Good Guy: A Rookie Rebels Novel

by Kate Meader

  “What time’s your interview?”

  “An hour.”

  Kinsey squeezed her hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a squadron of carnivorous butterflies are gnawing away at my insides.”

  “You’ve got this. And once you have the job, we can work on getting you a date with a hot firefighter.”

  This again? The woman was relentless. “Aren’t your brothers-in-law spoken for?” Kinsey had married into a Chicago firefighting family, all of them very built, very fine, and very much hitched.

  “Oh, plenty more where they came from. Chicago’s firehouses are brimming with talent.”

  A hunky firefighter sounded like fun, but she couldn’t imagine their schedules would ever mesh, which was fine because right now, her career was where she wanted to focus all her efforts. “The job, Kinsey. That’s the prime directive.”

  “You’re a shoo-in. If anything, just think of the receipts you’re piling up in your telephone machine. Have you considered blackmail?” Half-winking, Kinsey touched a finger to Jordan’s overturned phone.

  “Uh, no.” More than qualified for this gig, Jordan certainly didn’t need to extort anyone into employing her. She still believed in what you know versus who (or whose genitals) you know when it came to landing her dream job. Eventually she wanted to work for a premier national broadcaster like ESPN, but in the meantime, perching a few rungs up the ladder at CSN would look great on her resume. “Why would I need blackmail when I have the credentials, the experience, and the—”

  “Cojones?”

  “And mine don’t even need to be manscaped.”

  Kinsey laughed. “Knock ’em dead, Cooke.”

  * * *

  “HI!” Jordan smiled big at the woman on reception duty as she exited the elevator leading to the Chicago SportsNet offices. “I’m here to see Mr. MacLoughlin.”

  Dragging herself away from an Instagram feed, the college-age receptionist with intern written all over her, greeted Jordan with a sullen stare. “Your name?”

  “Oh, right, you’d need that. Jordan Cooke.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Still nada in the smile department. What a wonderful face for the organization.

  Jordan sat in a lobby armchair and listed off her credentials in her head even though it was all laid out in her resume. It had taken her five years to get here. Four, really, because that first year had been a wash, written off as she grieved Josh. Losing her husband at twenty-three had forced her to focus on what was important, the career she’d put aside to be a young wife, the person she needed to become in the wake of the human rubble of death and loss. She’d paid her dues in the trenches and now she was ready to seize her destiny.

  Go, Jordan!

  She giggled at her inner cheerleader—they went way back—which earned her a glower from Bored Intern. Oh, well. It would take more than that to bank Jordan’s fire.

  Above her, a TV mounted to the wall was tuned to ESPN’s SportsFocus with host Coby “Big Dog” Dawson breaking down the NHL teams for the start of the season. A little unusual as the network rarely covered hockey since dumping their league contract years ago. It took a couple of minutes for him to get around to the Chicago Rebels.

  “Man, this team is in big trouble. We have Jones out of the mix, Petrov’s knee held together with duct tape, and the defense with more holes than a salt shaker. And now they’re calling in the cavalry. Literally. Tweet your thoughts to @BigDogDawson and get in on the conversation.”

  “You can go in now,” Bored Intern called out. “Through the door and down to the end.”

  Stepping into the open plan setup of the CSN office, Jordan inhaled the competing scents of pastrami, testosterone, and deadline despair. Strange how every newsroom, even sports beat newsrooms, looked like the typing pool in Working Girl. Unfortunately there was no hot, shirtless Harrison Ford in her future.

  Ignored by the all-male staff on her journey through the cubicle maze, she arrived at the editor-in-chief’s office and applied a firm, I-mean-business knock. At the gruff “come in,” she popped her head around the door. “Hi, I’m Jordan Cooke.”

  Jerry “Mac” MacLoughlin waved her to the nearest chair opposite his paper-strewn desk. “Coffee?”

  “Already caffeinated to the max, thanks.” She took a seat and smoothed her skirt, then instantly regretted it because it drew attention to her thighs. Not that they were bad-looking thighs, but she didn’t want to make them the focus of her interview. Sporty-casual was usually her look, and most of the guys she’d passed in the outer office were decked out in jeans and tees, but an interview called for a suit and heels.

