The Wrong Mr. Darcy

by Evelyn Lozada

  “Whatcha doin’, Darcy? I don’t want you hurting yourself right before the game,” said the coach.

  The young player hefted the bar onto the stand and slid out from under it, then stood. “I’m being careful, promise. Just wanted to get my warm-up started.”

  “That’s not—” the coach started to say, but then O’Donnell stepped into the room and cut him off.

  “Happy to see it, m’ boy.” He slapped Derek on his bare shoulder, leaving a red mark.

  Derek kept his face blank but karma had his back: O’Donnell realized he had sweat on his hand and mewled in displeasure. The owner swiped his palm back and forth on his pants, almost hard enough to create a friction fire. A liar’s pants actually catching fire—that would be something to see.

  Derek could not get over the fact that this supposed leader of the community knew about the college rules that Charles’s family had broken and completely looked the other way. It’s not that he wanted to see Charles in trouble, but right was right. His best friend and his boss were …

  Not your problem, remember? No distractions. He just needed to get out on that court and focus.

  Besides, what was he going to do? Rat out Ms. Butler so she lost her house? And if the association found out, O’Donnell would have to kick Charles out. He’d suffer, the team would suffer, and then Derek would suffer. Get off your fucking high horse, man!

  He wiped the sweat off his face as his teammates began to file in; the coach and owner moved around the room, talking to players. But O’Donnell returned, alone, a minute later. His old-man eyebrows writhed like caterpillars over his squinty eyes.

  “Darcy, I spoke with Charles. It sounds like you and I need to have a little chat. Meet me in the owner’s suite after the game.”

  He marched away before Derek could respond.

  What had Charles done?

  * * *

  Hara called Carter, checking in and telling him about the opportunity to go to another game. He encouraged her to go, and even offered to send a car to pick her up. She texted her mother, saying she’d be home tomorrow and she was going to another game that night. That should hold Mom over. She’d think Hara was hooking up with athletes. The reporter could only imagine what Willa would do if she knew about Derek Darcy kissing her. Well, almost kissing her. Bastard.

  An hour later, raindrops splattered off the sidewalk and the long hood of a stretch limousine pulling up to the building. Only her boss would call a limo service.

  She hadn’t been paying attention to the weather, though she should have. The rain had ramped back up, creating fast-moving streams in the gutters and pooling on the roads. Hara had pushed off her flight until tomorrow. What if she got stuck again? If she had to, she’d call Carter, get an advance on her next paycheck. She was getting out of this town, whether it was by train, bus, automobile, electric scooter, rowboat, whatever it took. Once she was done sucking the marrow out of game two, she wanted to go home, sleep in her own bed, decompress, gather her wits, and reconnoiter. Replan her future.

  Hurrying to the limousine, she stepped in a puddle, her mules instantly soaked.

  “Mother—”

  The driver had come running to help her into the vehicle, but a gust of wind took his cap. He chased the hat into the building’s doorway and pinned it against the wall. She’d just gotten her car door open when another gust tugged on it, almost pulling the metal slab away from her.

  His hat tucked inside his coat, the muscular driver grabbed the door. She thought she heard him apologize, but her hood rustled in the wind, brushing against her ears as she scuttled like a crab into the cavernous back of the limo.

  Removing her hood, Hara sat on the edge of a velvet bench seat and brushed large droplets from her face and fog from her glasses, then struggled to shed her wet raincoat, tight over her kimono-esque blazer. Finally, she managed to wrestle out of it and spread it on the seat next to her. Squinting into the gloom, Hara felt like she was in a cave, spelunking in luxury.

  She settled in, smoothing down her short bangs, trying to psyche herself up for the night ahead. She wore tight black jeans and her black blazer, with a light blue camisole that made her eye color pop but wasn’t super-exciting, fashion-wise. Naomi had talked her into borrowing dangling gold earrings and a gold necklace, which stood out with her hair pulled back into a bun. The red mules looked fine but unfortunately now felt gummy and damp under her bare toes. Thank God I wasn’t wearing the Louboutins. If she’d stepped into a puddle with those on, she’d have to sell a kidney to replace them. Hara slid off her shoes and dragged her feet over the carpet, trying to dry them. Her toes felt good, sinking into the thick woolen fibers.

