by Mary Tribbey
Chapter 11
Dave stood up and took her hand into his, “Come over here by the fireplace so we can relax and talk. I really do have a proposition to make.” Joan’s eyes opened wide when she heard Dave’s words.
“I'm sorry that was a poor choice of words. I don't mean a ‘proposition.’ I want to propose a business arrangement. That doesn’t sound much better. Well, let me stop stammering and tell you what I have in mind,” he finally said.
“Thanks. I admit I'm more curious now than I was before I came,” Joan admitted with a laugh. “Why don’t you just start at the beginning,” she suggested as she sat down on the huge brown leather sofa. Although they weren’t actually touching at all, Joan was very aware of the closeness of Dave’s body.
He slowly began talking. At first, the words came slowly in short bursts, but after a few minutes, he relaxed and his speech came more naturally. He looked at her and said, “It may surprise you, Joan, but the worst thing about playing pro football isn't being tackled, or the hard physical work, or the fear of getting hurt. What I hate the most is being hounded by some of these publicity hungry journalists from the national magazines. Most of the reporters are all right, but some of them don't really care what they write or even if it's true. I had a couple of brushes with them when I was playing college football. They took things I said and twisted them around until I couldn't even recognize my own ideas. Since then I have purposely avoided newsman and the lies they spread. I'm basically a small town boy. I don’t mind what they write about my playing. I've been kicked around in the press for some bad calls, but that’s the football game. What I resent are the nosey ones who try to pry into my private life. My private life is no one's business, but my own. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get up on a soapbox, but that's a touchy subject for me.”
“I can totally understand your feelings about this. Some reporters do terrible damage when they pry into a person’s life. I know personally that horrible things can happen when they do that,” Joan added angrily.
“I'm glad you understand how I feel. It makes the rest so much easier. To get rid of the reporters after last week's game, I promised to give an interview. At the interview, I kept a closed mouth, so to speak, about my life off the field. One of the reporters kept asking prying questions. I finally told him point blank that it was none of his business what I did off the field. He said something that really got to me. He warned me that the public is curious, and if I didn't cooperate and give them the stories, sooner or later, someone is going to come along and fill in the details from their imagination. They could make a lot of money by creating stories about me, because of the public's curiosity. To be truthful that thought scares the hell out of me.”
“That was a terrible thing for him to say, but I'm afraid he might be right. Some tabloids deal more in sensationalism than in truth. Even if they know it isn’t true, they frequently publish it just to sell magazines. They know most people don't have the time, the money, or the stomach to sue them and fight them in court. Because of that, a few get away with murder, but the saddest thing is that the public buys the filth and often believes it,” Joan muttered. “But what does all this have to do with me?”
“I was just getting to that part. If I have to surrender some of my privacy or risk that kind of ‘created reality,’ I'd like to head them off. I know you understand how I feel about this. I'd like you to be the person to write my article. I trust your judgment, and I am really impressed with what I read in your notebook and articles. It doesn't have to be a long, serious piece. I just don't want some stranger coming in and prying and exploiting me without a chance to even know what he's written before it is published. Will you do it? I really do need your help,” Dave said.
Joan sat in stunned silence at the idea he had proposed. It was out of the question, especially the way she was beginning to feel about him, but how could she explain it without revealing her feelings.
“I can’t do it, Dave. That isn’t the kind of writing I usually do. I have my job at the auto parts store and the articles I'm working on for Sunset Magazine. If you look around, you can find someone who knows a lot more about football than I do. This is too big an assignment for me. I'm not good enough to write something that important,” she stammered.
“Let me be the judge of that. I’m not looking for a Pulitzer Prize winning article; I just want someone who will be honest and fair, someone I can trust with my life and my privacy. I can’t think of anyone else in the world I trust more than you. I need you to do this for me. As for the other things, they can be worked out. It wouldn't take that much time to do the research. There isn't any huge rush to get it published, but I would like to get started on it as soon as you can arrange your schedule. Please, Joan, please do this for me,” Dave pleaded.
“I don't know, Dave. I have to work. My job is important to me. I need it to survive financially. I don’t see how I can work this project in the little time I have free,” she explained.
“Is worrying about your current job the main reason you're hesitating? If that can be worked out, will you do it?” Dave asked quickly.
“I guess it is,” she answered.
“Joan, this is a business deal. I will pay you well for writing the article,” he added quickly. “Would you consider writing it for $5000 plus expenses?”
Joan’s mouth fell open at the size of the amount he mentioned. She gathered her thoughts. Her hands were trembling, because his offer was so much higher than anything she'd ever dreamed of making.
Before she had time to answer, he added, “I really don’t care about the money. The peace of mind and relief it would give me would be worth much more than that. The only thing I ask is that I have the right to read the article and have approval rights before you submit it to a magazine for publication. I'm not bragging, but I think you will get a lot of money by selling it to one of the sports or people magazines. They are always calling me wanting to do a story on me. I will give you exclusive rights to the article. It could bring in a lot more money for you. I think you might even be able to sell different versions to different magazines. If that isn't enough money, tell me what else I need to offer to get you to say yes.”
“Dave, it isn't the money. That’s more money than I ever dreamed of making on an article. Why would you pay so much to have me do it, when you can get someone else to do it for free?” she asked.
