Daylight, page 3
It’s confusing considering they still have me— almost exclusively— covering Comets games, given the harsh reprimanding I got for slipping up. I don’t question it, though.
Ten minutes before kickoff I do my official pregame report, going over injuries, inactives, and other challenges the teams are facing, and then step aside while they broadcast the national anthem. I’m free until I’m called on to do my midgame report, which comes sooner than expected.
Kyler Thomas, the quarterback for the Glaciers, got sacked and took a hit that brought him down. It was a leg injury, one that looked pretty bad. He couldn’t walk off on his own, so they took him into the locker room for further evaluation. I have a feeling that it is probably not as bad as it looks and that he’ll be okay. I reported what I could on the situation, and the game thus far, but it really brought the mood down. No one wants to see players get hurt like that, not knowing if they’ll return or not.
I listen in my earpiece before halftime, getting all of the information that New York needs me to get out. I scribble it down on my notepad about forty-five seconds before we go on air, and I get confirmation that Kyler Thomas will play in the second half of the game.
Eddie signals to me ten out, and I assume position in front of the camera. He nods at me and I raise my microphone to my mouth to start. “We are here at halftime in Chicago with an update on the Glaciers’ quarterback, Kyler Thomas. After getting injured at the beginning of the second quarter, I am happy to report that he will be back on the field to start the second half,” I smile. They didn’t give me any specifics on his injury, just that he’s coming back, so I keep it short and to the point. I cover a few more things, highlighting different plays that they had asked me to and bounce off of the other talking heads at the studio.
Before I know it, halftime is over. I take a ten-minute break at the top of the half, going inside to get some water and warm up for a few minutes. I take my hat and gloves off and fix up my hair and makeup before the second half midgame and eventual postgame reports.
While I’m inside, Alex throws a 40-yard pass, securing the third touchdown of the game for the Comets. Smiling as they play the recap on the screens inside, I feel something tugging inside of my chest.
I wander back out to the sidelines, putting my gloves and hat back on. The stands are full, and the crowd is electric tonight. I feel so proud of my city for showing up for their team, the energy bringing up the mood of everyone in the building.
Each team scores again, but the Comets have a clear lead once we make it to the two-minute warning. Eddie and I head into the press booth to warm up for a few minutes before we have to spend the next twenty out in the cold doing post-game interviews on the field.
Once inside, we both open a new pack of hand warmers to put inside our gloves. It helps, but unfortunately, not as much as one would think. When there’s a minute left on the clock we go back out to the field, ready to get this over with.
Chicago ends up winning, 31 to 17. The stadium goes crazy, the stands are shaking and filled with happy shrieks. Eddie and I rush the field with the rest of the players and coaches, heading straight to Alex. A big smile breaks out on his face when he sees me approaching but tones it down as Eddie gives us the signal upon approach.
“I’m here with quarterback Alexander Bradford after an electric at home win that has crowned the Comets the champs of the NFC North. How does it feel?” I ask.
“Oh, god, Elle,” he has the biggest, toothiest grin I’ve ever seen on his face. “It feels great. We really didn’t know what today would look like, but we worked our asses off this last week. We did everything in our power to get to where we could right now, and it feels great.” His smile is so wide it looks like it’s going to jump off of his face. It makes my heart flutter, nothing but pride filling my insides.
One of his teammates comes up behind him and slaps a NFC North Champs hat on his head, and a slap on the back. He laughs. “When you say the team worked hard this last week, you mean offensively?” I clarify.
“Yeah, definitely. Last week’s game was a little rocky, but when you want something, you have to work for it and that’s exactly what we did here. We ran offensive drills every day and it shows. I’m proud of my boys and where we now stand,” he nods.
“Do you feel the pressure of being a young quarterback, essentially given the keys to the franchise— one that was severely underperforming just a year ago—and raising it up to where it is now?” I ask, looking him in the eye.
“I’d say yeah, there’s pressure, but I can’t take all of the credit either. It takes a whole team to come together, support each other and uplift each other, and that’s what we do. A year ago things looked pretty glum in Chicago, but I’m so proud of where we are now and what we’ve accomplished, and let me tell you, Eleanor, we’re just getting started,” he exhales.
“Congratulations on the win, Alexander,” I smile. He wraps a friendly arm around me, and quietly, I whisper to him, “I’m so proud of you,” before Eddie and I have to take off to do the rest of our rounds.
After thirty minutes of interviews and chats with different personnel and players, we are free to go. I leave the reporter lounge to get changed, not wanting to be in business casual any longer. Going into the bathroom, I change into leggings and a baggy sweatshirt and stuff the slacks and blouse I had on before into my backpack.
It takes another hour before Alex is ready to leave, but I busied myself with emails and overpriced vending machine food. I can’t fault him, though, he was celebrating in the locker room before the post-game press conference. He sends me a text that says Ready, so I head toward the player’s exit so we can leave together. All that’s left around here are other players and the stadium personnel, and he swears that our leaving together won’t be an issue. Something about his teammates knowing we’re friends, and that they’d have to notice first.
I’m just excited to get out of here. It’s been a long day. He comes into focus, decked out in his championship hat, and a new t-shirt. His curls hang out from the sides of his hat, his hair getting shaggier and shaggier since he refuses to cut it this late in the season. His eyes light up when he sees me rounding the corner.
