by Laura Simcox
Did she always look like that on the air? Like a school teacher with a stick up her ass? Maybe after this internship, she would never have to be on camera again. She obviously wasn’t a natural at it, no matter what people said. Brett had been right—she’d been given a lot of leeway because of who she was. She hadn’t asked for leeway, but she also hadn’t asked for endless, picky disapproval from her boss. Joan was thorough—Georgia admitted that—but Joan was also sorely lacking in positive criticism skills.
“Are you listening to me, Georgia?”
Georgia nodded. “Yes. The Little League section can be trimmed down, or I’ll replace it with something else.”
“Like what?”
“I have a lot of footage from Redbirds games and—”
“You’re not getting it, Georgia. This interview doesn’t reach through the screen and grab people. We need grabbing.” Joan paused the video. “What about his family? What about his brother?”
“Oh, the next section is Brett talking about Joe. If you fast forward . . .” She reached for the mouse, and Joan pulled it away.
“More of Brett Knox talking?”
Well, yeah. What else would he be doing? It’s an interview.
Georgia smiled. “I interspersed it with footage of Joe at last year’s Major League All-Star Game. It’s great video.”
Joan sighed. “That’s old news. I meant things like family pictures. I want a saga. I want a hometown hero story, and I think I’ve been clear about that from the very beginning. Viewers want to know about Knox’s personal life.” She turned a steely stare on Georgia. “You were supposed to get that story.”
Georgia resisted the urge to fidget. She stared back.
“As much time as you’ve spent with him, you have no excuse for inadequate reporting,” Joan continued.
No excuse. Inadequate. That was bullshit. It was a solid interview—it just wasn’t the exploitative, tacky feature that Joan wanted.
“And since you’re dating the guy, I’ll bet that you have the information and you’re choosing not to use it,” Joan finished. “Am I right?”
“You’re right.” Georgia lifted her chin. “He doesn’t think he should have to give it. I agree.” She’d avoided saying those words to Joan for a long time, but at this point, evasion wasn’t working. Georgia had to take a stand.
“You agree?” Joan rolled her eyes. “Of course you do. But you of all people ought to understand the price of being famous. People want details. The juicier, the better.”
Anger flared up, and Georgia let out a sarcastic laugh. “I must have missed the ‘I want to be famous’ sign-up sheet.” She snapped her fingers. “Damn.”
Joan stood up. “Okay. I’ve seen enough, and I’m not going to waste any more of my time. Here’s what’s going to happen. You, in your infinite wisdom, figure out how to turn this”—she waved her hand at the monitor—“into a real feature story. I want to see sweet, sad, titillating, whatever it takes. Make it right.”
“What if Brett hasn’t led that interesting of a life?” Georgia asked stubbornly.
“Good God, Georgia! Anyone’s life can be made to look interesting. It’s all about the angle. You have zero angle with this story, and if you don’t fix it, your internship might as well be over.”
Georgia’s heart leapt into her throat. “You’d fire me?”
“No. You’re far too valuable to WHAP. I just don’t want you to fail in front of the entire Memphis viewing area, and I know you don’t want that either.”
Fail? Georgia felt her eyes widen. Nobody had ever talked about her—and failure—in the same sentence before. It was horrible to think about—petrifying. She took a shaky breath, trying to remain impassive, but it wasn’t working. She was afraid. And she must’ve been wearing that fear on her sleeve since the moment she’d walked through the studio doors almost a month ago. The smug, bitchy look on Joan’s face told her that, loud and clear.
“There’s stuff out there on Knox, believe me.” Joan checked her watch. “It’s almost six, which gives you about six hours. So take the information I asked for, assemble it, and at midnight, I want you working with the night producer, completely reformatting the interview. Got it?”
“Oh, I understand.”
Georgia stood up and walked away before Joan could say anything else. As she made her way into the narrow hall leading to her office, her cheeks burned and her hands shook. The only other time she’d felt this kind of humiliation was in high school, when she’d received a C on a test that she’d taken while she had the flu. That memory didn’t even begin to compare.