“I realize that, but I want someone I know and trust and can really rely on to be honest. I want you to write it for me. I trust you completely to be honest and fair. I don't want you to make me into a superhuman being. I want an honest story that will protect my privacy and not be some sensational pack of lies. All I ask is that you help me protect my privacy.” he asked, taking her hands into his. “Please do this for me.”
“It's very tempting. The money would really help out, but I still don't know about my job or whether I am even qualified to do this kind of writing,” Joan replied.
“Let me worry about both problems. If it can be arranged so it doesn't affect your job, will you do it?’ he asked.
“Well. That’s a very big ‘if’, but if it could be worked out, yes, I'll try to write your article for you. I don’t know if it will be good enough, but I’ll do the best job that I can. But let’s make this clear; this is strictly business,” she added seriously.
“Yes, I promise this is a business deal, but that doesn't mean we can't also be friends, does it?” Dave asked.
“No, I think we can still be friends,” she answered.
“That's wonderful!” he whooped. “Come on. Let's get started.”
“What? Right now?” she asked.
“Sure, there's no time like the present,” he crowed. He grabbed her, pulled her up into his arms, swung her around in a circle. “I think I have something that will help you a lot to get to know me better. It's down the hall,” he said as he led her down the long hallway. He opened the la
st door on the right and guided her inside. Joan felt panic rising as she stared straight at one of the largest beds she had ever seen. She tensed up, but he led her past the bed to a desk and bookcase near the window. Joan blushed when she realized he didn't have any ulterior motives. She hoped he hadn't even noticed. If he noticed anything, he didn't mention it.
“Sometimes when I have a really bad day and my ego is as bruised as my body, I come in here and look at this book. I almost had to steal it to get it away from my mom,” he chuckled, as he handed her a worn looking scrapbook. “It goes all the way back to when I first started playing football. Looking at it makes me realize how many people sacrificed and helped me get to where I am now. When I am down, it gives me the courage to keep on trying. Some people say I had it too easy, and in some ways I did, but I always practiced hard and I’ve always tried to do my best.”
“You don't have to convince me, Dave, but I do want to look at the evidence myself,” she added with a laugh.
“I like the way you laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound, but then it matches the rest of you. You are a very beautiful woman. Has anyone told you that lately?” he asked.
Joan blushed, “That doesn't sound like a business question,” she chided. “Is there anything else you’d like to show me now?”
“That doesn't sound much like a business question to me either, especially considering where we’re standing,” he quipped.
Joan looked around at the bedroom furniture, and Dave laughed as he watched a deep red blush creep up her neck. “Please forgive me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, but you gave me such a perfect opening line. There are lots of things I'd like to show you in here, but I promised that this would be strictly business. One thing you will learn about me is that once I make a promise, I keep it. You look so beautiful and so sexy, I think we’d better move back to the living room before you make a liar out of me,” he added with a soft laugh.
He gave her a quick hug and a gentle kiss on the forehead, before he led her out of the bedroom. He quickly showed her the rest of the house. Joan was impressed with the obvious sense of style in each room. They were all comfortable and homey, but still stylish.
Dave led her back to the dining room and put the scrapbook on the table. After pointing out a few highlights in his career and a few pictures of his family, he handed her the scrapbook. “My mother would scalp me if she knew I let this out of my hands, but I want you to take it home and study it at your leisure. Just don't believe all the things you read in it. Many of these writers make me sound too good to be true. I'd love to have you stay longer, but I know you have to go to work tomorrow. Would you like me to take you home now?”
“I didn’t realize it was that late! Thanks for dinner and for trusting me to do this article. Time just flew by. You are right, I’d better get home in a hurry or I'll be sound asleep at my desk tomorrow,” she exclaimed.
“How can I get in touch with you?” he asked.
“Let me give you my number at work and at home. I’ll look over all of this information and try to get a tentative plan for the article. Please think about it, too, and let me know what kind of things you want in your article and what things you want left out. In the meantime, you can gather together the rest of the material you want me to study,” she suggested.
“Well, that may be a bit of a problem, because some of it is not here. Some sources and places are back near my home near Orlando, Florida, and in Seattle, Washington. We may have to travel there to get the rest of the information,” he added. “Is there anyone besides your boss that you need to clear things with before you could take off for a few days?”
Dave waited anxiously as he watched Joan's face. To his surprise, she didn't even hesitate before answering, “No, there isn't anyone else.”
As they drove back to ‘her apartment’, Dave asked for directions again, hoping she would lead him to where she really lived. He blamed it on his poor sense of directions when coming from a different location.
Joan kidded, “You’d better be careful. You might not be able to find your way back to your house.”
Dave silenced her when he answered, “That won’t bother me. If I have trouble, I’ll just go back and sleep on your couch.”
At her stricken look, Dave laughed, “Don’t be so worried! I was just kidding.”
Joan laughed weakly. When Dave pulled up in front of the apartment building, she dashed out before Dave turned his car off.
“Don't bother to see me to my apartment. It is very late, and I need to get to bed. Thanks for another wonderful evening. I'll call you when I finish looking at the scrapbook and have a tentative plan for the article. Don't worry; I'll take good care of your scrapbook. I'd hate to have your mother scalp you. You have such thick, shiny hair.” With a laugh, she turned and hurried into the building. She ducked out of sight and waited until his car pulled away from the curb before calling a taxi to pick her up.