I didn’t have a clue what to say to that. I wanted to vehemently disagree, but he had the weight of statistics behind him. But now what? I needed to get something in print. It wasn’t just that I had to pay my bills. I also needed bylines if I wanted another job in journalism. I mentally scrambled, pulling ideas out of my ass.
“Um, okay, how about this?” I pitched ideas I wasn’t qualified to write but could figure out. I hoped. But he kept shaking his head, and I started to hyperventilate.
“Heidi, this isn’t what we’re looking for.”
Obviously, but what could I do? Maybe throw the ball into his court. “How about you tell me what you want, then.”
He frowned and dropped his chin on his thick palm. “We always need more sports stories.”
No! No! No!I was so not a sports fan.
“But not the usual stats and analysis stuff. We’ve got experts for that.”
But I could learn, right? I clutched at the suggestion, trying to think of an athlete they wanted. I knew the answer already but was hoping I was wrong. “You want human-interest stuff. In sports.”
He brightened. “Exactly! Got any connections there? Do you know someone who knows someone you could leverage?”
“Maybe if I say I’m from the paper—”
He shook his head. “We’ve got lots of junior reporters doing that. We need personal connections. Someone you met as a kid or that your parents know.”
My parents were in Chicago, and they didn’t know anyone famous. Ditto, my friends. In fact, I was the only one who had blundered into a celebrity, but I couldn’t say that. It was my darkest secret.
I racked my brains, but nothing came to mind. And as the seconds ticked by, I watched Hank’s expression close down. I was losing him. I had to come up with something or I’d be out on my ear. Stringers waited weeks to pitch ideas, and this was my only shot for the rest of the month.
“I’m good friends with Rob Lee,” I blurted. Oh God, I’d said it. My most secret sin and a lie to boot. I hadn’t talked to Rob since that night three years ago.
Hanks eyes bugged out. “The rookie phenom hitter who just joined the Bobcats? That Rob Lee?”
“Um, yeah.”
He rocked back in his chair. He’d been in journalism his whole life and wasn’t fooled easily. “You’ve got a close, personal relationship with the biggest thing to hit Indianapolis since the Bobcats started playing here.”
Back in the seventies, the Bobcats had been a force in American League baseball. By the time the eighties rolled around, they’d gone out of favor like the cloche hat. The decades since had seen bad coaching, bad players, and all-around bad attitude. The city and Joe DeLuce, the team owner, were desperate to turn that around.
Which is why they’d snatched Rob Lee straight out of AAA obscurity.
He was the heavy hitter of his generation. He’d already been compared to Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Miguel Cabrera, just to name a few. With his Nebraska “aw-shucks” manner and his hard work ethic, he’d become a media darling, helped along, in no small part, by the Bobcat publicity machine. Everyone was talking about him.
Everyone, that is, except me. And Hank wasted no time in pointing that out.
“You’ve never mentioned him before. What makes you think—?”
“He’s got a mole shaped like a star on his left butt cheek. Down low and, um, near the crack.” What demon had prompted me to say that?
Hank’s eyebrows went all the way up into his thinning hair. “Well. That’s not what I expected from you.”
My face heated like a bonfire. My boss was looking at me in a completely different way. One that was vaguely disgusted and definitely pitying.
“You do know that he’s a playboy, right? DeLuce is trying to paint him as a choirboy, but he’s always got a woman on his arm. Usually two.”
I knew. After our disastrous spring break encounter, I resolved to put him out of my mind, but I couldn’t keep myself from following his career, starting with that all-important game right after he left my hotel room.
He’d played spectacularly, of course, then went on to a great final season before getting snatched up by the Indigos. I thought my obsession with the man would be over, but then I joined a specialized website so I could stream his AAA games. I even drove to Iowa just to see him play but was too embarrassed to talk to him. Especially after I watched him kiss not one, not two, but three blonde bombshell fans as part of his victory celebration.
He started getting press soon after that, and I subscribed to theDes Moines Registerso I could read every word. I even watched his batting average as closely as a teenage girl measured her weight. Somewhere along the line, I gave up pretending this was casual and dove straight into my obsession. It was like fate when he came to Indianapolis and everyone started talking about him. But I never joined in. Never. Because he was my personal, secret passion and nobody needed to know but me.
Until I’d blurted it out in a moment of career desperation.
