CHAPTER 1
BECCA
“Don’t go toohard on the quarterback today, kid?” Joe Remeno, my coworker, leaned toward me, balancing his Styrofoam cup in one hand and his iPad in the other.
I glanced up at the colorful backdrop behind the podium, with the Harbor Bay Hawks team logo carefully centered, surrounded by quotes about teamwork and optimism. “Isn’t that what we’re here for? To get the scoop?”
He let out a soft whistle. “You’ve got fire in you. I’ll give you that. But there is a time and a place for tough questions, and you’re way too young to be burning bridges in this league.”
My jaw tightened at how Joe always needed to remind me of my place. “I didn’t realize asking tough questions was off-limits. I thought that’s what we were here for.”
Joe had been around the sports world longer than I’d been alive, and he never let me forget it. He loved to remind me how thingsusedto be done “back in the day.” What Joe didn’t understand was that more experience didn’t make him better at his job.
He leaned in close, just enough so that I could smell his Old Spice aftershave that reminded me of my grandfather. “Don’t forget, we need access to the QB. I know you’re trying to make aname for yourself, but if you press too hard, Sandler will freeze us out of this pressroom.”
“You’ve mentioned that a few times.” I smiled politely despite the annoyance coursing through me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to find my seat.”
I adjusted my oversized bag, which carried my entire life inside, found a spot in the second row, and sat down. I pulled out my phone and double-checked my notes, even though I had rehearsed the same questions in my head at least a dozen times.
The back door opened, and all the players shuffled in, shoulder to shoulder, still sweaty from practice, dressed in hoodies and track pants. Their broad shoulders filled the room as we all sat up straighter in our seats.
There was one man we were all waiting for.
Nate Sandler. The NFL golden boy and team captain. The man, the city of Harbor Bay, both worshiped and vilified after last season’s championship loss.
He didn’t smile when he sat in the middle of the table. He didn’t need to. He had a way of reassuring fans and the media that he was firmly in control without saying a single word.
“Good afternoon,” he said, pulling his chair closer to the microphone. “I know you all have a lot of questions. I will do my best to answer them.”
The sound of reporters’ voices filled the room. They were all competing for his attention, shouting out their questions at rapid fire. Every reporter was trying to play it safe, tossing softball questions his way. No one wanted to talk about what actually happened.
“How’s the shoulder feeling, Nate?”
“What things have you been working on during training camp?”
“Are you feeling confident about the team’s chances this year?”
Nate fielded the first few questions with short, clipped answers. Not one person in this room had the balls to ask about that embarrassing loss in the final minutes of the biggest game of his career. The play that cemented their Super Bowl loss and sent them back to Harbor Bay without a championship ring.
Sandler had been playing great all season. The team appeared unstoppable. The fans could practically smell the victory. Everyone thought the golden boy was going to deliver the trophy. Except he didn’t. He got sacked late in the second quarter, and he never recovered.
Nate didn’t talk to reporters after that loss. He didn’t post on social media. He broke up with his girlfriend, fired his agent and went completely off the radar. Now, everyone was afraid to push too hard. They didn’t want to risk setting him off. No one was holding him accountable.
Joe raised his hand, and Nate called on him next. “Congrats on the start of the new season. The commentators are saying you’re looking sharp at practice. Are you feeling confident about the upcoming season?”
Joe was a world-class suck-up, so it was no surprise that he would start with something soft and fluffy.
Nate leaned forward with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t know if confidence is the right word. I would say I’m more focused on winning games.”
The questions continued and he answered smoothly, telling them exactly what they wanted to hear. Just before the microphone was passed to one of his teammates, I raised my hand.
His eyes met mine. “Yes?”
“Good afternoon.” I stood and smiled. “Becca Hendrix, from Pressbox,” I said, even though he already knew who I was. I’d been assigned to cover the team for the past three years, but announcing myself felt more professional. “During thechampionship game, you got sacked late in the second quarter and struggled for the rest of the night. Did that hit affect you more than it looked, or did something else throw off your rhythm?”
His blue eyes narrowed into slits, but then he quickly recovered. “Everyone wants there to be a dramatic explanation. I threw a bad pass. We lost. People need to point the finger at someone. So go ahead and point those fingers at me. I didn’t execute when it mattered most. I need to do better. End of story.”
Cameras flashed, and I could tell their PR director was furious with me for going at him so directly.
