanted to hate this man, but I couldn’t scrape an ounce of loathing together when he acted this nice.
“The apartment is great. Thank you and to whoever else set this up,” I told him, the interview with Nick and Nate still replaying in my mind. This call felt like pouring salt in the wound.
“Of course. That territory is obviously very important to us and we wanted to make sure that you were accommodated .?.?.” Terry trailed off for a second. “I actually have something to discuss with you this morning besides checking in to make sure everything is going smoothly.”
The beaten down wings of hope fluttered in my heart. Maybe I was a fool for still having any.
“There is a lot of attention on the Chicago Cougars this season,” Terry started.
My mind flashed back to the tortured look on Jamil’s face as he told me all he wanted was the media to give him a break.
“And we are hoping that we can get a feature story of someone on the team.”
Wait? Was he suggesting what I thought he was?
“The spotlight has been bright on Tommy Mikals, but especially on Jamil Edman. The network wants to get a sit-down story with him. Something with substance that other networks won’t be reporting on.”
All those little wings of hope fluttering around disappeared and plummeted like a heavy rock sinking straight to the bottom of a lake. I wanted to believe that my intuition was misguided, but my gut was never wrong.
“You are more than deserving of this opportunity, Harper. If you can break a story on Jamil Edman, I think this could give you the attention that you’ve been so deserving of.”
A month ago, I would have jumped at the opportunity without any hesitation. Now it felt like a potential betrayal of Jamil’s trust. But who said I couldn’t highlight something great about him? Something harmless that wouldn’t bring any further hysteria.
“Thank you for this opportunity,” I told Terry. “I’ll work on having something hopefully before the end of the season.”
“That will do,” Terry agreed, already disengaging from the conversation. “Keep me updated if you need anything, Harper.” Then there was only silence and the voices in my head asking what was wrong with me if I was second-guessing being handed something like this over someone I barely knew.
Before I had even taken two sips of my coffee, my phone was ringing again.
This time my mother’s name was staring back at me.
I steeled myself for what was about to come.
The last thing I wanted this morning was to have a conversation with my mother where her entire objective was to pick apart how my new job was going.
The clock on my stove told me I had a few hours before my flight that I was expected to be on to Arizona, where the Cougars would be playing next.
I mentally prepared myself to rush to finish packing after this call.
So this is how this day is going to go.
“Good morning,” I answered, forcing cheer into my voice.
The sounds of hushed voices and papers shuffling in the background came over the phone. “How is Chicago?”
No good morning. Not even a check-in to see how I was doing.
Typical Maria Nelson.
“I’ve only been here a few days and most of that has been spent inside the ballpark,” I reminded her as I downed the rest of my coffee.
I was going to need it to make it through this conversation.
If I had time this week to go to the store for more than the essentials, I would have added a serving of Baileys to my coffee for good measure.
“This is what I mean when I say that job doesn’t allow you to have a life. How are you supposed to meet anyone?” I could hear my mother’s assistant trying to fill her in on the next committee meeting she had on her agenda in the background.
I gritted my teeth as we started down the same merry-go-round of a conversation that we always had. “That’s not a priority for me right now, Mother.”
“It’s not good to always be working. Even a social life would be good.”
How rich coming from you, the blueprint that they made the word workaholic after.
“I will let you know when I get around to that,” I replied as if this were a business discussion between two colleagues.
“I did see that your coworker had an interview come out.”
All the breath in my lungs pushed out through my nose. I didn’t want to give her more of my time than she deserved so I walked back into my bedroom to attempt to pack while having this conversation. “I saw that.”
“That looked like a pretty big interview for someone who hasn’t been there as long as you have.” I wanted to scream at her that I knew this and that she didn’t need to remind me of it, but that was the entire quest she was on.
“I would say so.”
After years of experiencing this, I slipped into autopilot as I threw clothes I would need for this next away series in my suitcase. I had learned long ago that there was nothing I could do or say that would make my mother happy besides stepping into the life she had always planned for me.
“Does this finally make you realize your employer doesn’t value you?”
This made me pause.
“Why? So I can move back home and start working on your campaign?” I asked, not even bothering to hide the venom in my voice.
My mother let out an exasperated sigh as if I was missing the entire point, as if I should know that she’s always cared about what I wanted. “I just want you to work for somebody that sees your talents and uses you to your fullest potential.”
The worst part about this conversation was that I couldn’t immediately write off what she was saying. It was everything I’d been telling myself for months.
“I’ve got a new assignment from the network. It’s a good opportunity.”
“An interview?” My mother perked up.
“They want me to secure one, yes.”
The line stayed silent for a few moments before she responded. “This may be your last shot at your goals, Harper.”
“No need to remind me,” I mumbled low enough so she wouldn’t hear me and then loud enough so she would, “I’m going to give it my best shot.”
“That’s what us Nelsons do, honey. I must head off to my next meeting. We will talk again soon.”
The line went silent before I could even say goodbye.
With my apartment silent once more and a suitcase completely packed, I padded back out into the kitchen to fill up a second cup of coffee. When I flipped on my television, the first station it opened to was SC News and the face I was greeted with was none other than Nick O’Connor.
I let out a disgruntled yell as I turned the television off and stalked back toward my bedroom to get ready for my flight. I would rather sit in an airport terminal for longer than necessary than watch Nick O’Connor discuss his interview with Nate Rousch.
Times like this I wished I had friends I could text to express my frustrations.
People who would listen and encourage me that I wasn’t on the wrong track, that I was meant for this.
Someone who would meet me for a cup of coffee or come over and watch a reality television show while drinking too much wine as a distraction.
I felt like I was at a crossroads wanting something at the end of both roads that I was being forced to choose from. It didn’t matter if I wanted them both.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11 (Reading here)
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48