It wasn’t just humiliation running through her now: it was resentment—and worry. What was she going to say to Brett? That she had to pick at his sensitive past as if it were a scab? And then air on it TV, all for the sake of WHAP’s glory?
The hell she would.
Georgia walked to her cubicle. There had to be another way. Brett had shared a couple of candid photos of himself from his college days. Maybe there were some of him and Joe together. Maybe if Georgia added some sappy, heartfelt music to underscore the photos—hell—the entire interview, that would be enough to satisfy Joan.
But mere satisfaction was far below Georgia’s usual standards. She sank into her office chair. By trying to work her way around not giving in to Joan—not doing a fluff story on Brett—she’d turned in a subpar, half-assed interview. She hadn’t even come close to her own standards, but the most ironic, upsetting part of it all was that she’d made the decision to do the interview her own way—for the sake of journalistic integrity. The only comfort was that protecting her interview subject was part of that integrity. But she’d let herself down. How had it come to this? Was she just not cut out to be an investigative reporter? Or was she truly a victim of circumstance? Nobody had twisted her arm to fall so hard for Brett that she lost sight of what was happening around her.
“No,” she said out loud.
She hadn’t lost sight—in the back of her mind she’d been aware—and she’d made choices. She just hadn’t bothered to predict the outcome, which, at the moment, truly sucked. But she could turn it around. She had to, and she knew Brett would help her.
She picked up her phone and called him.
“Hey,” he answered. His voice sounded tired.
“Hey, yourself, Knox the Fox.” Georgia said, trying to sound cheerful. “How did the autograph session go?”
“What’s wrong, sugar?”
Her levity had evidentially failed. Everything except you. “Um . . . Joan isn’t super-pleased with the interview tape.”
“Oh shit. Why not?”
Georgia hesitated. “She thought it was too much baseball and not enough you.”
“Great.” He sighed. “So what does she want?”
“She wants your life story handed to her on a platter, no holds barred, but I’m not serving it up, dammit.” Georgia bit her lip. “I’m trying to come up with another angle.”
“How about if I give you another angle? An exclusive on something no other media has at the moment?”
“Brett, you don’t have to talk about something that makes you uncomfortable.”
“Oh, this is a good thing.” He let out a half-hearted chuckle. “Kind of.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted to tell you this in person, but I’ll just say it.” He paused. “I made it, sugar. I’m going to The Show.”
Georgia sucked in a breath, not allowing herself to think too hard. She had to sound completely thrilled for him. She was thrilled for him, but the uncertainty of their future together had just started. Right at this moment. She took another breath. “Oh my God! That’s wonderful news.”
Brett chuckled. “That’s exactly what my mom said, word for word.”
“Well, it’s true. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“So when do you—”
“Listen, how about I tell you the details face-to-face? You can be the reporter to br
eak the news about me going to the Cardinals. Is there time to interview me again?”
“Of course. Actually, I’m going to be here all night fixing the interview.” Georgia closed her eyes in relief. “You’re so smart.”
“I know that.” He chuckled. “Plus . . . I’m on my way to you. Be there in just a minute.”
“Are you driving a stick shift and talking on the phone?”
“No, Ship’s driving. Gotta go. We’re at the security gate of the station.”
“Wait a sec. Ship’s with you? Why?”
“He wants to be standing next to me when the news gets broken. I figured I’d surprise you with an exclusive, but I guess I kinda spoiled that by letting the news slip.”
“You haven’t spoiled anything. You’re saving my ass.”
“Anything for the woman I love,” he said. “And her ass.”
Georgia felt her face flush. “I love you too.” She paused. “Congratulations, Brett. I mean it.”
“Thanks. See ya in a few.” Brett hung up, and Georgia pressed her phone to her lips. It was all going to be okay. Well—except for his leaving Memphis, but she’d known that could happen since day one, and she couldn’t sit here and dwell on it.
