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We crossed paths with a distinguished, silver-haired man, who looked more suited for a television show than real life. His custom suit fit his form perfectly, and his eyes glittered like the same steely color as his sleekly parted hair.
My stomach clenched and I shot a wide-eyed glance at Carlos, who nodded almost imperceptivity.
My tenth-grade English teacher once joked—or perhaps he hadn’t been joking—that we should never trust anyone with two first names. No one would trust Gregory Philip as far as they could throw him at anything except being the Leopards’ controlling, maniacal owner. He succeeded at that dramatically, causing a fevered worship in New Yorkers and strong dislike in everyone else.
Philip came from a wealthy New England family that spent its money with the affected ennui of its social circles, buying and trading islands and houses and sport teams on a whim. He’d been in possession of the Leopards for twenty years, which was no surprise given that the Leopards were a cash cow. When he’d first bought the team straight out of Yale and flush with money from his inheritance, everyone had said the rich young party boy would blow the team to shreds. His reputation was low; apparently his mistakes had been covered over by his late, wealthy father more than once, and rumor said he now did the same for his own son. But morally reprehensible or not, his business acumen had instead turned the Leopards into a lead player in the AFC.
Tanya led me up to him without missing a beat. “Greg, this is my new staff writer, Tamar Rosenfeld.”
Oh God oh God oh God. What was I doing in his company? Must remember to breathe.
He took my hand and offered me a toothy smile. “The new Jane.”
That crashed me back down to reality. I was sick of being the new Jane. “That’s right.”
“It’s a pleasure. Be sure to let me know if you have any questions—anything at all.”
He walked off and I watched him go with wide eyes.
Carlos poked up by my side. “That wasn’t true. Don’t go to him with any questions.”
“Yeah, wasn’t really planning on it.”
“Oh, you’ll go to him with questions.” Tanya, who must have had ears in the back of her head, spoke dryly. “But he’ll do his best not to answer them.”
I smiled all the way down to the locker room.
Several times each week during the regular season, each football club was required to provide accredited media with access to their locker room. Today, Tanya was interviewing Malcolm Lindsey for a feature piece, and we actually sat outside the room. But that was quickly countered by the whole Malcolm Lindsey bit. He was one of the best wide-outs in the League, particularly when paired with quarterback Ryan Carter. Last season, he’d come pretty close to 1,200 receiving yards. Last week, though, covered by the opposing team’s rookie cornerback, he hadn’t scored once. So emotions were riding high.
Other media swarmed around us, people Tanya clearly knew. Even I recognized some of them, mostly the news anchors. They all looked a little too well groomed to be real; not like Philip, whose dress looked dangerous, but rather like mannequins.
Aurelius Stevenson, of Sports News Now, smiled rather cruelly at Tanya while we set up with Lindsey. “Doing a piece on the wedding?”
Oh, and that was the other thing about Malcolm Lindsey. He was getting married this year.
Which would be completely irrelevant, except if you wanted to be an obnoxious snot to a female reporter.
Tanya didn’t even glance at him. Instead, she dove into the interview fully focused.
Afterward, the press had fifteen minutes to interview Head Coach Paglio—another man I’d never seen in person before. Despite his gruffer attitude, he wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Gregory Philip. He’d been around for ages, at least a dozen years, and he’d come away from the Redskins to lead the Leopards. He was famous for spitting when he spoke and making rookies cry, but he made the veterans laugh so everyone figured that was all right. I took furious notes as he spoke and tried not to float away in astonishment, feeling somewhat like I’d infiltrated the media corps and no one had yet realized I was an imposter. I felt like I’d walked into dreamland.
And it didn’t even stop there.
Tanya hooked a PR assistant walking by. “Anna, this is our new sports reporter, the one taking Jane’s place.”
She nodded like she’d been expecting me, and smiled. “Ready for your tour?”
“Completely.”
The tour was quick and competent. At the end, I was returned to the press area, where I lingered off to the side, trying to take in all the swirling chaos of my new field. I studied a giant photo of wide-out Malcolm Lindsey superimposed over the wall.
Deep male laughter tripped my attention, and I plastered on a wide, friendly smile as I turned, ready to engage with some of the team for the first time. Nervous flutters struck up in my chest, but they were born of excitement. The New York Leopards. These men were brilliant athletes, owners of powerful bodies and incredible strength.
My excitement turned to shock when I turned and saw Abraham striding down the hall toward me.
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He hadn’t seen me yet. He was joking with one of his teammates. He wore gym shorts and a black Leopards T-shirt that showcased his powerful arms; a towel was slung around his neck. His hair, like usual, sprung about untidily.
