by Ella Jackson
I think he did. His face is unreadable.
But I definitely heard the words I think I heard.
"I – I –" I take a deep breath, and try to collect myself. Then, someone whose voice I don't recognise says "Sure, I'd like to."
Dale smiled, and clapped his hands together. "Great." He put the card on the table, and stood up. "Here's my number. Maybe you can text me when you know when you're free?"
He extended a hand, and I shook it. His grip was strong, but gentle. For a moment, our eyes met, and I felt a flash of electricity. "I'm looking forward to it."
With mounting horror, I realised that the someone who accepted was me.
I just accepted a date.
With someone I'm supposed to be writing a profile on.
Six
Dale
"What are you doing, man?" Ricky called out from the other side of the room. He was sprawled on my big cashmere rug, playing with Cyrus.
"Who's a good girl? You, you're a good girl? Aren't you?"
I looked over at him, and wonder what all of the soccer groupies and scandal websites would say now, if they could see the famous Ricardo Cortez, lying on his back on the rug, rubbing a dog's ears. And making baby noises.
When I bought this house, I figured it would be too big for the three of us as it was, but my accountant told me that bigger was always better.
As it is, Ricky was over here most of the time anyway and he takes up a hell of a lot of space. Plus, with a dog, it turns out you can never have too much space.
"I am, uh, just screwing about on the computer." Actually, what I was doing was googling Keisha Gilmore to try and find out more about her, but I'd really rather Ricky didn't know that right now.
Ricky might act like a big dumb idiot, but he had a nose for trouble. Sometimes. "Like hell you are. You're up to something. Who's a good girl? You are, you're a good girl."
I think the last part wasn't directed at me.
He got to his feet, giving Cyrus one last tickle under her chin, and walked over to me. I toyed with the idea of obscuring what I'm doing, but I figure that will only result in a fight, so I turned the laptop and show it to him.
"Keisha Gilmore? Who the fuck is she?"
"The reporter we met the other day at training. You remember?" Ricky's face was completely blank. "The hot one."
His eyebrows raised, and his eyes light up. "Oh, right, her. Yeah, very good. You going to fuck her?"
I tried not to sigh noticeably. Ricky is a good dude, and he's a much better friend than he is an enemy, but he's not going to win the subtlety Olympics.
"No, Cortez, I am not going to fuck. Mostly I just want to find out what kind of person she is. It's completely innocent." Unfortunately, I had paused just that little bit too long in between the words completely and innocent, and he was on it like a hawk.
If, that is, a hawk were to swear a lot.
"Bullshit. You, my friend, are aiming to get into her pants. I will bet you a case of whatever you want. That is your ultimate goal."
"Actually," I said, trying to distract him, "she was asking about you."
"Was she?" His eyebrows lifted. "What did she say?"
I tried to look noncommittal. "Well, you know she's writing this piece about the Thunderbirds, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah, I heard."
"Well, we were talking about focusing on a player, telling their story. Kind of a human interest thing. And, I suggested you."
"No shit!" He pushed me in the shoulder. "All about me, huh?"
I take a full step backward out of swinging range. "Yeah, but we decided against it. You were just too full of yourself for the readers, she said."
Ricky's face clouds over. "You said what? You son of –"
"Joking, joking. Look, I've got nothing to do with it, right? I'm just a soccer player. I can't tell you what to do."
"Fuck you. You're just jealous because I get the girls. And everyone knows it."
I nodded. "Yep, you got me. How did you ever guess?"
Ricky went to try and punch me, and I ducked away from him. "Look, man, seriously. It's for the best you wouldn't want a reporter following you around all the time, would you? Just look at some of the shit you get up to. Are you seriously telling me that you would want that in the papers all day everyday?"
"Now that you put it that way, maybe you're right. Yeah, on second thoughts, maybe you're a better subject than I." He shook his head. "Still think you should fuck her, though."
