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She shrugged as she preceded him into his home. “Two or three months. He’s not sure.”
Her voice was tense. How much of her emotions was she keeping inside? He’d run for miles after Gerald had fired him. How did Andrea deal with stress?
Troy walked with her to his living room. “How do you feel?”
Andrea stopped beside his sofa. “The numbness is starting to thaw. I think I’m heading toward panic.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I just needed someone to talk to.” She sounded surprised.
“I’m glad you came to me.” He couldn’t describe the feeling. It was too strong, too special. “Do you want a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Her response was slow in coming.
He started toward the cupboard where he kept his wine rack. “It’ll take the edge off your panic.”
Andrea caught his arm before he passed her. “As much as I want a drink, I can’t have one. I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
Shock ricocheted through Troy. “I didn’t know.”
“How would you?” She released his arm and gave him a proud, if unsteady, smile. “I’ve been sober for three years.”
“Congratulations.” Troy studied her, trying to piece together this new information with what he knew—or thought he knew—of Andrea Benson.
“Thank you.” Andrea settled onto his sofa. “I started drinking—a lot—when my mother got ill. She was my best friend. My everything. I know it sounds like an excuse, but my judgment was impaired when I decided to write that article on Jackie. Self-pity and alcohol make for a dangerous combination.”
Troy sat beside her. “It doesn’t sound like an excuse. You went through a difficult time.”
Andrea rose to wander the living room. “Stress is the trigger. If I’m not careful, I could lose control again.”
Her words were familiar. She’d said something similar the night before. “You’re afraid of losing control because you’re a recovering alcoholic?”
Andrea paused in front of his display of family photographs. “I can’t afford to fall off the wagon. I have enough strikes against me without resurrecting my drinking problem.”
Troy leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. He couldn’t imagine the calm, disciplined woman in front of him ever losing control. “This is the push you’ve needed to get a better job. You’re a good reporter, Andy. Don’t sell yourself short.”
She turned to him in surprise. “You’ve never told me that before.”
Perhaps he’d been unfair, but the team had to come first. “We’re on opposite sides. You’re the reporter who wants to uncover the news. I’m the marketing executive who wants to control the message.”
Andrea folded her arms. “I’m not worried about your messaging. I’m concerned about my readers. I want to give them information they can use to better understand the sport they enjoy.”
Troy stood. This part of their disagreement always made him impatient. “What family wants a spotlight on their dysfunction?” He thought of his own family and the dispute
s he’d had with them over the years. “You do a more balanced job with our faults than other papers, but those articles still hurt our image.”
Andrea blinked. Had Troy finally admitted she’d been balanced in her coverage of the Monarchs? She’d needed those words, especially now. They had been a long time coming. What had changed his mind?
She continued her trek around his spacious living room, pausing to study his family photos again. “I don’t expect other papers to forget my poor judgment with the article on Jackie.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “But is three years long enough for them to give me another chance?”
“You got a lot of positive buzz with your exclusive on Gerry’s attempt to move the Monarchs out of Brooklyn.” Troy shoved his hands into the front pockets of his khaki pants. “Why didn’t you use that article to get another job?”
Andrea shifted her shoulders in a restless movement and turned away from him. “I should have.”
She sensed Troy’s approach. His hand on her shoulder was such a simple touch, so light she barely felt it. So warm, it seeped into her bones.
“You’ll get another job, Andy.” His words pulled her from the edge of her pity party.
