Daylight, page 16
Elle clears her throat, pulling me back down to the interview. “As you prep for your triumphant return to the field, are you happy with how your team has handled the first four weeks of the season?” Elle asks. We’re doing a pre-taped interview today, before the game tomorrow.
They say that athletes, quarterbacks, in particular, are never back to themselves after ACL injuries. I don’t want to jinx it, but I think that I’m back to where I was all those months ago. I feel like myself again.
We go back and forth, me answering her questions for a few more minutes until the executive producer is satisfied. The network doesn’t mind our relationship, and they know that they are most likely to get a good interview out of me with her than anyone else, so they stuck us together. It’s a feel-good story from both angles, packaged to the public as the injured QB making his return, and his girlfriend reporting on it by his side.
It’s a home game against the Glaciers. Since it’s a divisional game the energy will be intense, but they’re anticipating it to be off the charts for a different reason entirely; my comeback. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. I like to think that my excitement outweighs my fear, I’m so ready to return to the field.
After the interview, Elle goes back to the studio to edit down the footage and I go back to practice. They’ve been airing promos for it all week, milking the hell out of it. We say our goodbyes, keeping it strictly professional while around others.
We’ve settled into a nice flow these last few months, balancing our work schedules with our personal schedules. It gets hectic at times— and this last month with the actual season in full swing has proved nothing short of testing— but we’ve prioritized time for each other at the end of long days.
She’s been doing really well with her new position, instead of traveling the entire country, she’s just traveling around the Midwest covering the games that fall within her jurisdiction. Her coverage has been stellar, being GoSports leading correspondent for the games. I couldn’t be more proud of her.
The team has been doing good, too. Tomorrow marks game five, and we’ve won three of four games with our backup quarterback. I’m hoping that we can keep our winning streak going, I want to be in the same position we were in last season. I want to be playing in the championship game without the torn ACL. I want to win.
After a light team workout and meeting with the offensive coaches, I head back home. Elle should be back home by now, ready to have dinner and watch a movie. That’s become our Saturday night ritual when we’re both in Chicago, and tonight we decided we would watch one of the few movies I can actually sit through, Spiderman: Homecoming.
Pulling into the parking garage, I see Elle’s car is parked in her spot. I pull in next to her. I take the elevator up, excited to just get home and relax before what’s going to be a long weekend.
I open the door to find all of the lights inside are off, leaving me to wonder if she really is home. I go to grab my phone, but I’m met with empty pockets. I must’ve left it in my locker since I never went back for my bag after I showered. Damn it.
“Elle?” I call out, flipping the kitchen light on.
Her purse lies on the table, and the shoes she had on during our interview lie by the door. She’s home.
“Elle?” I call again, louder this time.
With no answer again, I feel something shift inside of me. Something’s wrong. I head toward our bedroom, busting the door open. The lights are off, but I can make out her shaking figure. She’s sitting on the bed, bearing a tear-soaked face and clutching her phone to her chest. “Elle, what’s going on?” I move toward her, my heart beating outside of my chest.
“Have you checked your phone at all in the last three hours?” She asks, tears falling profusely.
“I just realized I left it in my locker after practice. What’s going on? Are you okay?” I ask, dropping down to her level.
She unlocks her phone and tosses it to me, and I feel my breathing stop. Picture after picture after picture of us, moments once private, now shared with the public. “I… what?” I ask, scrolling through the feed, my mouth agape. Topless pictures of Elle sitting on my lap, pictures of the night we went skinny dipping… it’s all out there now. I feel physically sick to my stomach, and a rage so blinding that I’m seeing red.
“I’ve been on the phone with a lawyer. They think someone was peeping in the bushes on the beach we stayed at. Likely didn’t know who we were until this week, not until they saw our faces in the news with the promos they’ve been running for your return. Probably sold the pictures to some trashy gossip outlet for some money,” she says dryly, her voice breaking.
“I’m going to fucking kill someone,” I say, my fists clenching at my sides.
“You should probably call PR. I’m surprised they even let you walk out of the building.” She sounds hollow, her voice is just a shell of herself.
“Elle, are you okay?” I ask, sitting down beside her. I take a few deep breaths, trying to keep the unbridled fury I have toward whoever had these pictures posted online at bay.
“Do you think I’m okay?” She asks. “Because I’m not. I’ve been sitting here for the last two and a half hours waiting for you to come through that door!” She exclaims.
“No, I don’t,” I say softly. “That’s why I’m asking. I truly had no idea. We just had a light workout, I didn’t change afterward so I didn’t go back to my locker. I forgot that my phone was in there.” I wrap a supportive arm around her shoulders, bringing her in close.
“I can’t talk about it right now. I’m waiting for the lawyer to call me back. And HR. And my boss. You should probably go back to the practice facility and get your phone,” she says, not meeting my eye contact or answering my questions. She shrugs my arm off. It hurts initially, but I try to put myself in her shoes.
“If you think I’m leaving your side, you’re dead wrong. I have an old phone in the kitchen somewhere, I never closed the line. I’m gonna go grab it, call Coach,” I say, placing a firm hand on her leg. “This isn’t something you’re going through on your own. It’s equally as incriminating for you as it is for me.”