Now it's my turn to try and punch him. "Cortez, do you ever think of anything apart from soccer and fucking? Do you have any idea how bad a plan it would be for me to try and talk her into bed? You've had some bad plans in the past, is no doubt about it. For instance, trying to pick a fight with me – now that was a bad plan."
"I would have won, you dick, if Will hadn't separated us." He smiling as he says it, and this is a common topic of argument for us.
Yeah, yeah, well, we'll never know. "Luckily for you, that will remain unknown."
"Look," Ricky says, glancing down at my laptop screen, "all I'm saying is that, well, it's been a while for you, right? I mean I get that you've got responsibilities and everything, but there must be some checks out there who still find you vaguely attractive. I mean, I can't see it myself, but there's no accounting for taste."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, bro. Great to know you've got my back. Anyway, that's not what I'm here for."
Besides, the idea of sleeping with a reporter sounds like a stratospherically bad idea to me. If you do anything to piss her off – bam, it's all over the news in the worst possible way.
The more I think about it, the worse and idea, it becomes. She could deny that the whole thing happened, she could claim that you were being a predatory asshole, could be anything.
No way. I've got too much going on in my life right now, and I'm just not ready to face the consequences of getting into something with someone so potentially volatile.
"So what did you find on this Keisha girl?" Ricky poked at my laptop, trying to pull it away from me.
"Well, she has a bunch of her articles are in the local paper. Read for yourself if you want."
He leans over and pages down slowly. "Looks like some serious shit. I mean, she seemed like a pretty highbrow reporter. This is more than just the normal sports reporting bullshit, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah, but there's some not so highbrow stuff as well. Look at this." I clicked to another tab and show him an article entitled 'the 10 dumbest uses for a rolling pin in pop songs '. "How about this one? It's called… Why don't ground hogs wear hats?"
He whistled. "Man, I thought I had done some shitty jobs in my life, but I'm glad I didn't have to do that."
I grinned, and poked him in the chest. "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe this article should be about you. After all. You fit right in with the ground hogs and the rolling pins. Kind of more of suburban housewife kind of topic, you know?"
"You're a suburban housewife."
This conversation was rapidly deteriorating, and I've got stuff to do. "What the fuck does that even mean? Look, don't answer, it's hardly worth my time listening to your crap. Anyway, it's a genuine opportunity to promote the team, and you know how Jessie is always on at us to do community outreach stuff, right? Well, this is my community outreach for the month. Hey, if it gets me out of posing in the new uniforms for photo opportunities, and talking to reporters after games for a month, then I'm all for it."
I really, really, hate talking to reporters after games. For some reason, they always want to ask you complicated questions when you've just been running your lungs out for 90 minutes.
If you've ever wondered why most post game interviews are for of banal crap, well, it's because the poor bastard who has to give them are absolutely exhausted, their bodies and brains stretched to the limit. So all they can do is say 'yeah, I'm happy, 'or 'yeah, I'm not happy, 'because that's basically all that is going on in their head at the time.
Guys like W
ill are born leaders; they have the ability to stitch together coherent sentences at that point and sound like they're telling the fans something they want to hear. Me, I don't have that skill, and I don't look like developing it any time soon.
"You're into her." Ricky's tone was a little accusing, but good-natured.
I shrugged. "No, I hardly know her, man. We only had one conversation, and I'm not some kind of horndog like you who is going to pursue a woman after meeting her for all of five minutes. Besides, she's not really my type."
"Really dude? She's hot, and smart. What else is your type? No, don't answer – the answer would only make me miserable. Anyway, what you should do is get her over here," he indicated the expanse of my living room – "and make a move on her."
I rolled my eyes. We go through this every time I have any type of encounter with a woman. Ricky waxes lyrical about how I should talk them into bed, and I tell him to go fuck himself.
"Dude, I have no time or place to do something like that, even if I wanted to. You know that as well as I'd. Anyway, I've got all the women I need in my life, right?"