  “Ma’am? There’s a champagne split on ice back there, if you like,” the driver said over the intercom.

  “It’s like you know me.” Hara gave him a thumbs-up through the partition window.

  She was going to cover the game and she was going to write a story that would go viral, dammit. It would be good enough to prove her father wrong. But Hara was not offering herself up as fodder to the O’Donnell contingent again.

  As they drew up to the main entrance of the arena, people stopped and stared. She chugged the last half of her glass of the sparkly wine. “Crap.” She should have had him drop her off down the block. The crowd waiting to get into the stadium probably thought she was someone famous. But before she could dwell on it, the door next to her popped open. “Miss,” said the driver, holding out a hand to help her out of the car.

  Hara swallowed. Then she grabbed her stuff, tucked loose tendrils behind her ears, and laid her hand in the chauffeur’s with a languid movement, pretending she was an actress in a PBS miniseries. She played the queen, of course.

  She emerged gracefully from the car, adjusted the sleeves on her blazer, and stood tall. “Please don’t wait for me. I’ll call for a ride when I’m done here.” Hara then glided into the arena, nose in the air. Passersby said nothing, just watched her, wondering who she was.

  Life was so much easier when you could pretend to be someone else.

  CHAPTER 11

  I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness …

  —Pride and Prejudice

  The warning buzzer sounded. The game was going to start in a minute. She was still trying to decide if it was lucky or not that Eddie really had saved her a seat.

  “You should take your notes verbally, like me,” said the “seasoned” reporter, now her self-appointed mentor. He’d been offering a litany of suggestions since she sat down. “Here, give me your phone, I’ll download a dictation app for you.”

  “No, it’s okay. I like to write out my notes, I’m fine.” She had a couple of dictation and transcribing apps but she hadn’t wanted to spill out her thoughts about the game audibly, not when the other, more experienced reporters might hear her. And judge her.

  “Let me show you some of my favorite shorthand symbols, then…”

  Hara ignored his mansplaining, watching instead as Kitty Morretti stood on the sidelines by the players’ bench, talking to Gus, occasionally tossing back her head with a laugh and softly touching his arm. He definitely was into it. They seemed cozy. She was sure hundreds of jealous women in the stands were currently plotting the demise of the heiress.

  Gus was called away, leaving Kitty alone. She glanced around, clearly uncomfortable. When her eyes lit on Hara a dozen feet away, relief passed over her features and she started in her direction.

  Hara realized the heiress was exhibiting social anxiety, just like everybody else. Hara liked her even more than she had at the club.

  The reporters immediately around Hara quieted down as Kitty approached, staring straight at Hara. Hara twisted, sure there was someone behind her waving to Kitty, but no one seemed to be paying attention. Turning forward, she saw that Kitty was directly in front of her.

  “Hey,” said the beautiful young woman, swinging her hair back over her shoulder, her Ita
lian lilt adding to her allure. “You’re the reporter working with Charles, right? What are you doing down here? Come on up. There is a fantastic view from the owners’ box, it smells nice, and there’s free booze.”

  “Oh, hi!” Hara had to gather her wits. Do not geek out. Of course a famous person was talking to her. And inviting her upstairs. She was Hara Isari. “I don’t know … are … is Mr. O’Donnell up there?”

  Kitty scrunched her forehead, thinking. “I don’t think so.”

  “How about Madeline?” Hara mock shivered. “We do not get along.”

  Leaning close, Kitty grinned and whispered, “That scary puttana is definitely not up there. You’re safe.” Her lilting voice went back to its normal volume. “Come, I’ll get you through security.”

  “And you’re sure no one will care?”

  “My famiglia owns this property. You’re my guest.” She shrugged elegantly. “Besides, the owners brought you in, they know who you are. Are you coming?”

