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“He’s sending through the photographer’s recount. I don’t have a choice here. I need this job. I took this assignment with an agreement to write all about Banana Ball. This is a story about Banana Ball.”
“It’s bullshit is what it is.” How can his boss do this to him? How can Ian even consider working for someone like that? I guess with a boss like Yarro I’ve never been put in this kind of position, but I’d like to think I’d walk away if he did, or at least threaten to. Surely his boss won’t actually sack him. He’s a good writer. Has he even thought about what the players will think of him if he writes this? “You know none of the players will even look at you if you do this. You’ll burn every bridge.”
His sad eyes meet mine. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe it won’t be that bad.”
“I…” I have no words. All I want to do is scream at his boss that he’s a total fucking asshole. I want to scream at Ian that he can’t be this stupid to think it will be okay to write that story. He swore he would never do that again, not after the one about me that got me on this tour. He said he never wanted to see his writing be the cause of someone’s pain again. If he’s willing to go back on that promise, how can I trust anything else he’s said to me?
I do the only thing I can. I turn around and walk away, joining the others at the cafe. I don’t talk to Ian the rest of the day, and when the minibus picks us up, I sit with Harrison as far from Ian as I can get.
“You okay?” Harrison asks me as the bus lurches forward on our journey back to the hotel.
“Do you know what room Alan Beaker is in?” I ask, and he nods.
“Why?”
“I have to talk to him. Can you set it up?”
“Sure, when?”
“Now.”
Chapter twenty-four
Ian
I can’t blame Brendanfor getting pissed at me. I’m pissed at me. I don’t want to write this gossip crap anymore, but what choice do I have? Write what I’m told or look for a new job? In truth, I’ve been looking for a while, but there’s nothing stable out there and freelance is just too unpredictable. I had hoped that this tour would show my boss that I could write about the sports themselves, not just the drama surrounding the players’ lives, but he’s firm on this. His publication, his rules.
I don’t eat much at the cafe, my stomach is in knots after Brendan and I spoke, and as much as I don’t want to argue about it anymore, I can’t wait to get back to the room so we can talk about it properly. So I can explain how much I don’t want to do this, but that Ihaveto.
The bus pulls up at the hotel, and Brendan runs off the second the doors open. Great.
I guess I’ll wait for him in our room. I go over the information my editor sent through while I wait. The photo looks like it was taken last night, it’s of a local club here in Colorado, andthough it’s dark, you can see Will Davies and Alan Beaker leaving together. We figured everyone went right to bed when we got here, but by the looks of this photo, that wasn’t the case. I don’t see how I can work this into any kind of story that won’t be gossip. The photographer’s recount isn’t much better.Seen leaving the club in the early hours of the morning and returned to the same hotel.Well sure, because we’re all staying in the same hotel. I could probably ask one of them about it, but even the thought of that turns my stomach. I can’t just walk up to Will and go, “Hey, so did you and Alan hook up last night?”
Even if he denied it, it won’t stop my boss from wanting the piece written, he’ll just tell me to add their remark into it. Maybe I can spin it, so it isn’t that bad?
I try to write about building friendships and closeness amongst the players and management team, and it’s reading okay, but then I look at the photo again and the words have a more sickening twist to them. A photo really does say a thousand words, but those words aren’t facts. They’re whatever the person looking at the fucking photo wants to read them to be.
I can’t do it. Brendan is right. I do have a choice. And I guess I’ve made it. I guess I’ll find out if the threats to my job are real. If they are, if I’m out of work, I’ll lose my place in Arizona. It’s a shitty studio apartment, but still, I won’t be able to make rent. Maybe I can line up some freelance stuff covering the tour. My social posts have been going well. My articles took a dip in numbers the last few days, but I’m still hitting better stats than half the writers on tour.
A lump rises to my throat. The tour. Will I even be allowed to stay when I’m fired? I signed the contract for the whole thing, but it was an agreement made with my magazine. From what my editor said, he’ll want to send someone else to replace me. One way or another, this is my decision, and I’ve made it. I text my boss.
IAN: I’m not using that photo and I won’t write anything about what it shows. We agreed that I’m not a gossip writer. I’m here to write about the sport of Banana Ball and that photo has zero to do with sport. Fire me if you have to, but I won’t do it. I won’t put my name on the byline of anything like that ever again.
I read over the message one last time, then hit send and put my phone on silent. Spotting the time, I realize it’s been over an hour since we got back and Brendan still hasn’t come to the room. I have to tell him I’m not writing the article. He was right. I’m not that person anymore and I won’t be him again. I go to text him, but my phone starts vibrating with my editor’s name on the screen.
Nope. I toss the phone on the bed beside my laptop and jump into the shower. I’ll talk to Brendan when he gets back.
I hear the room door close while I’m drying off and my stomach flips. He’s going to still be mad at me. He doesn’t know I’m not doing the piece. I have to tell him.
I open the door, and my heart skips a beat. He’s sitting on the bed, my laptop open in his hands, and on the screen is the article I started.
“I didn’t—“ I start, and he turns to face me, his lips pursed together and brows raised.
“What I’m reading kind of says differently.”
“No. I didn’t. I mean, I tried to write something that wasn’t horrible, but you’re right. There was no way to spin the image to be anything but gossip trash, so I messaged my boss. Check my phone. You’ll see. I told him he can fire me. I won’t do it.”
Brendan puts the laptop down and picks up my phone.