With a wistful smile, she stood up and walked to the door, but let out a small sound of surprise. Joan stood there, her arms—as usual—folded over her middle.
“No,” Joan said.
“No? What are you talking about?” Georgia couldn’t help it—she glared at her. “And could you not listen in on my private conversations, please?”
Joan ignored the request. “You’re supposed to be doing as I asked, not trying to figure out how to work around me. We all knew there was a possibility that he’d get called up. The fact that he did?” She waved her hands in the air. “Oooh. Shocker. That’s not news.”
“It’s an exclusive,” Georgia burst out.
“No, you know what an exclusive is? His life story, including the story of who his dad really is. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“His dad died before he was born.” Georgia frowned.
“Is that what he told you? Some legend about Joe Knox Sr., a fireman who died on the job?”
“Yes.” She stared at Joan. “Brett was raised by a single mom.”
“Yeah, that part—which conveniently doesn’t make it into your interview—is true. But the fireman? He never existed.”
“What are you trying to say, Joan? That Brett invented his own father?”
Joan shrugged. “I have no clue who made that story up, but my bets are on the mom.”
“Her name is Margot.” Georgia shook her head. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying, anyway. You’re grasping at straws.”
“Really.” Joan let out a soft chuckle. “Why don’t you ask Knox when he gets here, then? Because I know for a fact he’s met his actual father.”
A wave of anxiety crashed through Georgia’s middle. Could Joan be telling the truth? And if she was—Georgia had to keep Brett away from her. Ernie and Stan would help if she could explain the delicate situation in time.
Turning on her heel, she walked toward the back door of the studio, but it was too late. Ernie was standing just outside, and Brett and Ship were walking across the parking lot toward her.
“Shit,” she muttered and ran back inside. She saw Joan disappearing into her office and followed.
“I need to talk to Brett alone for a moment,” Georgia said.
Joan waved a hand. “Be my guest. But if the name Buddy Mambo doesn’t cross his lips, then Knox isn’t telling you the whole truth.”
“Buddy Mambo? The furniture guy?”
“One and the same.”
Georgia heard voices and glanced down the hallway. She leaned into Joan’s office to whisper furiously. “If you’re trying to tell me that Buddy Mambo is Brett’s father, then just come out and say it.”
Joan shook her head. “If you’d been doing your job, I wouldn’t have to say it. You’d know already.”
The dam burst and Georgia took a step forward. “If you deserved all due respect, I’d give it, but you don’t.” She took a ragged breath. “You know he and I are involved. You have exploited that fact. And yet you still expect me to exploit him? What kind of person do you think I am?” she barked.
A flicker of something resembling guilt crossed Joan’s face, but the woman smiled, anyway. “Oh, grow up, Georgia. All you got was a valuable lesson in what happens when you don’t maintain impartiality.”
The voices got closer, and Georgia took a deep breath before turning around. She forced a smile as Brett came around the corner. “Hey, slugger.”
“Hey.” He grabbed her hand and kept walking.
She glanced up at him. Had he heard her talking about Buddy Mambo? She cleared her throat. “Is everything okay?”
“Shh.” He turned another corner and pulled her through the first open doorway—a small editing bay containing only a computer desk and chair. He shut the door and took her hands. “I need to tell you something.”
It was completely dark in the tiny space, but Georgia closed her eyes, anyway. “No, you don’t. Who your dad is . . . well, it’s nobody’s business but yours, unless you choose to share it.”
His hands fell away. “What?”
“Exactly.” She leaned her cheek on his chest. “Okay?”
He stood there, motionless, and she ached for him to put his arms around her, but he didn’t. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I got a phone call a minute ago from Baptist Memorial Hospital. My mom was injured.”
Georgia’s head snapped up. “Oh no,” she whispered. “Oh my God.”
“The person I talked with said it wasn’t a life-or-death situation, but I need to get over there. I don’t want WHAP knowing about it.” His voice sounded hollow.
