by Julia Blake
Emma strode out, but Louise hung back a moment, her eyes still fixed on the flowers. Then she shook her head and followed, leaving Rachel wondering why she’d never seen a bouquet at Louise’s desk.
Alone once again, Rachel cocked her head and studied the lilies. They really were beautiful—pure and unblemished. The scent of them transported her back to Arizona, back to her childhood.
But the past? Was that really what she wanted?
Years after putting everything from the high desert to the people there behind her, she wasn’t so sure if she could hold off this one link to her past.
A FEW blocks away an alert popped up on Nick’s phone. It was a delivery confirmation from the florist about the flowers he’d ordered at three that morning when he couldn’t sleep. He wanted to think that it was Erica’s words bouncing around in his head that made him hit the purchase button, but more likely it was Rachel. Rachel who—after one melt-your-socks-off kiss—was keeping him at arm’s length. Rachel who was the first woman in a long time who made him care whether she said yes to going out with him.
No, he silently admitted as he set his phone down. She wasn’t the first woman in a long time. She was the only woman ever.
Chapter 10
On Thursday afternoon, three members of the NYSN staff invaded the Image Sports offices like a tiny army preparing for battle. Nick, Mindy, and Chris had been all business while setting up cameras, lights, and diffusers, but when Rachel walked back into the studio, a bottle of water in each hand, Kevin was doubled over laughing. Nick sat across from him in a director’s chair, chuckling, a reporter’s notebook open but ignored on his lap. Rachel had been gone no more than two minutes, and they were already bonding?
“You going to share what’s so funny?” she asked as she handed Kevin a water.
The creases around Nick’s eyes crinkled a little deeper. “I was just telling Kevin about the time the Seahawks let me work out during training camp.”
She raised an eyebrow, and both men broke out laughing again. Instead of asking, she shoved a water bottle in Nick’s direction and took a seat next to Mindy a few feet away.
This was good for Kevin. He should be relaxed but on guard during interviews. They’d gone over prep questions like a presidential candidate might review debate points. Kevin was as media trained as could be without becoming a total robot.
Still, Nick was going to ask him about the shooting, and that had her worried.
“Are we all set?” Nick asked Chris.
The photog tipped a diffuser-covered light just a hair, then stepped back to study the setup, and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Mindy?”
The producer gave him a thumbs-up.
“Great.” Nick waited to make sure the red record light shone bright on both cameras. “So, Kevin, we’ll start slow just like I said. I’m going to ask you some basic questions. Then we’ll get to the good stuff, and you can brag about your college career.”
“Yes, sir.” Kevin gave a nod. He was tensing up.
“You don’t have to call me sir,” Nick reminded him.
The young man’s shoulders dropped an inch underneath the starched blue button-down shirt his mother had no doubt made him wear. “Sorry about that”—he paused before finishing cautiously—“Nick.”
“Okay. We were just at your high school. Why don’t you tell me a little about playing at Xaverian?”
It was a long interview, and Rachel had to admit that Nick had skills. He carefully guided the conversation without ever seeming like he was rushing or searching for an answer. He asked questions here and there as they came up in the natural flow of the conversation, never stepping on Kevin’s answers. And throughout the whole thing, his attention stayed fixed on Kevin as though he were the only person in the world who mattered. It was a seductive tactic—focus so intensely on your interview subject that they forget about the camera—and Nick was very, very good at it.
All the while Rachel sat just off camera, ready to cut the interview short if Kevin seemed in danger of floundering.
It wasn’t until the thirty-three-minute mark that anything sparked her concern.
The two men were talking about Kevin’s career at Syracuse. Then suddenly they weren’t.
“Why don’t you tell me about where you grew up?” Nick asked.
Rachel’s grip reflexively tightened, and the plastic bottle in her hands crackled and popped in protest.
Kevin’s eyes slid over to her before answering. “What do you mean?”
“What was the house you first lived in like?”
Kevin’s eyes flicked her way again, and the muscles in her back locked up like steel cables. If she had her way, he’d never have to answer any questions about the shooting, but that wasn’t realistic. Reporters were going to ask.
She gave him the slightest nod. This was what they’d drilled at ever since he signed with her. He should be ready.
Kevin cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “It wasn’t a house. It was an apartment building. One of those six-floor walk-ups you see all over the city.”
“And there were four of you living there?”
Kevin shrugged. “Most of the time it was my sister, my parents, and me, but once my uncle stayed with us for a few months while he was in New York looking for work.”
“What about the neighborhood?” asked Nick. “You lived in Mott Haven in the late nineties. That’s kind of a tough area.”
A little smile crept onto Kevin’s face. “I’m guessing you want to know about the time I was shot?”
Good, she thought. He only gets to ask once, so just answer the questions and move on. Short. Sweet. Done.
Nick sat back in his chair. “I guess I do.”