  O’Donnell would not be thrilled to see her. She definitely did not want to see him. However, if he wasn’t there … Hara jumped up, grabbed her damp rain jacket and satchel. Kitty had mentioned free booze. She could take notes from the upper decks just as easily as down here. And she wouldn’t have to worry about ducking every time Derek came close to the sidelines. Was there a journalist on earth who would turn the offer down? Eddie sure wouldn’t.

  She wavered for just a second longer, trying to decide if she was an asshole for leaving Eddie, especially since he was the one who originally talked her into coming to the game. Kitty sauntered off with a motion for her to follow.

  The Boston reporter stared at Hara with his bulging eyes. “No. No way. Was that Kitty Morretti?” He slapped his forehead, a move straight out of a cartoon. “You show up from out of nowhere and you keep getting these breaks. I don’t get it. I won’t make the boobs joke again, but, seriously, how are you making this happen?”

  That was an excellent question. “Maybe, Eddie, because I know how to talk to people without insulting them.” He did make it awfully easy to leave him behind.

  Hara, following Kitty, kept her shoulders back and strutted off the court as if she ran the joint. The whole fake-it-until-you-make-it thing was really starting to pay off. She focused only straight ahead, however, with no desire to see who might be close by. Or if Derek was watching her from the clutch of players by the bench. Ignorance was bliss. I’m just going to live out my favorite clichés.

  At the private elevator, Kitty gave the security guard a code and they were whisked upward at an incredible rate. The elevator door slid open only seconds later and directly in front of them was a perky concierge with a clipboard, asking Hara for her name and identification. Kitty intervened, thankfully, leaving Hara to take in the sights. Behind the concierge was the opening to the owners’ suite, a long, low-ceilinged lounge with a panoramic view of the arena floor.

  The room hummed with energy and women’s laughter, backed by a quiet hip-hop soundtrack. The mood was upbeat. Hara was sure that would change if the boys fell behind. Nobody liked their team to lose, but if your income was based on performance, it had to be tough to be a player’s partner, powerless to help.

  A sleek walnut and black leather bar extended almost the length of the back wall, lined with padded leather stools—seats filled with the lovely women of basketball. A bartender in a bow tie shook two cocktails. A waiter circled the room offering finger foods. Wall shelves labored under the weight of dozens of high-end bottles of booze and a range of decent wines. Hara found it amusing the organization had Boston’s Samuel Adams beer on tap right next to a display of spendy Cristal champagne bottles.

  Maybe twenty-five people milled about, a mostly female crowd, though there were a few young men from the posses, everyone talking and getting food and drinks and finding seats. A few relaxed in the theater chairs in front of the arena window, a long row of swiveling black leather recliners with heavy walnut trays and cupholders. The lounge also offered bistro seating, as well as gatherings of small sofas and armchairs. Five large TVs with muted volume were located around the room. One, tucked back in a corner, was set up for gaming; a couple of teenagers played Fortnite, cursing into their headsets. Other TVs showed games being played around the country, as well as commentators on the floor of the Fishers’ game about to start.

  At one end of the room, a den with a rolling screen door provided semi-private seating, including a desk with a couple of computers. Two old men were huddled back there, bent over the gray luminescent screens. They had to be owners.

  The smell of pulled pork and intoxicating spices filled her nostrils. At the end of the bar, a server refilled chafing dishes and cold plates. She salivated at the cheese trays and charcuterie boards and meat sliders and assorted fruits. Why would anyone ever leave this room? There was a chocolate fountain and a soft-serve ice cream machine as well.

  Hara watched Kitty cross the space to talk to an African-American woman in her early thirties with shiny, dark brown curls reaching her tiny waist. The young heiress beckoned her over.

  “Tina, you remember Hara? The reporter from Portland?”

  Hara did a double take. Charles’s fiancée-slash-not-fiancée had been sporting black dreads last time they met. The current style had to be a wig, but if so, this was an impressive piece. The thick, dark curls, highlighted with streaks of red, were shiny and healthy and absolutely natural looking. With dramatic wing-tipped eyeliner and Versace from head to toe, Tina made Hara think of a tiny Beyoncé. Like a little kid, Hara blurted, “Wow. You are beautiful.”