She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something, but then closes it. She just nods her head. I get up and go to the drawer in the kitchen where the electronics are, finding the old phone. I power it on, surprisingly it has a charge. I swipe my laptop off of the counter on my way back to the bedroom.
My mind spirals as I wait for Coach to answer.
“So you are alive.” Coach Portwell answers almost immediately. “The entire PR department is losing their collective fuckin’ mind, and here you are, calling me from a three year-old phone number. It is Bradford, right?”
“Coach, I left my phone in my locker after practice. I had no idea about any of this until ten minutes ago when I got home,” I sigh, bringing my hand to my temples. I stop outside of the bedroom door, continuing my phone call.
“I know, I had a sinking suspicion. I just checked your locker,” he huffs. “How’s Eleanor?”
“Not good,” I sigh. “She’s been on the phone with a lawyer, the HR department, and I’m willing to bet that for the second time in less than a year her job is on the line because of me.”
“Alex, this isn’t either of your faults, and you know that. You guys were supposed to have privacy. It isn’t your fault that was breached.”
“Coach-”
“A public relations specialist is on his way out,” he says, cutting me off. “He’s been in contact with the league and GoSports. I’ve made sure that it’s clear they don’t do anything to harm Eleanor’s position. I don’t like to throw my weight around, but I’ll do it when I have to. It’s going to be messy, but it’s out of your control, Alex. You just need to let them all do their jobs now.”
“How do I make this better?” I ask, all the wind knocked out of me. I feel helpless. There’s nothing that I can do to make this go away, there’s nothing that I can do to make Elle feel better.
“Ah, hell, kid. You got me there. The best thing you can do is be there for her. Don’t leave her side, no matter how bad it gets, don’t leave her side. She’s feeling a lot worse than you are. Those pictures were a lot worse for her than they were for you, Alex. Everyone’s seen you shirtless before. Remember that,” he says thoughtfully.
I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way, but he’s right. His words hit me like a ton of bricks, and what I said to her earlier floods back to my mind. The first thing I need to do is take back what I said about the pictures being ‘equally incriminating’ for both of us.
“Is she going to lose her job over this? Again?” I ask, my voice breaking.
“I don’t think so. Her new network is a lot more progressive than the league is, they have protections in place for employees. Since you two were acting completely consensually at your own accord, and the pictures were taken against your will and distributed illegally, I’d say the odds are on your side.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I sigh. “I have to go. You said a PR specialist was coming over? Tonight?” I ask, heading back into the bedroom finally.
“Yes, HR demanded it. I said it could wait until tomorrow, but this is the one area they have authority over me on. If it gets to be too much for you or Eleanor, kick him out. You have a big game tomorrow. Both of you need rest,” he says.
“Got it. Thanks again, Coach. Have a good night.”
“You too, Bradford.” He hangs up the phone and I sit down next to Elle. She sits staring at the dresser, lost in a daze. I turn toward her, brushing her hair that’s been dampened with tears out of her face. I tuck it behind her ear and rub my thumb across her cheek.
“I’m sorry, for what I said earlier. The pictures aren’t as bad for me as they are for you, and I didn’t realize that,” I say softly.
She nods, her eyes welling with tears again. “The entirety of the internet is slut shaming me, Alex. The networks that I used to report on are insinuating our relationship is just one out of convenience and sex,” she cries, falling into my embrace as her body shakes with cries. I don’t know what to do, so I just hold her while she cries. At this moment in time, there’s nothing else I can do.
Her phone starts ringing, and she doesn’t move to answer it. I pick it up off the bed while she clings to my chest. “Hello?” I answer, my voice gravelly, not realizing I was crying, too.
“Alex?” Quinn’s voice sounds through the phone.
“Oh, hey, Quinn,” I sigh.
“Let me talk to her,” She states.
“One sec,” I say. “Elle, I’m going to go see if the PR guy the team sent is here. Quinn’s on the phone, she wants to talk to you,” I say softly, handing her the phone. She takes it from me, nodding her head as I leave the room. I close the door behind me, heading toward the kitchen.
In all my time in the league, I’ve never been caught up in something like this. I’ve had teammates who’ve gotten their fair share of media attention, whether or not they deserved it is another story, but I always found the PR side of it dehumanizing. The sole purpose of their job is to do damage control because god forbid anything taint the image of the league. They don’t care about the feelings of any of the real people involved, just the logo behind them.
I sit out in the kitchen waiting for the dreaded knock, but I’m met with surprise when Elle emerges from the bedroom. “Hey, sunshine,” I say softly, looking into her eyes. The sadness is replaced with a new look of vengeance, a gleam in her eye telling me that Quinn’s call must’ve gotten to her.
“Quinn gave me a swift kick in the ass,” she sniffles. “I’m done wallowing.”
I smile, getting up from the chair I was sitting on. “Well, let’s take care of this shit, then,” I nod, wrapping an arm around her.