“That can’t happen. I’m coming with you.”
“Sugar, you told me you’ve gotta fix that interview. How would it look if you bolted?”
“I’ll figure it out later. Don’t argue with me.” She opened the door and pulled him out into the hallway. A loud voice resonated down the hallway. “Is that Ship yelling at Joan?”
Brett frowned. “No clue.”
“We don’t have time to worry about it,” Georgia said. “I just need to text Ernie, and he can drive us to the hospital.”
“Good.” Brett rubbed a hand across his face.
Georgia darted into her cubicle, grabbed her phone, and began typing. She looked up at Brett, who was still standing in the hallway. “Why don’t you slip outside? There’s another door leading to the parking lot at the end of the hall.”
“Okay.” Brett disappeared.
Georgia finished the text, grabbed her bag, and began to follow him but heard her name in the midst of the now-escalating argument at the end of the hall. She hesitated for a moment and tiptoed toward the noise. She stopped short and stared at Joan and Ship, who were standing face-to-face, just below the platform of the WHAP set.
“You told me it was okay to push those two together, and I did it. You said it was good for Redbirds’ publicity. You never told me there was a line I couldn’t cross!” Joan said in a hissing tone.
Ship shook his finger in her face. “Your station was in the shitter, and I handed you exclusive access to the players to get your ratings up. It was a win-win until you decided to push it.”
“I had the president’s daughter on board. You can’t blame me for pushing! I’m a journalist.”
“You’re a hack,” Ship spat out. “And your judgment is completely out of whack.”
Joan crossed her arms. “I make the decisions around here, not you. And definitely not Georgia Fulton. She’s so caught up in your boy Brett that she can’t see reason.”
“Let me see that interview tape for tomorrow.”
“You’ll see it when everyone else does, Ship.” Joan laughed. “Though I’m not sure you’ll want to, since Georgia’s work isn’t exactly stellar.”
Georgia c
lenched her fists and started forward. Staring straight ahead, she walked past the bank of computer monitors, past Ship and Joan, and out the door into the twilit evening.
Ernie, who was waiting outside the SUV, raised his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”
Georgia shook her head as she jerked open the back door of the SUV and saw Brett inside. He looked miserable. “Give me two seconds,” she said. When she walked back into the station, Joan and Ship stared at her. For a moment, nobody said a word, and then Joan smiled.
“Georgia!” she exclaimed in a hearty tone. “As you may have heard, we were just discussing—”
“I heard,” Georgia interrupted.
Ship glanced at Georgia, a pained expression on his jowly face. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “This is all my fault.”
“I know that’s not true,” Georgia responded quietly.
“Oh, but it is,” he insisted in a weary tone. “Brett’s mother called me last week. She was worried about Brett’s playing and told me that learning about Buddy had upset him. When I called you, Georgia, to ask you to back away from him, I should’ve talked about Buddy too.”
“I didn’t know about Buddy,” Georgia said. “So why did Joan know?”
Ship sighed. “I warned her, just in case WHAP had found out and decided to leak the news.” He shook his head at Joan. “You told me you wouldn’t leak it. You’ll regret it if you do.”
“Leak?” Joan huffed. “Reporting the truth isn’t leaking, and I don’t regret anything I choose to allow on the air. But until we gather more facts, I’m not going to air the bit about Buddy no.” There was a desperate light in her eyes when she turned to Georgia. “Where are you going, anyway? You have work to do.”
Georgia stared back at her. This situation was hopeless, wasn’t it? She hated her internship, and she despised Joan, who’d used her like a Kleenex since day one. There was no way for Georgia to change the interview to Joan’s satisfaction without compromising Brett—and herself. She refused to do that to him.
“Joan, take me off of baseball. Take me off of Brett. I’ll do any other kind of assignment, but I’m not going to turn that interview into sick tabloid fodder.”
“If you don’t, you might as well walk out of here. We both know that you’re not a quitter.”