by KB Winters
He looked back up. “Okay…take a seat.”
I lowered into one of the two chairs across from him and drew in a shaky breath.
He set the pages in his hand on the top of his desk and leveled me with a blank stare. “What’s on your mind, Josie?”
“Mr. Jones, as you know, I’ve been here for two years now. Actually, yesterday was my two-year anniversary since my internship ended and my official employment started…” Not that anyone noticed. I squared my shoulders. “When I did my internship, I didn’t complain when my daily tasks revolved around coffee runs, messaging proofs all over the office, and making sure guests got a tour and knew where the bathrooms are located. But now…two years later…I’m not happy with those limited duties. I’m qualified to do more, and I would like to do that here, with Oklahoma City’s Channel Six, but if that can’t happen, I’ll be looking elsewhere.”
Good job Josie. Mr. Jones didn’t move. He blinked a few times.
“Sir?”
“Are you finished?” he asked, spreading his palms on the top of his desk.
“Yes…”
Just kill me…
“All right. Well, then let me start by telling you that I do appreciate your direct approach.”
Granted it was two years delayed.
He continued, “So, I’ll be direct with you in return. The station is not in a position to be doling out promotions to you—or anyone else for that matter. I understand, and hell, I admire your drive, but right now, it’s bad timing.”
I nodded, the ball of fear in my chest unraveled, and all that was left was an empty, gutted feeling as my dream gave its final death throws. All I’d ever wanted was to be an on-air journalist. The woman charging into the conflict, reporting hard hitting news from the sidelines of the action—a face people could trust when the chips were down.
Mr. Jones picked up his paper and started reading again.
What the hell? Was that it? Hours of practicing, reciting, and pep-talking myself into growing a pair, and that was all he had to say? There wasn’t room in the damn budget?
I was furious! But before I could unleash it on the stodgy old man in front of me, he spoke. “Have you seen this? The Warriors just scooped up Trey Delgado. Damn…crazy day.”
My mouth dropped open. “I—I’m sorry…what?”
Mr. Jones looked up at me and then turned the page back to reveal the black and white picture on the sports section. “Trey Delgado. The star hitter from the Orange County Coyotes. The Warriors just snagged him right at the trade deadline. Hell of a steal!”
The man in the picture looked familiar and it took me a moment to wade through the shock of the abrupt topic change—and the evaporation of my promotion talk—to realize he was the bad boy baseball player on the cover of half a dozen tabloid magazines. He was just some prick who couldn’t keep it in his pants and liked to pick fights with loudmouths in bars.
Quite the charmer.
“Mr. Jones, about my promotion…”
He set the newspaper down and folded his hands. “Tell you what, Josie, I like your spirit, so I’m going to create an opportunity for you to get some on-air time.”
My hope grew inside me and it was all I could do to keep from bouncing in my seat. Now we were getting somewhere!
“Christy is going on maternity leave in a few weeks. I’ll have you shadow her and the weather crew for the next week or two, and that way, you can step in for her while she’s gone. That’ll get you twelve weeks of on-camera time. I’ll call Bart and let him know to expect you.”
“What? No, no, no…Mr. Jones, with all due respect, I do not want to be a weather girl.”
I tried to keep the bitch out of my voice, but there was no way in hell I’d stand in front of a green screen, wearing evening wear and enough hair spray to choke a donkey, to gesture and point like a rookie Vanna White.
Mr. Jones straightened and flashed me a dark look. “Why not? You want airtime. That’s what I’m offering you. I don’t see the problem here.”
I sighed. “Please, Mr. Jones. There has to be something else. Anything else.”
Great, now I was groveling. Perfect.
He pointed a thick finger at the newspaper pages spread over his desk. “How about this? There’s a story here. You think you can dig it up?”
I leaned over the picture of Trey Delgado. “What’s the story? Princess baseball player comes to corrupt the rest of our fledgling baseball team?”
“How about we start with getting an interview? Trey Delgado hates reporters and never gives interviews. If we could get an exclusive with him, we’d have the eyes of the nation tuned in. That kind of exposure would lead to an influx of viewers and with that—advertising dollars would come right along with it.”
I saw where he was going. It wasn’t pretty, but it did make sense. “And if we had more advertising, the station could up the budget for other things…like a new field reporter?” I finished, glumly.
“Bingo!” Mr. Jones said, grinning as he lifted his finger to point at me.
I brushed a strand of my long, auburn hair behind my ear. “But he doesn’t give interviews. And even if he did, I’m far from a sports reporter. I wouldn’t even know what to ask. Why can’t Scotty or Dave get the scoop? The end result would be the same, wouldn’t it?”
Mr. Jones chuckled.
That couldn’t be a good sign…
“Josie, you want this, and I’m going to make you work for it. Think of it like a…a humanitarian piece if that helps get the job done. I don’t give two shits about his stats right now. What I want is an exclusive. Find out how he feels about the shocking trade, what he thinks about the Warriors and their chances now that he’s on board. And more importantly—his personal shit. Weave that all together and you got yourself a viral piece that will get you the attention you’re looking for. Think you can handle it?”
Damn it.
I’d set my own trap.
