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Chapter One
KENNEDY
Everyone has a ritual. Today was no different from yesterday or any day before that, apart from the interview I had with the Capitals. For a no name sports reporter like me, that was a huge score, a chance to help build my paper into a more reputable source for sports news.
After a long drive back from DC to Philly, I walk through the door and throw my messenger bag onto the dining room table. Per the usual, I unhook my bra next and fling it onto the couch. My girls hate boob jail, and it has been a long ass day.
Feeling free, I head into the kitchen of the one bedroom apartment I moved into last month. The paint on the cabinets is cracked and peeling. And if you look close enough at the floor, the linoleum tiles are coming loose. I found the place on Craig’s List. It was one of those looks better in the picture type of deals. Everything seemed fine at first. Until I unpacked, and then the appliances and fixtures started showing their age.
The only thing that works right is the coffee maker. And that’s because I brought it with me from home. Everything else is on its last leg or unsalvageable. Even the hot water lasts for about two minutes before it turns ice cold, leaving me screaming out in pain.
After I add the filter and grounds to the coffee maker, I hit a few buttons until it starts brewing. Then, I walk into my bedroom to change into a pink tank top and boy shorts. I live alone, the cramped space just enough room to house my stuff.
While I grew up in a huge house, I prefer the comfort this small apartment provides me, but I wish it were in a better neighborhood. My dad would kill me if he knew I was living in this building or on this side of the city. I lie to my father and tell him I live in Center City, up in a high-rise building I cannot afford just so I can avoid the same conversation we have every week. Crooks squandered our family fortune, and my dad had a hand in that. Now, I am stuck living in this dumpy apartment, living off leftover takeout and coffee.
I stir cream and two sugars into my mug and head straight to my desk. My dining room doubles as a makeshift office with little space away from the living room. In an apartment this size, the rooms bleed into the other. There’s no difference between them other than the chandelier that hangs from the ceiling and over my dining room table.
I have a view of the street through the window in front of me though I’m not so sure it’s the kind of view anyone would want. Even in the darkness, the street is depressing, rundown and full of dilapidated rowhouses.
After I settle into my chair, I call my best friend, Sydney Carroway. My daily habits always remain the same and calling Sydney as I sit down to work is one of them.
I punch the speed dial on my keypad, and Sydney answers on the first ring.
“I need another word for cock,” Sydney says into the receiver, her tone serious.
What may appear to someone on the outside as one of the weirdest conversations of their life is in fact just an average day with my best friend.
I chuckle and switch my cell phone to my left ear, attempting to open my beat up Macbook to type up my notes from the interview. “You’re such a perv, Syd…but a loveable one.”
“Don’t laugh.” Her voice squeaks on the other end of the line. “It’s for research purposes.”
“Writing smut,” I deadpan.
“Hey, that smut pays the bills, baby!”
Sydney is a romance author and my co-blogger at Long Sticks and Hard Shots, the sport- themed sex advice blog we write together. I talk about my experiences with professional hockey players and love of their sticks. Sydney uses her way with words and obsession with sex to make our readers swoon.
Bizarre conversations are par for the course. After all, she writes romance for a living and has her brain conditioned to write sex all day. Conversations that are sexual in nature are expected and often welcomed when it comes to Sydney. She has a way of talking about topics that would make most people uncomfortable. Somehow, she finds a way to get our readers to open up and interact.
“Maybe you should poll our followers to see how many words for cock they can come up with. I don’t have the time to sit here and ramble off all the naughty words your skanky brain wants to hear. Some people have to work for a living.”
“I might have to reevaluate our friendship,” she jokes, breathing hard into the phone. “What happened to ovaries before brovaries? We’re a team, and those hockey dudes can wait.”
I roll my eyes, a smirk forming. “I work with more than hockey players. I just happen to prefer the sport best.” Knowing she will never let me get off the phone without answering her question, I sit back in my chair and stop typing for a second. “Fine. I’ll start you off, but then I have to get back to work. Unlike you, it takes me more than twenty minutes to write a good story.”
“I’ll have you know that it take
s me more than twenty minutes to write a story. I pour my heart and soul into those raunchy taboo novels.”
“True.” I set the notepad on my desk and take a sip from the oversized coffee mug that says I’m Smutty and I Know It. This is one of the many strange gifts Sydney has given to me over the years. It even has a pink lipstick smudge through the center of the mug. “But just because I’m the owner doesn’t mean I can take the day off, now does it? I’m barely keeping this paper afloat after everything that has happened with my father’s company.”
“Yeah, babe, sorry about all that. I’m sure things will turn around for you soon. You just need to get your foot in the door with the right people.”
“Easy for you to say. You write a book, and it sells ten thousand copies in one week.”
She laughs. “What can I say? Sex sells. I have to give my readers what they want.”
I glance at the clock on the wall in front of me, one of the few things that work in this place other than the coffee pot. “I need to make this deadline, so maybe we can talk about cocks later.”
She huffs, pretending to be annoyed, a tactic she uses every time I want to get off the phone, and she still wants to chat my ear off. “You own Sports Buzz. It’s not like you have to kill yourself to make it to print, and besides, it’s an online newspaper.”
“I’m the owner, but my bank account says otherwise.” That much is true. If I don’t land a few more interviews for the month, I will have to tap into what’s left of my savings. I haven’t made a cent from the paper, still hanging on by a thread.
The call waiting beeps in my ear. I glance down and see a local 215 area code, unsure if I want to pickup at this hour. But what if it’s work related. I cannot afford to pass on a story.
“Hey, Syd, I have to take this call.”
“Oh, bullshit.” She grunts in mock irritation. “You’re just trying to get rid of me because you don’t want to answer my question.”
“No, I am not. Look, I will call you back later. I promise.”
“But I’m stuck on this scene and need your help,” she whines. “I need another word for cock. You can only use the same words so many times before they all start to sound the same. So, will you help me with this scene or not? I am so close to finishing up Nate and Ashlyn’s story, and I need the Kennedy touch to do it.”
Sydney does this every time she’s stuck and on a tight deadline with her editor. “A guy and girl meet, they have hot sex, they fall in love. The end. There you go. Write that.”
“Blah! That sucks! Thank God you don’t write romance novels. You’re awful at this.”
The other line stops ringing since Sydney keeps jabbering on and will not let me go. But whoever is calling is persistent, because another call beeps in my ear, and this time I have every intention of answering.
“I promise I’ll call you back in a little bit. We have to talk about the next few blog topics, and I’m sure you have better things to do. Like, figure out five different ways to write about men who make your ovaries explode.”
“Baaha! Fine, go back to being an adult. Later, K.”