I don’t know what the next twenty-four hours will bring. I don’t even know what the next hour is going to bring. But, I know that we’ve got to keep each other’s heads above water with the storm that’s to come.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elle’s Point of View
I’m about to bash Jared from Public Relations head into the kitchen table. We’re going on hour two of his babbling, and I’m forced to believe he has not one functioning brain cell.
I’ve been talking to my own PR specialists, even outsourcing my own— Ren Delaurenta— and no one can seem to agree on anything. I have a video call with Carrie first thing in the morning, so I’m wondering if I should just pull the plug on this entire thing right now while we can still get a decent night’s sleep.
It’s doubtful that they’ll let me work tomorrow, or even air the comeback interview Alex and I spent so long prepping for. At this point, I don’t even care. I’m just exhausted. Mentally and physically exhausted. There gets to be a point when listening to men talk about something they can never truly understand gets to be unbearable, and we hit that point about twelve minutes after Jared arrived.
After talking to Carrie— someone who has been in a similar situation, and is the president of the network— is when we will decide how to deal with this. The lawyer did say that I have certain clauses in my contract, stating I cannot be fired over incidents like this. People who work in my industry are starting to include things like this in their contracts due to the nature of our jobs, and according to my agent, she had it written in with no problem. Thank God she did, or else this situation could look a lot like what I went through with the league not that long ago.
Ten more minutes pass, and I’m still not following what Jared is really spouting off. Suddenly standing up, I let out a sigh. “Alright, Jared. We are done for the night. I’m not sure how many more circles you can run in, but I don’t really know if I want to find out. I’m exhausted, and I’m sure Alex is, too. Thank you for… whatever it is you’ve done these last two hours…” I shrug awkwardly.
He purses his lips as if he’s about to say something, but his better judgment must get to him because he decides against it. He nods curtly and tells us to have a good night. Alex walks him to the door, locking it behind him.
“How are you holding up?” He asks softly, coming up behind me. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me in close.
“I’m okay,” I answer truthfully. “That guy was a fucking tool, though.”
“Oh, I know. I’m sorry. Coach said he tried to fight it, but PR is the one department that has authority over him,” he sighs.
“I figured as much,” I shrug. “It’s okay, he’s gone now.”
“Really though, you’re okay?” He asks again, turning me around so I’m facing him. He brushes his thumb along my cheek.
I nod. “I will be. I’m tired, though. Can we go to bed?”
“Let’s go to bed, sunshine,” he smiles sadly, planting a kiss on my forehead.
My alarm is blasting in my ear far too early, but I have a lot to figure out this morning and my boss lives in a different time zone than me.
Back in the eighties, Carrie posed for some risque pictures. That was before she was a reporter and before she had a career. It wasn’t until she became a household name that the pictures got leaked in the late nineties. So, while our situations aren’t totally similar, they are comparable.
I quietly get out of bed, not wanting to wake Alex up. He has a big day ahead of him, waking up at five o’clock in the morning wouldn’t be in his best interest. I put on a nice blouse, but I keep the pajama shorts I fell asleep in on. It’s a video call, no one will be able to see below my upper body, anyway.
After brushing through my hair, and putting just enough makeup on to cover up the bags under my eyes from a night of restless sleep, I head to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. My laptop sits on the table, but I don’t open the call yet. We aren’t meeting until six o’clock central time, so I have just under twenty minutes until my fate is decided.
I take my coffee and a piece of toast to the kitchen table where my laptop sits, opening it up to the video chat link that Carrie sent. Scrolling through my phone until I join the call, I see that people have changed their tune about my situation. At first, I was a whore, and Alex and I were together purely for sex. How that could be concluded from the minimal information on our public relationship, and then adding in those pictures, is beyond me.
Overnight, the conversation has changed. The slut-shaming hasn’t stopped completely, but the vast majority have changed their tune. The words victim, revenge porn, sexual harassment, and a lot of others that suggest we were exploited— like we were— are being brought into the conversation.
At 5:57 I join the call, waiting for Carrie to click on. I feel oddly at peace because whatever the outcome, I know I have a network that has my back, a boss that supports me, and a partner that loves me. This is entirely out of my control, whereas the incident with the league was a direct result of something I said, even if it was completely archaic.
There’s a ding, signaling Carrie’s arrival on the call. I smile, offering up a wave. “Hey, Elle. I wish we were meeting on different terms,” She frowns.
I nod, a somber expression on my face. “I hear ‘ya.” I sigh.
We waste no time getting into it. I recount the days that the photos were taken for her, having absolutely no memories of any disturbances on the beach that day. She said that our lawyers have already sent warrants to the magazine company that originally was given the pictures to give up the name of the person who sold them. It makes me feel as though I’m a valued and respected employee, as they’re taking it so seriously.
She tells me that as of right now, the PR department is unsure if I should cover tonight’s game just because of blowback from the league. According to Carrie, they really are stuck 30 years behind the rest of the modern world. She has a conference call with the head of the NFL Press Corps— my favorite person— Peter Koury, at 8:00. They will make the decision on the game, with input from specialists from both the network’s PR time and the league’s PR team.