  Tina’s face had been tight but she gave Hara a full smile, showing off blinding white teeth. “Aren’t you sweet?”

  “Rarely.” Hara forced herself to smile back. I’m sorry, Naomi, I don’t mean to be nice to your nemesis. “Sometimes it just slips out, when I’m not paying attention.”

  “Poo,” Tina said. “I don’t believe it. You don’t have no hard edge on ya.”

  Was she saying Hara was fat?

  Tina continued, “Now, we do need to get one thing clear. There’s to be no reporting on what you hear up here, okay? This is where the ladies come to get away from reporters. You got that?”

  “Yep. Conversations are off the record. Promise. Unless someone wants to talk to me on the record.”

  “They don’t.”

  A glass shattered over by the bar, quieting the room. A young woman apologized loudly and profusely while a group of five or six women tut-tutted.

  “Oh gosh! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Here…” The girl wobbled off her stool.

  Tina rolled her eyes. “Excuse me.” She moved briskly to the bar. “Sit down!” she said to the stumbling girl. “Button yourself up. Drink some water.” To the bartender, she said, “Jimmy, she cut off. We not having a scene today, Zia, you hear me?”

  The girl nodded weakly, sitting down without an argument. The rest of the room returned to normal. Kitty leaned into Hara and whispered, “OG rules the roost.”

  Hara nodded. She was terrified for Naomi. This was the wrong woman to mess with.

  A woman dressed in a pink Juicy Couture tracksuit with high heels and big hoop earrings interrupted the party. “Hey!” she said loudly. “Look at this.” She pointed to one of the muted TVs.

  Two desk reporters wearing concerned expressions silently dialogued about the breaking news. The captions ran in Helvetica across the bottom of the screen:

  … The early-season nor’easter has swung back over the Boston area and is, unfortunately, increasing in strength. An incoming king tide is already causing minor flooding in low-lying areas, and waters are expected to rise overnight. More intense rain showers are on the way, and the wind gusts may reach 60 mph in some areas.

  “Winter hasn’t even started yet and already we’re gobsmacked. This sucks.” The lady in pink sniffed. “I hate this weather.”

  The talk shifted to favorite vacation spots to escape Boston winters, from sunny Malibu to the
Caribbean. Hara momentarily felt superior—this bout of rain would barely register as a storm with an Oregonian, and sixty-mile-an-hour gusts on the north coast made for good kite-flying weather.

  Flooding, though? Hara was used to flooding in her hometown and knew what to expect, but here? She shifted in discomfort, assessing the faces around her. Were they worried about the storm? Should she be? She grimaced. There was nothing to be done about it at the moment. “Kitty, when they talk about flooding around here, how bad does it get?”

  The heiress waved a hand, dismissive. “They’ll block off the streets that have low spots. They make it sound like a big deal, but it’s not.”

  The starting buzzer rang and the teams assembled on the court, ready for the jump shot.

  Hara dug out her notepad and stepped up to the window overlooking the gym floor. “This is an amazing view. Wow. Thank you,” she said to Kitty. The box jutted out over the floor just enough that Hara felt like she was floating directly above the court. The windows were so clean it was hard to tell there was anything between them and the air the peons below were breathing.

  Hara took a seat at the end of the row trying to be unobtrusive and turned her attention to the game, now with a bird’s-eye view. Another little gift from the universe. As long as she kept moving forward, as long as she worked to stay on this wave—and ignored the negative crap—maybe there really was a chance she could make it in the big leagues.

  Charles and the lead opposing player swiped at the ball, and it was Derek who recovered it. The ball went to the Fishers and the clock started. The game was on.

  “Do you see that? Gus moves like Apollo.” Kitty settled into the chair next to her, champagne in hand. She leaned forward and placed her chin in her other hand. “He is haawt.” She gave Hara a quick glance. “I saw you talking to Derek at the club. He is the finest of the fine.”

  “Uh huh.” He was. She flashed on him pressing up against her outside the O’Donnells’, and then her dream, his strong fingers stroking her … Oh, he was fine, all right. Dickhead.