AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I slept with Ford Barrett last night,” I confessed.
She smiled, her whole face lighting up. “Good for you! He’s hot.”
“True, but…I’m feeling guilty over saying we weren’t involved at the meeting a few days ago. And I’m conflicted over whether I should write a column on the proposed arena deal.”
Carly pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Was last night the first time?”
I nodded.
“Well then, you were telling the truth last week.”
“I was, but”
She cut me off. “Elle, are you a Coyotes superfan now who wants to sing the praises of a new arena?”
I balked. “No, absolutely not.”
“So these are your options—write about your opposition to the arena or write nothing about it?”
“Right.”
“I don’t see an issue. You’ve already written about it, so if you want to do so again, that’s your call. And if you don’t want to do so, that’s also your call. The beauty of being an opinion columnist is that you get to choose.”
I furrowed my brow, thinking about what she’d said.
“So if I decided not to write about it, you wouldn’t think I was being biased?”
She shook her head. “Our news department has to remain unbiased, but you do not. And you’re human, Elle. So you’re involved with a Coyotes player. It doesn’t seem to have changed your views on the sport.”
“It hasn’t.”
“I have to get to a meeting with Brett,” she said, standing. “Stop beating yourself up. Write about it, don’t write about it. Just go with what feels right to you.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Carly.”
“Anytime.”
She left my office and I felt a little bit lighter now that I had more clarity. I put on my reading glasses, opened a new document on my computer, and started writing.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Ford
“No skin in the game?Is she out of her fucking mind? Does she have any idea what I spend on operations?”
Mila glared at me from the head of the conference table, because even though there were seven people in this meeting and even though those were rhetorical questions, she expected me to answer them.
“Which question do you want me to ask her?” I asked evenly.
Her eyes widened and she stood up. She slammed her fist on the table several times, the pens on the table moving just slightly.
There was no way those punches hadn’t hurt her hand, but she didn’t let it show.
“Whose team are you on, Ford?” Mila demanded.
I was about to answer when Jack Carruthers, the public relations guru Mila had just hired, spoke up instead.
“Ms. Pavlova, let’s focus on the actionable items”