Ricky smiled, and put up his hands in acknowledgement of my point. "Well, your girl is quite a looker, I give you that. Matter of fact, she's the prettiest girl I know, by a country mile."
"You know," I said, narrowing my eyes, "from anyone else that would be really quite heartwarming, but from you, it just sounds really, fucking creepy. Don't ask me why, it just does."
"You wound me." Ricky clasped one large hand to his heart. "What sort of an example are you setting for Daisy with that kind of suspicion?"
"The example I'm setting is going to involve 'stay away from guys like uncle Ricky '. Personally I think this is an excellent fucking example." I grabbed my laptop back, close the lid with a thunk, and stand up. "Now, you and Cyrus should get fuck out of here. This reporter is coming over any minute now, I don't want your sleazy ass here when she is. Besides," I indicated Cyrus in the corner, looking soulfully at us, "someone is needing your company. Isn't it?"
Ricky's face softened, and he bounded over to Cyrus who leapt up joyfully. "Okay, pretty girl, let's go for a walk. Uncle Ricky knows when he's not wanted, doesn't he? Yes he does! Yes he does!"
I threw Cyrus' leash at his head. "Get the fuck out of here, Cortez, and bring my dog back in one piece."
"Sure thing, buddy. Don't do anything…newsworthy with the luscious reporter while I'm away, okay?
Seven
Keisha
I don't know when my relationship with my mother went from being friendly and supportive to her, looking at me and seeing me as a failure. Since my dad died, his insurance meant that she doesn't have to worry about paying bills, or making sure there was food on the table, but I do.
"I'm doing it," I heard myself saying, and even though the words coming out of my mouth were lies, I don't want to argue right now.
"I'm only looking out for your best interests Keisha. You know that you should move out of that little town. If you want to be a real reporter. I keep telling you, you need to go to New York or Boston or… Anywhere, really, that you can get a job in a real newspaper. You need to work your way up. Just the way your father did."
"Thanks for your concern." I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice; it wasn't going to help at this point. I knew that I can handle myself, or at least that I had no choice right now and my mothers 'advice' wasn't helping.
I'd been worried when I moved here, because for a time I believed what my mother was saying. If my dad had still been around, he would have made sure I'd gotten a job some way back; New York, Boston anywhere. But he wasn't around anymore, and that meant I had to make my own way.
Despite my lack of experience coming out of journalism school, I'd gotten lucky and managed to sell a few pieces to major syndication services. That led to more work, and to some minor prizes. When I'd first come to Cheyenne three years ago, the old guy who owned the newspaper I work for was surprised that I was here.
"Why do you want to move here? You could be, anywhere."
I hemmed and hawed, but I didn't want to tell him the truth any more than I want to tell my mother; the truth was that in a big newspaper I'd be taking orders morning, noon night, and I couldn't stand that. Dad hadn't done that, and I wasn't going to do it. Anyway, he'd offered me a job, and I'd been so shocked at the end of the conversation that I hadn't thought about saying no.
Now I'd been here for a while, things had been getting easier, although I can see what I was missing not being in a big city. Most of what I was doing here was reporting on small, unimportant stories, and the pace still wasn't enough to get me out of having to write those damned top-10 lists.
My mum had gone on a major bender after Dad had died, and it wasn't until I had argued with her for months and months and guilt tripped her into going into rehab that she had turned her life around. It saved her life, but it put a permanent barrier between us. Even now, she still resented me for doing it. That hurt for a long time, but I pushed that hurt to the back of my mind.
"Your father was so excited when you finished journalism school, you know." Her tone was edgy, uneasy; the way she always got when she talked about Dad.
"Yes, mom. I know." There was no point telling her that I knew, just like there was no point telling her to stop. "Just don't try and convince me that taking this job was a bad idea, okay? We've had that discussion enough times before."
