She continues skulking away, mumbling something about a crappy day, when my phone buzzes. After stealing one last glance at her retreating figure, I accept the call, and Adler’s face fills the screen.
“Where are you, Froggy?” He shoves his face comically close to the camera.
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Almost there.”
“Maybe we should switch your nickname toSnailyinstead,” he says. “Works both for your French roots and your driving speed.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know you all can’t function without me. Don’t worry—I’ll be there soon.”
I climb into my car, unwrap a Twix bar, and bite into the chewy, crunchy candy just as Feisty Brunette roars out of the parking lot, tearing away like she’s got a vendetta against the asphalt.
3
Harper
“Ugh!” I huff out a frustrated sigh as I'm speeding down the highway.
Could this day get any worse? Is this karma or something? For all the people I've outed in my career? Maybe those exposés are finally coming back to bite me.
No. No, it’s fine. I just need to survive this stupid tournament, and everything will be all right. And yes, Iknowit'll be stupid. Mr. Celebrity is proof of that. Just another self-centered athlete I’ll be forced to follow around and interview for the next fewweeks.
Yay, me.
At least I managed to guilt my boss into putting me up in a nice hotel,andin a suite no less, using all the power of persuasion in my possession—it’s one of my specialties, after all.
I reminded her that the big sports journalists would have all the connections, and that being in the players’ hotel would help a newbie like me get her foot in the door. I’d be in the middle of the action and in a good position to get an exclusive—a tough feat, given that every media outlet in the country is sending someone to cover the event. After considering my points, she agreed.
And as for the suite? Well, it's an awfully long work stint, and I need a place where I can unwind at night. I also mentioned that a bathtub would help me relax after a long day. I'd wake up each morning feeling much more refreshed to tackle the day’s top stories.
Boom. Five-star suite secured.
Unfortunately, I couldn't snag the city view, but that’s not a huge loss. DC isn't exactly Paris anyway.
I turn on some music, hoping to distract myself from the memory of that jerk who stole my Twix, but traffic thickens so quickly as I near the city limits, I immediately switch it off. I need to concentrate if I don’t want to end up in a fender bender.
I’m a New Yorker. I don’t own a car, and driving isnotmy specialty, especially on massive freeways like these. Last thing I need is to get into an accident.
With the day I've had, it would honestly be the logical next step.
I squint at the approaching sign to make sure it's the right exit, cursing myself for having left so late. The idea of being in DC asecond earlier than I needed to was too painful, and the rental car situation put me further behind. I’d even entertained the idea of leaving tomorrow morning, since the first press conference is only in the afternoon, but one of my colleagues said I’d have to get up at the crack of dawn because traffic will be a nightmare. Plus, it’s an extra night in my suite, so why not?
Traffic gets even more intense as I approach the city center, practically bumper to bumper now, and I’m momentarily distracted by the shimmering buildings looming around me. I’ve always loved architecture, and DC has some incredible examples of neoclassical and Beaux-Arts design—monumental, symmetrical, built to impress and endure. We’re talking columns that echo of ancient Rome, pediments carved with allegories, façades crafted to project permanence and power. Grand, imposing. Almost ceremonial.
I pass near the Capitol, its dome glowing softly in the distance, then catch a glimpse of the Washington Monument piercing stark and pale against the darkening sky.
I guess I found the silver lining of being stuck here.
A very, very thin one.
I just said I wasn't used to driving on busy freeways, right? Well, let's add huge cities at night. It's mayhem out here. A traffic light up ahead seems to be broken, and police officers are standing in the middle of the intersection, waving cars through with glowing batons.
After white-knuckling it through the city, I finally see the hotel.
And of course, I’m in the wrong lane.
I can’t cross traffic to pull up to the curb. Not without risking my own life and the lives of several innocent commuters. Fantastic.
My jaw tightens as the GPS recalculates my route. I grip the steering wheel until my fingers go numb, heat clinging to my skin as the AC struggles to keep up, my shirt sticking uncomfortably to my back. Finally, the little device chirps again, informing me—far too cheerfully—that I need to drive around the block.
