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"Fuck," he growls. "This day needs to end already."
He's right. It does.
"My door was closedfor a reason," I snap at Darren when he barges in an hour later, not even bothering to knock. I'm so tired of tolerating his disrespect and boorish behavior. I'm not doing it anymore. Enough is enough.
"Wow. Cranky, much?" He smirks at me, a condescending gleam in his eyes as he invites himself to take a seat. "You pick the strangest hills to die on, all things considered."
"What does that mean?" I demand, glaring at him from across my desk.
He shrugs a shoulder and then wipes invisible lint off his starched blue button-down. "You're a gossip reporter. I'm surprised you have any concept of privacy," he says. "Most women don't."
"I'm a reporter," I say firmly. "You're the one who decided I should report on trivial gossip, not me."
"Touché."
I rub my temples, a headache beginning to pound behind my eyes. "Do you need something, Darren? I have things to do if you want me to have a segment pieced together to film today."
"Just following up on our little chat," he says conversationally. "Have you gotten the info?"
My stomach twists. I knew that was why he was here, but I kind of hoped he'd let it die. I guess I'm an idealist. I push my keyboard away, taking a minute to collect my thoughts. I want to have this conversation calmly and rationally, but he makes it so freaking hard to do that. "I do have the info," I say carefully. "But I won't be using it."
His eyes narrow, his entire demeanor shifting from false camaraderie to complete derision. "Excuse me?" he growls, his face turning red. "I don't recall this being your decision."
"Actually, you made it mine when you hired me for this job," I snap. "I don't care what bullshit you report, just get it done.Isn't that what you said? You left the decision up to me, and I'm making the decision not to report anything else on this story."
His face turns red, but he doesn't blow up like I expected he would. Instead, he smiles, a savage, chilling smile that sends iceinto my veins. "Fine," he says. "Then I have another story for you instead."
"And what would that be?"
"You can air the security camera footage we have of Jonas Michaud practically fucking you in our parking lot yesterday."
My heart stops. Literally freaking stops.
"He was all over you." His lips twist, his smile bitter, mocking. "And you damn sure weren't telling him no. Tell me, Ms. Knight, do you always fuck your sources, or is he special? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you're fucking an athlete. That's how the story usually goes with women in sports, isn't it? You just can't help yourselves."
I leap to my feet, my chair rolling backward into the bookcase behind me. "Stop it," I hiss, slapping my hand down on top of my desk as a wave of fury rolls through me. "You can hate me all you want, I don't care. But you leave Jonas out of this, Darren."
"Why? He's news. Or did you forget what we do here?"
"He isn't a freaking a story!" I shout. "Their lives aren't stories!"
"Yeah, they are," he says, smirking at me. "That's what you're here to do. Turn them into stories. It's what you're good at doing, and if you want to keep doing it, you'll run the damn story on Theo Kline and his puck bunny. Or we'll run the story on you and Jonas Michaud. The choice is yours."
"I quit."
His eyes widen, genuine surprise filtering through his expression.
"I quit," I repeat. "Find someone else to do your dirty work because I freaking quit." I jerk my flash drive from my computer and hurriedly start grabbing my belongings, trying to scoop them into my bag before I lose the battle, and the tears I'm holding back by sheer force of will alone start to fall.
"You can't quit," Darren says. "You need this job."
"No, this job needs me," I say, understanding just how true that is for, perhaps, the first time. That's why he's tried so freaking hard to bully me into believing this is all I can do. He needs me to keep believing it because no one else could do what I have or put up with what I have. Darren needs me because I'm good for ratings, and that's good for him. But I don't need him.
"Dammit, Jamie. Be reasonable and think about this."
"I am thinking about it," I say, spinning on him. "I've been thinking about it. All year, I've done nothing but think about how freaking much I hate this job because of you. You're a sexist, misogynistic pig, and I swear to God, if you even think about airing that video, the whole world will know what you've put me through. The sexual harassment, the gender discrimination, the bullying, I'll out every last vile word you've said to me this year." A mocking smile twists my lips. "Do you think the network will keep you then, Darren? Iknowthe national networks won't touch you."
I loop my bag over my arm, grab the flowers Jonas sent me, and then scoop up the box with his jersey inside, casting one final, withering glance at Darren Smith. He's silent in his chair, his face pale. He knows I mean every word. For once, he's listening. For once, he's hearing me.