Kevin glanced down at his hands, took a deep breath, and then plunged in just as she’d taught him.
“It happened when I was seven years old. I was walking down the street to my friend’s building when this man started running at me. I stepped back, thinking he was going to run me over. Then I saw he was running away from someone.”
Rachel thought she saw a tremble in his hands, but it disappeared when he clasped them together. “I still don’t know who drew a gun first, but before I knew it, bullets were flying.”
He wasn’t sweating. He wasn’t panicking. He was just telling his story.
“When did you realize you were shot?” asked Nick.
“I hit the ground. I don’t know where I learned that from. TV maybe? As soon as I fell on the sidewalk, my leg went numb and then a couple seconds after that it felt like someone was pushing an ice pick through my back.”
Wrap it up. You’ve told him enough.
“I don’t really know what happened next,” said Kevin. “I was awake, but it was kind of hazy. I remember being in the back of the ambulance. Then my momma was crying next to my bed in the hospital. They kept me there for a while after they pulled the bullet from my back.”
“Do you still feel it?” asked Nick.
This time a genuine smile spread over the young man’s face. “You mean like when it rains?” Kevin shook his head. “No. The only thing that reminds me is the scar.”
Nick unfolded his hands, picked up his pen, and tapped it once on his pad of paper. Then he looked long and hard. “Do you ever go back there?”
“I haven’t been in years.” Kevin paused as though rolling something over in his mind. “But I’ve been thinking about it a lot. About how maybe I need to go back and get some kind of closure.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nick, leaning in now.
This was dangerous. Kevin was opening a door that would give Nick a natural opportunity to ask about a walk-and-talk at the scene. If he was a reporter worth his salt—and he definitely was—Nick was going to grab that opportunity and refuse to let go.
No. This is not pa
rt of the plan. Just shut the interview down, Kevin.
“Maybe it’s time I start talking about this,” said Kevin. “Kind of like it was time for me to do this interview.”
Nick glanced up at Rachel before focusing on Kevin again. “What do you mean?” he asked again.
There was a flash of rebellion in Kevin’s eyes. “That maybe you have some questions you want to ask me out there. That maybe—”
She shot to her feet. “No.”
Everyone in the room turned to stare at her.
Well, this is a fucking disaster.
This interview was why she hadn’t wanted Kevin talking to the media before the draft. He was too green, too likely to agree to something he’d later regret. He had ideas of what he wanted to do, but he didn’t understand how reporters needed to be managed. That was her job.
“No,” she repeated, less panicked this time but still firm.
“Why not?” asked Nick. “It sounds like Kevin’s willing to do a walk-and-talk.”
“Ms. Pollard, I think I can handle it,” said Kevin.
No you can’t, she thought. One slipup and everything they’d worked for could be over. His high draft pick, his spot on a team, the money from a pro contract would all vanish. His career would be over before it started.
“As your agent, I’m strongly advising you to reconsider,” she said.
Her voice was sharper than normal, and Kevin’s eyes widened. Whatever had made him bold enough to suggest revisiting the shooting site was gone. “I—”
“It’s the thing that makes you unique,” said Nick, cutting Kevin off. “It’s going to be hard to tell the story without that kind of visual.”
“It’s not the only thing that makes him unique, and I don’t want anyone exploiting it. I don’t think it’s necessary,” she said, knowing the excuse was as lame as it sounded.
“I’m pretty sure Nick and I are the best judge of that,” Mindy said, inserting herself into the conversation for the first time.
“My producer’s right,” Nick said.
She could feel a fight coming on. The air was supercharged and heat was creeping up the back of her neck like it always did before a knock-down, drag-out argument.
“My client, my rules,” she said. “We went over this.”
“No,” he said. “I want to know why it’s such a big deal to go back to Mott Haven. If Kevin says yes—”
“I’m going to go with Ms. Pollard’s advice,” said Kevin, clearly thrown by the tension in the room.
Slowly Nick recapped his pen and flipped his notebook closed. He turned to his cameraman and said, “We’re done for the day. Let’s pack it up.”
She stewed as he unclipped his mic and coiled the wire before helping Kevin take his off. Then he shot her a look she couldn’t quite read. “We need to talk.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said.
“Privately.”
“Fine. Follow me.”
She pivoted on her heel and marched to her office, ready to rain hell down on Nick’s head. He’d taken too many liberties when he’d coerced Catherine Loder into backing his bid for an interview. And then there were those damn flowers thrown in to muddle everything up. She was done. This ended now.
She hit the quiet sanctuary of her office and spun around as Nick closed the door behind him.
“What just happened out there?” she demanded.
Instead of answering, Nick glanced around the room, taking in the jerseys on the walls and the photographs covering every available surface. Usually she felt some pride when people perused the tokens of gratitude her clients sent. With Nick it unsettled her, like he was collecting new bits of information about her he’d one day surprise her with.