I stood and swept the newspaper off the desk in one fluid motion. I leaned over and grinned at Mr. Jones. “I’ll do it, and then you’re going to give me a real reporting job. Deal?”
He held up his hand for me to shake. “You got yourself a deal, Jo.”
I shook his hand and then strut out of his office, the newspaper tucked under my arm. As I stalked down the hall to my workstation, I glared down at the newspaper in my hands, the page still folded back to showcase Trey Delgado with his dark eyes and half-cocked smile. “All right, asshole. I guess it looks like you’re my meal ticket.”
Charming an arrogant pro baseball player into one lousy interview couldn’t be that hard. Could it?
3
Trey
Bullshit turned out to be stacked higher than I could have possibly imagined, and by the end of trade week—I was cut loose from the Coyotes. I found my ass glued to the seat of a chartered jet to Oklahoma fucking City to join the piss-ant Warriors. Everything happened so fast—my head was still spinning as the pilot announced we were ready to take off.
Mason sat in the seat across from me, pouring over his laptop and jotting down notes on his tablet with a shiny metal stylus. He glanced up, peering at me over the edge of his reading glasses. “What do you want to do about the house? Want me to call Gina?”
I shook my head. “I’m keeping the house.”
Mason frowned. “Trey…”
“I’m keeping it, Mase.” I narrowed my eyes at him and he held up a hand.
He scratched something off his list and then reached into his briefcase, open on the seat beside him, and handed over a stack of papers that were held together with a black clip. “Here’s the list of rentals in Oklahoma City and surrounding areas. All of these will be available within the month.”
I took the pages but set them down without looking through them and returned my eyes to the small window on my left.
“Trey, listen,” Mason paused to remove his glasses and drew in a deep sigh. “I know this is hard. I tried everything I knew to keep this
from happening. But I think you need to accept this change and make the most of it. You can’t spend the next three years sulking.”
Three years. In Oklahoma? Fuck that sounded like an eternity.
The Coyotes ended up paying the Warriors to take me off their hands. How insulting was that? Did Mason really think I’d smile, nod, and move along like it wasn’t a kick in the nuts?
I was a professional fucking home run all-star hitter. And they couldn’t handle me?
I’d finish up the terms of my contract playing for Oklahoma City, joining the ranks of a crap-ass team that was about as far away from the spotlight as it could get. At the beginning of the season, the Coyotes played against them. It was rookie pitcher, Cody Wright’s debut in the major leagues and I hit a grand slam out of the park that broke records and embarrassed the Warriors—especially Cody Wright. Now I was gonna play for the fuckers. Even though Wright had come around and was a kick ass pitcher—they were still a way from making any kind of championship run. What was I supposed to be? The ringer? The team hero?
“This is a fucking nightmare,” I muttered, ignoring Mason’s advice.
He cleared his throat and went back to his work. The tapping at his keyboard was getting on my nerves.
“What about a car? You want me to arrange to have something dropped off at the hotel? Or do you want one of yours shipped over?”
I groaned. “I’ll have something shipped. Until then, just get me a driver. I don’t want to worry about getting lost in this podunk cow town, on top of everything else.”
Mason frowned but took down the note. “You know Trey. Oklahoma City is not a podunk cow town. It’s the largest city in the United States.”
“I thought LA was?”
“Area-wise. It’s a huge place, you’ll see.”
Great. A huge podunk cow town. Just what I needed.
“So, how’s this gonna play out?”
He glanced up. “What do you mean?”
I stared out the window, watching the city below get smaller and smaller as we climbed into the sky. “I mean what the hell’s going to happen. Is this really it? I’m just stuck in Oklahoma for three years?”
“I’m sorry, Trey. They bought out your contract. Well…technically…”
“Yeah, I know. They fucking paid them to take me off their hands. Damn it…”
“You want my advice?”
I eyed him. “Let me guess, pull my head out of my ass, spend more time in the gym than the bar, and stop fucking so many girls?”
Mason chuckled. “Pretty much. Granted, your phrasing is more colorful.”
A lopsided grin pulled at my lips. “What about you? Did I manage to bury your career right along with mine?”
He laughed. “Not exactly. I have to be back in LA by the end of the week.”
“To get all your non pain-in-the-ass clients settled?”
He smiled. “Something like that.”
I nodded. “What about the lawsuit? The endorsement deals? Any chance of shutting that shit down?”
“Working on it. I’m trying to work some networks and get you in with the local companies now that you’ll be in Oklahoma City. The fact that you’ll be there for three years works in your favor. But, until we can do some damage control, you’re not exactly on the top of anyone’s list for a spokesperson or commercial star.”
“Right.” I set my jaw and looked back out the window. “How did I get here, Mase?”
He sighed, like he had the answers but didn’t want to tell me what they were. He knew I already knew. My star rose too quickly. Things got too hot, too fast, and I’d let it all go to my head. I thought my shit didn’t stink and I was untouchable. Looking back, it all made sense, but it didn’t make my fall from grace any less painful.