  Stop overanalyzing. Take yoga-quality breaths, even though you don’t do yoga because you’ve never gotten further than the juice bar at the gym. In, out. Innnnn, ouuuuut.

  Feeling calmer, she redirected her attention to the man behind the desk. On anyone else a walrus mustache might look old-school. On Jerry MacLoughlin, it looked … really old-school, and was currently a nesting ground for pink sprinkles.

  “Donut?” He raised a half-consumed pastry, mother ship for the sprinkles, which sent a haze of additional candy particles raining down over assorted paperwork.

  “No, thanks, I’m driving.”

  He squinted at her. Too soon for jokes, apparently.

  “A lot of people want this job, Jordan. Why should I give it to you?”

  Despite the crusty approach, she appreciated him getting straight to the point.

  “I have four years reporting on the minor leagues, Chicago experience and connections, and a proven track record of establishing relationships with players, front office, and industry colleagues.” Sure, wasn’t her camera roll of dick pics as good as a reference list?

  Probably shouldn’t mention that.

  Continuing to elaborate on her opening points, she was leading into her podcast when he cut her off.

  “What do you know about Levi Hunt?”

  She blinked, surprised at the sharp turn of the conversation. “Thirty years old, native of Hoboken, New Jersey. NCAA All-Star. Was about to make his AHL debut after spending the last nine years serving his country in Special Forces. Called up last-minute to fill out the Rebels roster. Tons of expectation, a metric shit ton of warm fuzzies. The biggest story in hockey right now.”

  Aaaaand she’d just sworn in her interview.

  Mac either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Biggest story in sports, Jordan. And you know him.”

  “I’ve met him once or twice.” A chill crept across her skin, gooseflesh prickling with the realization of what this was truly about. So much for hard work and the meritocracy. “Is this why I got the interview?”

  “Like I said, a lot of people want this job. Hell, I could give it to anyone out there in the pen.” He jerked a hand toward the glass window that overlooked the open-plan office. “But you have an in with Hunt.”

  “I wouldn’t call it an in.”

  He raised a bushy eyebrow, one of a matching set that accessorized perfectly with that ’stache. “I’ve listened to your pod-thing and read your copy. You’re personable, knowledgeable, and clearly good at what you do. But I have a million tapes and think pieces from two-bit regional reporters ready to stab anyone and everyone in the backs to get this gig. However, you’ve got a couple of things in your favor.”

  She would normally have liked the sound of that, but now, not so much.

  “You’re a woman and you know Hunt.”

  “What’s me being a woman got to do with anything?” This might be the first time her ovaries had not screwed her over.

  “Did you notice the staff on your way in here? A bunch of dicks, and I mean that in every way you can take it. We’ve been told we need to hire more women into reporter positions.” From his tone, whoever had instituted this directive would not earn a spot on Mac’s Christmas card list this year. “Between you and me, I have my doubts about whether women should be spending time in male locker
rooms at all. Wouldn’t want my daughter in there.”

  “Luckily, I don’t faint at the sight of dicks, and I mean that in every way you can take it.”

  Mac barked a laugh and refocused his attention on her, as if she’d finally said something worthy of it. “So, you can hang tough with the boys. I won’t have to worry you’ll take a joke the wrong way or sue me for creating a hostile work environment?”

  The words hung, half-question, half-threat. This is what she’d meant about rocking the boat. She’d never get her foot in the door if every guy she worked with was too wary of being himself. In other words, your basic asshole.

  “I just want to be treated like any of my co-workers.” Tone and response neutral. Check.

  “Good. Now Hunt won’t grant any interviews, says he wants to focus on his game”—Mac inserted an eye roll here—“but I’ve talked to Harper Chase over at the Rebels. She said they might be willing to convince him if the story was framed right. And what could be better framing than a probing profile on the Navy SEAL—”

  “Green Beret.”

  “What?”

  “He was in the Green Berets, not the Navy SEALs. Big difference.”

