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I wished Abe hadn’t had to leave for another away game.
The NFL reacted about as we expected, but that didn’t lessen the pain with each word that they said. Gregory Philip himself sat down on one of the morning talk shows.
And after that, it just downpoured. I couldn’t switch channels or turn on a podcast without hearing about my article. About myself.
“Of course, it’s ridiculous. Just some rookie reporter trying to make a name for herself by smearing ours.” On the screen, Coach Paglio dismissed my article with a snort and a shake, just as the entire NFL had been doing for the last week. “Wouldn’t give her any credence at all. You know who this is, right? A twenty-three-year-old kid who grew up with Krasner. No journalistic integrity there, huh?”
Aurelius Stevenson, SNN’s favorite newscaster, leaned forward, good-looking and grave in his navy suit. He nodded along with Paglio’s explanation, but that didn’t stop him from sending out feelers. “Of course, she does have the backing of several doctors saying they were pressured not to include Loft helmets in their tests...”
Coach Paglio waved his hand. “I can’t control what people say, Aurelius.”
“So you’re saying there’s no truth to these allegations?”
“None. None at all.”
“So who is this Tamar Rosenfeld, anyway?” Stephen Jones said at a round-table discussion. “It turns out that she knows linebacker Abraham Krasner. They were kids together. Krasner’s taken a bunch of bad falls this season, so not such a surprise she wants to make it out like it’s the equipment’s fault, not his.”
It was only when I opened my hand to press Stop on the show that I realized my nails had been cutting into the heels of my palms. Dark crescents marked the indentations, but I felt nothing.
I had to get out of the apartment. I couldn’t keep torturing myself by watching interviews that smeared me, or listening in the dark to radio shows that should be talking about averages and line-ups and defenses, but that instead focused on the best of my career.
I showered quickly and threw on jeans and my new coat. There were better ways to spend a Saturday than masochistically, but I hadn’t been able to realize that when my roommates had tried to get me out this morning. Now I was the only person here, with nothing to do. I shot Shoshi a quick text, but when she didn’t answer, I shoved on my boots and headed out the door, pausing only for one last text.
I miss you.
Abe had left for San Diego yesterday, and he wouldn’t be back until late Sunday night. Each day felt like a year, and I couldn’t distract myself enough. Even Netflix failed me.
My feet pounded down the stairs and I gasped in shock as I exited into the cold. Even with gloves, hat and scarf, the icy winds pierced through me, straight to my bones, filling my lungs with frost.
With no real destination, I ended up walking to a café on Broadway. I ordered an absurdly expensive mocha and sat at a corner table, breathing in the warmth again and admiring the leaf floating precariously in the foam. I opened up my laptop and pulled up the stories I was supposed to be working on, but I hadn’t had much luck writing for the past several days. Every time I tried to churn words out, it felt like the milk had dried up and I was trying to make butter with water. The dreck that resulted was barely readable, and Tanya had given me more extensive rewrites in the past four days than since I’d started.
Eventually, I managed to get past the pit in my stomach that kept stilling my fingers, and bang out four acceptable stories, which I shipped off to Tanya with a sign of relief. At least I wasn’t broken.
I would not let this break me.
Two twenty-somethings in black lounged at the table beside me, a girl with long, perfect hair an unnatural shade of red, and a guy with several rings through his nose and ears. They shared a tofu-mash thing, and their voices floated my way.
“...I don’t know, maybe...” the guy said.
The girl’s tone carried much more conviction. “Come on, don’t you think it’s a little sketchy? She sleeps with the guy so she can find out secrets? I don’t care about football, but I’m pretty sure that’s a violation of journalistic ethics.”
I almost choked on the remnants of my mocha.
“No one’s positive they were sleeping together, though, right?”
The girl scoffed. “Please. Of course they were.”
I thumped my drink down on the table and stopped by their table. “Really not any of your business.”
They gaped at me, and I felt slightly better as I stalked toward the exit.
Only of course I then had to stand in the doorway for an awful long time, arranging my coat and scarf and hat, but still.
On Sunday, I couldn’t get in to the Leopards Stadium for the game, so I entered Waxy’s half an hour before the one o’clock kick-off, and immediately realized my mistake. Every person in the bar turned their back to me.
I swallowed.
Roy looked up from behind the bar and scowled. “You think this is a good idea?”