“Trey, you know I think of you as a friend—more than a client. We’ve been through a lot together. Hell, while you were making your own career, you took me along for the ride. I owe you a lot. But that’s also why I’m so hard on you. I know you’re an all-star. This is your destiny. But you have to pull your shit together if you have a shot at getting back to where you were.”
I shifted my eyes to him. He was dead serious. “You really think I can?”
“I do.”
“Shit. It’s gonna be a lot of work…” I heaved a sigh. I was exhausted just thinking about it.
Mason chuckled and went back to work. “Damn straight.”
“I guess the silver lining is that She-Devil can’t get to me while I’m here. She wouldn’t dream of leaving her little SoCal bubble.”
Kimberly Holmes. She-Devil. Psycho Bitch. One Night Stand From Hell.
She had many names. None of them nice.
A little over a year ago, we’d met at a club. I was already three shots worse for the wear, when she came skating past the VIP rope where me and the boys were throwing down. She was a hot little number. A red mini dress that showed off her ass cheeks with the slightest move. Long, raven black hair, and full, lush lips like sweet little fuckin’ pillows. She’d sweet talked her way to my table and before I could decide what I wanted to do with her, she was under the table, on her knees, wrapping those devil red pillows around my cock. She didn’t care who was watching or what they’d think.
And at the time—neither did I.
When she was done, she jumped up, licked her lips clean, and ran off. Later that night, I found her business card in my pocket. She’d apparently slipped it in there while working me over. She worked as a massage therapist at a local spa. I never went by to see if it was a “happy ending” kinda place or not. But if I was a betting man…
I called her the next night and we hooked up at her place. Things went hot and heavy for about a week. Then she started losing her shit. And that’s when I lost interest. It started innocently enough. She started calling me during the day and leaving long rambling voicemail messages. Then she started calling my teammates. Although to this day, I still have no idea how she got their contact info. It wasn’t like it was public record. She was hot as hell and could make me lose my mind when I was inside her. She was kinky and up for anything. But when the texts, calls, and random visits became constant, I had to pull the plug.
Needless to say…she didn’t take the breakup well.
To her, we were soulmates and destined to be together forever. To me, she was a great piece of ass. One that needed to get on with her life. But no…she called even more than before until I blocked her number. She stopped by the practice facility all the time. Showed up for every single game, sat as close to my section as she could, and hollered and screamed until security finally put her on the blackball list and stopped her from getting tickets. She left notes on my car, had gifts and flowers delivered to my house, and even tracked down my parents in Arizona and showed up at their house.
The girl was one hundred percent fucking psycho.
After that, I met up with her and told her if she continued stalking me, I’d be forced to take out a restraining order. She’d laughed it off and showed up at my house the next day. I called the cops and went to file the paperwork the next day to keep her away from me.
It was the final step in ridding myself of her. At least—that’s what I’d thought.
Instead—it was just the beginning.
Three weeks later, she showed up and told me she was pregnant and that the baby was mine.
We’d used protection—of course—but she claimed one of the damn rubbers must have broken. I couldn’t remember it happening, but I was shit-faced most of the time we were together. Whether I believed it or not—she did. And she made damn sure the entire world knew I was her baby daddy.
Three months ago she gave birth to a boy. I saw pictures on social media. He didn’t look like me, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Until the DNA test was submitted and the results confirmed—there was no way of knowing for sure. Which is why, my lawyers were fighting tooth and nail to get the court to force Kimberly to bring the boy to the clinic to get tes
ted. Why it was taking so long was beyond me. I was ready to go anytime. I just wanted the nightmare to be over.
“I suppose that’s true. She wouldn’t want to travel with the little guy anyway.”
I shrugged. “I just want to take the damn test and prove to her and everyone else that I’m not some deadbeat dad.”
Mason considered me. “And if she’s not lying…?”
That was even scarier than getting traded to the Warriors. I wasn’t sure I was ready to be a father. But I figured if the baby boy was mine—I’d step up and be the best dad I could. Lots of guys on my team had kids and some even had baby mama drama. But having a baby with Kimberly…? No. That wasn’t possible. How could I be expected to co-parent with my deranged stalker?
“She is,” I said, my tone firm, leaving no room for argument.
Mason knew me well enough to know when I wasn’t in the mood to talk. He turned his attention back to his computer, and I slid my headphones on and cranked up some rap music.
“Trey, hey man, wake up.”
I opened my eyes and realized I’d fallen asleep. Mason handed me a bottle of water and lowered into his seat opposite mine. I sat up and popped the top on the water. “Thanks. How long was I out?”
“Three hours. We’re getting ready to land.”
I looked over and saw the change in the landscape as we dropped altitude. While I napped, we’d traded the cityscape for long stretches of fields. It looked like a quilt, all patched together. How was I supposed to survive here?
Mason chuckled as he watched my sour expression twist into a scowl. “Oklahoma City isn’t a ranch town. I promise.”
I nodded, but his assurance didn’t go as far as it should have. I had a feeling that I was in for a bout of culture shock either way.
“All right, now, when we land, there are going to be reporters and media—”
“What?” I snapped, jerking around to glare at him.
He sighed. “Trey, don’t,” he said, his tone firm. “There will be reporters at the tarmac. They want to ask you about the trade.”