  For a moment she worried that contradicting him was a bad move, but his curt nod signaled appreciation of her willingness to speak up. “A Green Beret veteran who survived a shit show in Afghanistan and is now finally making his debut at the highest level? This could get attention from national networks.”

  That chill warmed at the mention of national exposure. But, Levi Hunt? She knew she’d have to run into him at one point or another, that memories would resurface and possibly overwhelm, but she never expected her past would become so integral to her future.

  “I get that this might be tough for you, Jordan,” Mac said with a gravelly-sounding compassion that must have killed him to show.

  “It was five years ago. An age, really.”

  Mac nodded, giving her a moment to dwell—and dwell she did.

  On the fact that Levi Hunt was her husband’s best man at their wedding.

  On the fact that he had been with Josh when he died on a desert road in Afghanistan.

  But mostly, she dwelled on the fact that the man didn’t like her one bit. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly the nature of his problem with her but she knew this much: her particular brand of cheer pissed him off royally.

  Working with him on an interview? No way would he go for that. Neither was she sure that she should go for that.

  “The last time I saw Levi Hunt was at my husband’s funeral five years ago.” She fought the flush of her skin and the memory of that last encounter. “We haven’t kept in touch, so for me to be assigned to this interview might look like I’m trying to cash in on a very tenuous connection.”

  “Did you or did you not tell me that you’re good at cultivating relationships? Your tenuous connection to Hunt, a veteran who served in the same unit as your husband, is the best chance we have of beating ESPN or Fox Sports to the punch. I just know those bastards will be sniffing around. Should I call Harper now and tell her we’re putting you on the story?”

  “Assuming he wants to talk to me.”

  “That’s your job, Jordan. Get him to talk to you.”

  The drama of his lean toward her was diminished ever-so-slightly by the escape of several sprinkles from his mustache. But with his next words, he managed to recapture the moment’s significance.

  “Do you want to be covering piss ants in Rockford for the rest of your career, Jordan, or are you ready to make a move?”

  3

  @ChiRebels hoping for a strong start tonight. Can their young legs beat the @NewOrleansCajuns, NHL’s current powerhouse? #ChicagoSportsNet #OpeningGame

  * * *

  NOTHING EXCITED Jordan more than the opening game of the season. The atmosphere in the Rebels Center in Riverbrook, about 30 miles north of Chicago’s downtown, was electric as she exited the elevator leading to the executive and press boxes.

  Was it her imagination, or did the air smell sweeter up here? The moneyed scent of success, perhaps. Or maybe it was the hint of pheromones left behind by Rebels GM, Dante Moretti, spotted heading into the home team box a few doors down.

  You’ve made it, girl.

  Okay, she had one heeled foot in the door, and she was still feeling a bit queasy about how she’d managed it: a classic case of who-you-know and not the result of her years reporting on this game she loved. Not only was she a token female hire but she was here because she had a connection that could be exploited.

  Her dead husband.

  Kinsey had congratulated her by ripping her woe-is-me-I-might-have-the-job-because-boobs mantra to shreds: Who cares how you got here? You know you deserved it, and that’s all that matters.

  But she could be out on her ass at any second. For now, Jordan was Jack Gillam’s replacement in the press box, but staying there was dependent on convincing Levi she was the perfect person to tell his story.

  She tried channeling Kinsey’s no-fucks-given attitude. No one else could do this profile justice because no one else was Jordan Cooke. Booyah!

  Giddiness restored, she flashed her press pass at the security guard and added unnecessarily, “I’m with Chicago SportsNet.” Wow, that sounded awesome.

  “Go right on in, Ms.” Neither his blasé tone nor his unsubtle once-over could knock her off Cloud 9.

  As the job didn’t require on-camera work, she’d normally stick to jeans and cute tops, but tonight she planned to visit the locker room after the game, which meant her navy pinstripe interview suit and four-inch heels were pulling double duty. She stepped into the press box. A long table with chairs faced a window overlooking the ice and awaited the most grizzled, cynical curmudgeons in the business. Seeming to sense that an interloper was in their midst, the three guys present turned in unison.

