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“I do.” Faith’s tone was adamant. “I’m not a newspaper reporter. I write comic books. But I know talent when I read it. You have to believe in yourself.”
Andrea breathed deeply to steady her nerves. She caught the spicy scent of the chicken Faith was cooking for dinner. “I believe I can cover sports. I don’t know if I have a series of in-depth personality profiles in me.”
“Do you want to find out?”
Her stomach muscles knotted. “Part of me does. It would be a new challenge. And, although I like covering sports, those profiles impacted people beyond the game.” She dropped her gaze to her white-knuckled grip on her purse. “But the other part of me is scared witless.”
Faith spread her hands. “Why? You’ve already proven you can do it.”
“I’ve proven I can write two.” Andrea shrugged out of her blazer and folded it over the back of the sofa.
Faith’s brows knitted. “Is this the same insecurity you told me about from your past? The one that led you to write that story about Jackie Jones in the first place?”
Andrea stood from the sofa and hooked her hands on her navy blue pants. Troy had advised her against taking the first job offer—unless it was for a good company. Well, this offer was from a good company, so why was she hesitating?
Because she was afraid.
Her dream company wanted her to write the type of stories she hadn’t even realized she wanted to write. Stories that would make a difference in the community, comfort some and inspire others.
Your story will do that. She heard again the pride in Troy’s voice when he’d said those words.
Faith prompted her. “Are you going to let your insecurities defeat you again?”
Andrea dropped her arms. “No, I’m not.”
“Do you want the job or not?”
Andrea checked her wristwatch. It was almost six o’clock. Constance and Tiffany would be home soon, but she was certain The New York Times sports editor was still at his desk.
“Yes, I do.” She strode to the sofa and dug through her purse for the editor’s business card. She turned to the telephone on the corner table. “Please let him still be there.”
Andrea lifted the receiver and pressed the direct dial numbers for the editor’s desk. The final steps on her personal journey for redemption. She’d finally and fully forgiven herself for her past. She could do this job. She wanted the position and she deserved this opportunity. She closed her eyes and thought of Troy. The journey’s end would have been much more satisfying if he’d been there to meet her.
Andrea arrived at Madison Square Garden half an hour before game seven of the Brooklyn Monarchs versus New York Knicks series Monday evening. The sound system had boosted Lenny Kravitz’s “Come On Get It.” The JumboTron suspended from the rafters was telecasting highlights from previous games in the series.
Was the excitement pulsing through her veins coming from her? Or was she picking up the tension from the fans pouring into the arena? It was hard to tell since the outcome of the game was so important to her. With their win in the Empire Arena Saturday, the Monarchs had tied the series at three all. A win would send them to the Eastern Conference Championship. A loss would finish their Cinderella season. Andrea didn’t want the magic to end.
She stopped beside Jenna Madison’s chair and pitched her voice above Lenny Kravitz’s latest rock anthem. “Thank you for recommending me to your editor.”
Jenna shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It was your writing. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Andrea glowed on the inside. “I’m looking forward to working with you, too.”
Jenna jerked her chin toward the court before turning back to Andrea. “Will you miss covering the games?”
Andrea watched the Monarchs going through their shooting drills and stretches on the far side of the court. DeMarcus and the other coaches were studying sheets Andrea assumed were the plays and scouting reports. Troy was probably in the visiting owners’ booth above them. She tensed her muscles so she didn’t look up.
She met Jenna’s green gaze. “A little. But I’ll enjoy just watching them. I’ll be able to cheer out loud.”
Jenna chuckled. “There is that.”
Andrea continued her search for an empty chair in the media row. She settled into a seat and booted up her laptop, strenuously avoiding even glancing at the luxury boxes above her.
Two hours later, Andrea wanted to scream, “Time-out!” The game clock counted down the remaining twenty-eight seconds of the game. The Monarchs had more turnovers than the neighborhood bakery, and the lead had changed six times in the last twenty minutes. Andrea sensed the Monarchs slowing down. This was their second series playing all seven games. They had the oldest roster in the NBA, and it was beginning to show. Andrea fought to hold on to hope.
Twenty-seven seconds. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. The shot clock shut off.
For now, the Knicks had the lead—109 to 107—as well as possession. Ronny Turiaf was almost at half-court dribbling the ball forward and gesturing his teammates into position. In a panic, Andrea realized the Knicks’ forward was slowing the pace of the game and using up the clock. Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-three. She was going to lose her mind.