"I know, but –"
"Mom, don't." I rubbed my forehead with one hand as I slowed the car to turn a corner. Dale Williams's place was a little way out of town, in a new housing development. It wasn't marked on Google maps, and I needed to pay attention to my surroundings to avoid getting lost. "We talked about it, like I said, and I told you quite clearly that I want to be in charge of my own work for a while. Maybe one day I'll go and try and get a job at a big ticket city newspaper, but right now I'm happy where I am, okay?"
"I'm only trying to help you," Mum replied, with a petulant tone. "Don't blame me if –"
"I know, believe me, I know." After my brother had left for the Army she had been alone in our childhood house, the house I grew up in, and it had been hard on her. Sometimes I think her criticising my career was the only way she could feel relevant again. "Mom, I have to go, okay, I've got an interview to do."
Without waiting for her to reply, I put my phone down on the passenger's side seat. Slowing to a halt, I looked around outside. The gates of the development were large, wrought iron, and gleaming. Looks like a pretty fancy place.
Pulling through them, I ticked off the large houses one by one, and get to number four. A letterbox outside with the word 'Williams' is on it is the only indication that Dale lives here, and I came to a halt just in front of it.
I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and check my bag for my notebook, dictaphone, spare batteries, and can of mace.
The last one of those I've never had to use on an interview subject, but you never know.
Opening the car door, I stood in front of Dale's house, surveying. Looking down, I found myself wishing I had worn something a little different.
I had gone for 'businesslike but professional', but the blouse I had chosen, despite being my favourite, was smaller than I remember it, and fit just a little more snugly than I had intended. 'Oh well,' I thought, a little cleavage maybe wouldn't hurt in getting a good story.
The house was large, but looked surprisingly lived-in; I'd thought that most pro athletes would have sprawling bachelor pads, with hot tubs and pool rooms and so on. From out here, I couldn't tell whether there was a hot tub or a pool room, but what there was, surprisingly enough was a child swing and place it in the front yard.
Maybe the previous owners had kids.
I'd sworn to myself that no matter what happened today, I was gonna come away with a good story; this guy might be closemouthed, and pretty infuriating, and maybe just a little bit sexy, but he wasn't going to put me off no matter what. Being a freelance
reporter meant that every job was crucial, and I had no room to screw up, so I'd better get this right.
Taking a deep breath, I marched up the pathway past neatly – arranged rows of colourful flowers, took two steps up to the door, and nearly tripped over a dog bowl. The name 'Cyrus 'is printed on it in large black letters. Shifting it unobtrusively to one side with my foot, I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
The door swung open, and Dale was standing in front of me, a pair of jeans and a fitted green T-shirt stretched tight over his muscles. He was a lot bigger than I remembered him in the cafe.
"Hey," he smiled at me. "I hope you didn't have trouble getting here."
I shook my head just a little too vigorously. "No, it was fine."
I tried not to look him up and down too obviously, but my eyes didn't know where to go, and it was either that or try and peer past him into his living room, and neither of them were great options. I always felt a little uncomfortable and awkward at this point in interviews, and my tactic was always to rush through it and try to get to the incisive questions as fast as possible.
"Please, come in," he beckoned and opens the big wooden framed door wider. "Can I get you a cup of coffee? Glass of water?"
I walked in past him, feeling his presence next to me. Deep breaths. Deep breaths
"I confess that I spent the morning reading about soccer statistics, and about your record." This is part of my standard tactic for interview subjects; flatter them a little bit, but also imply that you know more about them than they expected. If you can get them in that sweet spot between uncomfortable and ego – stroked, then they forget to be defensive.
"I'm sure you did." His voice was low and slightly rasping. "I'm happy to answer questions about my record if you want, although to be honest, I don't look at statistics much myself. Please, come in and sit down."
I sat down on his huge leather sofa, and looked around the room. It was homey, woodpanelled, with few of the accoutrements that I'd expected. Sure, there was a big screen television, and an expensive -looking stereo system. But there were no gaming consoles, insight, and the stereo system looks like it hasn't been touched.