  “Hey, guys! I’m Jord—”

  “Yeah, we know who you are, Cooke,” Curtis Deacon of the Chicago Sun-Times barked. “What’s the latest on Gillam?”

  “Doing okay. I talked to his wife, Betty, today and she said he’s whining about the hospital food.”

  “Sounds like him. Ungrateful bastard.” A particularly hoary specimen—Jim Krugman, string for the Trib—who looked like the Ghost of Sports Reporters Past jerked a thumb at the seat next to him. “This is Gillam’s usual spot.”

  More press straggled in, taking what were likely their regular spaces. Reporters were notoriously superstitious. No one here would be switching up seats.

  She sat where she was told—and boy was she conscious that her time here was temporary—and pulled her laptop from her backpack. The press boxes for the AHL teams weren’t quite so exalted, more like spare seats behind the sin bin. To be honest, she wouldn’t mind being down there in the center of the action in jeans and hoodie, sans toe-pinching heels, but such was the way of the ascendancy.

  Like all noble families, hockey press royalty was made up of miscreants, oddballs, and know-it-alls. Press box type number one was the veteran, of which Krugman was a prime example. Once there might have been a tweed jacket (with elbow patches) hanging on the back of his chair. These days, a tie rarely made an appearance and the shirt could do with a pressing. Veterans usually hauled around laptops that weighed more than Jordan, could expound with frightening authority on the quality of Chex Mix in each box, and wouldn’t dream of starting a fresh pot of coffee—that’s what newbies were for.

  Which brought her to press box type number two: the new kid on the block. And this new girl needed to ingratiate herself—hence the presentation of gifts.

  “Who likes donuts?” Jordan asked with a smile that would usually melt the iciest of hearts. From her backpack, she extracted a box of sugary, fatty, carbolicious cheer.

  “Donuts?” Krugman’s sneer was withering. He gestured dismissively over his shoulder. “Any idea where you are, girlie?”

  On the table lay a spread that wouldn’t look out of place at a Michelin-starred restaura
nt: cute-as-a-button pastries, baby tiramisus, and—Mary Mother of Jesus—mini-macarons. She loved mini-macarons and their alpha brothers, regular-sized macarons. No wonder the arena security had laughed at her. Her donuts were positively low-rent by comparison.

  About to introduce the donuts to the trash can, she stopped when Arnie Raulson, the play-by-play guy on a visit from the broadcast booth to load up on beers, grabbed a cruller from her box. Thanks, Arnie! “You want to see how the game’s really covered, Jordan? Stop by the booth.”

  “Sure will!” At least, someone was happy to see her.

  The Ice Girls were doing their thing while the strobe lights and pulsing bass turned the arena into Ibiza. Determined to avail of the perks before the players skated on for warm-up, Jordan checked out the beer fridge. It was stocked with plenty of craft beers she’d never heard of, like Angry Shrub and Hops’ Redemption.

  A waft of very pleasant aftershave tickled her nose.

  “Any Fat Tire in there?” a smooth voice asked. Looking up, she met the hazel-eyed gaze of—no way!—Coby Dawson.

  “No Fat Tire, but there is something called The Nun’s Dilemma. An IPA.”

  “Sounds good. Hi, I’m Coby,” he said, offering his hand. “You look like you’re new on this beat.”

  “Oh, hi, there! I’m Jordan. Jordan Cooke.” Standing, she shook his hand—or she would have if she didn’t try to use a beer bottle to make friends. She placed the bottle on top of the fridge and tried again. Warm, firm grip. Friendly smile. “Years in the trenches, first time in the nosebleeds. Filling in for Jack Gillam at Chicago SportsNet.”

  “I heard. How is he?” All concern, he cocked his head, topped with black, wavy, gel-stiff hair, like Ross’s from Friends.

  “Getting the care he needs.”

  “Good, good.”

  “So, what are you doing here?” Presumptuous, perhaps, but Jordan was currently in the presence of press box type number three: the big shot. Given their colorful off-ice antics that filled the gossip pages, the Rebels were a top draw, but Coby Dawson was far too huge a deal to be hanging with the local newsies at an opening season game. Plus ESPN and hockey weren’t exactly best buds.