“This is a nice setup you’ve got here,” he said, examining a signed glove lying in front of a neat row of David Halberstam’s baseball books. As he bent, his suit jacket hitched up slightly to show the delicious stretch of taut wool pants over a muscular ass. Her breath hitched and her fingers itched again, this time at the treacherous thought of grabbing on and digging her nails in.
“We’re not talking about my office right now,” she said.
He shot her a look. “I know that, Rachel, but I feel like we’re about to fight and I don’t want to do that. Not with you.”
Tough. She was ready to land a verbal punch or two. She couldn’t believe that only a few days ago she’d actually considered saying yes to a date with him. That her friends would encourage her.
“This is one of Mariano Rivera’s gloves,” Nick said after a pause. “He wasn’t your client.”
“Mo’s a good friend,” Rachel said in clipped tones as she pressed her fingers to her right temple, willing away the stress headache that threatened. This should be easy: isolate him, dress him down, and figure out a mutually beneficial way to clean up this mess without an interview at the shooting scene. Normally she would just yank the story altogether and threaten to blacklist a reporter if they ran any of the footage they’d already shot, but her boss wanted to see this profile make air. She was stuck.
When Nick glanced over at her, mischief danced in his eyes. “You’re friends with the greatest closer ever to play baseball?”
She pulled her chin up and gave a curt, proud nod.
He grinned. “Of course you are.”
She clamped her hands into fists to resist flinging a nearby football at his self-assured head. Maybe that would get his attention.
“I bet I could guess your favorite pitcher, though,” he said.
“We’re not playing this game,” she gritted out.
“Tom Seaver.”
She stared at him. How did he . . . ?
“You had a Seaver jersey when we were in school, even though you were a Diamondbacks fan. You wore it to practice sometimes.”
Her whole body flushed with heat. How did he keep doing this to her? He threw out these little pieces of their past, and suddenly she was that gangly girl who just wanted a little bit of attention from the star pitcher.
She watched him round the room with long steps before finally dropping onto the tasteful stone-colored couch in one corner of her office.
“Comfortable?” She slathered sarcasm onto her words.
“No. To be honest, I’m never quite comfortable around you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Good.”
Nick slung his arm over the back of the couch as though they were just kicking back and hanging out. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”
“No. We’re going to talk about what the hell happened out there.”
His demeanor didn’t change, but his eyes hardened. “I’m reporting this story the same way I would any other story, and I do not appreciate you cutting me down in the middle of an interview.”
“Tough. We already talked about this. No walk-and-talk.”
“Your client brought it up.”
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she said.
“He’s twenty-two. He’s an adult.”
He’d also never really dealt with the media before.
“Why are you so afraid of Kevin heading back there?” Nick asked. “What are you so worried I’ll find?”
Everything.
Nick must’ve known something wasn’t quite right, and in her experience there was nothing more dangerous than a good reporter on the scent of a well-hidden story. Still, she made as though she was brushing his questions aside. “The draft is almost here. All Kevin should be doing is focusing on training and meetings. Besides, you knew the rules going into this interview.”
“Rules your client isn’t following.”
She wanted to yell, “I know, dammit!” but held herself back, instead saying, “He hired me to protect his best interests. I’m doing my job.”
“Whatever you’re afraid of, he isn’t.�
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Yes he is. He just doesn’t know not to trust you.
She was smart enough to know when she was trapped. Allow the interview, and everything she and Kevin had created could come crashing down with one misstep. Stop Nick, and she’d just push him to dig into Kevin’s past until he uncovered the truth. Either way, she and Kevin would be screwed.
“What is this really about, Rachel?” Nick asked. “Is it the flowers?” She sucked in a breath as he pushed off the couch and walked over to the blooms. “You didn’t throw them away. That’s something.”
“This isn’t about the flowers,” she said, her words falling heavy in the silence.
“Did you get the card?” he asked.
The sweet scent of the lilies now seemed to crowd her. “I did see that there was a note, yes.”
He stalked toward her slowly, like a wolf tracking an unsuspecting rabbit, and for one moment she wanted to be caught. The synapses in her brain must be misfiring. She made sure she was always the predator, not the prey.
“I want you to go out on a date with me,” he said. “An actual date—one that we both agree on—because I know there’s something here even if you don’t want to admit it.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “You realize we were just fighting, right?”
“That wasn’t a fight. That was you being understandably mad at me and me not backing down because it’s my job to be a pain in the ass. That’s professional. This is personal.”
One of her hands went to her hip. “This is why a date is never going to work, Nick. Reporters and agents are always working on opposite agendas.”
Rather than push back like she expected, he took a different tack. “Did you know that I had a huge crush on you in high school? But I was afraid of you too. You seemed so perfect.”
The words knocked all the wind out of her, giving what she’d secretly hoped for all those years ago, but she managed to whisper, “I wasn’t perfect. Not at all.”