I can’t contain the smile on my face. “How does it feel, truly, being the Champs of the North?”
“Fucking fantastic,” he smiles, extending his arms for a proper hug. I breathe in the familiar scent of his shower gel, the scent fresh on his skin.
After a quick embrace, we walk down the tunnel into the underground parking garage where his car is. He tells me all about their locker room celebrations, and how the reporters at the press conference were asking him about me.
I thought that was weird, but don’t think much of it. “Maybe I need to check my socials,” I sigh as we approach his car.
We hop in and he starts it, letting it heat up for a moment.
I open Twitter and go to my Explore page. Sure enough, my name is trending with search terms Alexander Bradford, Chicago, and NFL. That doesn’t seem like a shock to me, sometimes the networks push clips of my interviews or reports on social media and they gain some traction.
Despite not being concerned about it, I click on my name anyway. The tag is flooded with the same video with the same thumbnail. It’s from my on field interview with Alex. Turning my volume up, I click on the video. It’s only four seconds long, so whatever the internet is losing its shit over can’t be that crazy.
“Congratulations on the win, Alexander,” I had smiled. He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me in for a quick hug. That’s it?
Oh.
Oh.
No.
“I’m so proud of you.”
“The fucking mic was still on,” I turn to him, my eyes going wide. He meets my gaze, then shifts to the phone screen. My heart starts racing.
We’ve been here before.
“That’s not… it’s fine, right?” He asks, the uncertainty in his voice thick. His expression is like mine; full of fear.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s from my boss, Peter Koury. Impeccable timing, he has. My heart falls to my stomach. I turn to Alex, who just saw the notification pop up on my screen. Silence falls over us, no one daring to say anything.
I take a deep breath before opening the message that I wish I never saw.
You’re on probation.
Chapter Four
Alex’s Point of View
“They’re doing what?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Putting me on probation,” she says hollowly, her eyes brimming with tears. She quickly wipes them away, slightly smudging her makeup.
“For what?” I gape. My thoughts are swirling. What could she have done to warrant probation? The league is barbaric, there is no question about that. But if the reason is solely because her mic was still on when she said she was proud of me…
“I don’t know. It just says I’m on probation,” she says, exasperation and despair thick in her voice. A single tear falls from her eye, her head falling and her chest heaving as it rolls down her cheek.
Probation means desk duty, which is going to kill her. She’s never been someone who can be stationary. Since I met her, she’s always been on the go, searching for the next story.
I reach out to wipe her tear as it falls. “Hey, Elle, it’s gonna be okay.” I place a hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes. She looks down, staring at her phone.
“Just drive, please,” she whispers. Her phone lights up in her lap, but she looks at me expectantly. Despite not wanting to, I start driving.
Her gravelly voice begins once I’ve pulled out of the parking garage. “Ms. O’Connor, you’ve been placed on probation for repeated offenses of inappropriate behavior with players during on-air interviews. The final offense was tonight, when you, with your microphone still on, told quarterback Alexander Bradford you were quote, ‘so proud of him’ after his win while partaking in an unprofessional embrace. The professional relationship between you and Bradford has blurred the lines in the past, but this is where the league draws the line.” Her voice comes out strained, and my hands grip the wheel so hard my knuckles have turned white.
“You will be on the assignment desk until the end of the season until your contract is up for negotiation in May.” The last sentence she reads is what breaks her, tears falling freely as she tosses her phone to the floor of the car.
What am I supposed to say to any of that? What can I say to any of that? It’s my fault that my friend has essentially lost her job. There are no words that can make this situation better, nothing that I can do to make it go away. As I wrack my brain for any possible solution, nothing comes to me. The ideas that do come to me would likely only make the situation exponentially worse.
We sit in an awkward, uncomfortable silence until I reach my house.
I go down a bad line of thoughts, but I try to push them out as they arrive. As a way to focus the negative energy pouring from my brain, I begin to drum my finger anxiously on the steering wheel. There’s no pattern, there’s no reason. I just physically cannot stay still when everything feels like it’s spiraling out of control. If I sit idle, it feels like I’m sitting there waiting for impact.
As I pull into the garage and put the car into park, I turn to her. I look into her eyes for the first time since she read the email, and see such a sadness, all-consuming sorrow in her that I’ve never seen before. This is going to wreck her.
I’ve always looked at Elle as an extension of the sun. She’s always so bubbly and happy, lighting up any room she walks into. That’s why she flourished as a reporter so quickly; she gets along with everyone, she’s personable, and you genuinely want to surround yourself with her. When you’re on the receiving end of her questions, it doesn’t feel like an interviewer interrogating you, but rather an old friend catching up. Rich coming from me, I know. But tons of people in the league agree. She’s one of the best reporters in the game right now, and it all comes back to her contagious smile and the glow she radiates.
I look at her sadly.
“I don’t regret what I said. I am proud of you, Alex,” she sighs, wiping the final remnants of tears away. “I would say it again.”
“Elle,” I sigh. My stomach flips, anxiety settling in. “This is my-”
“Don’t try that on me, because it isn’t going to work. This wasn’t your fault. I was still mic’d up, on live TV. It was my fault. As a reporter, I know that. But, like I said. I am proud of you. I mean, Jesus Christ, we’ve been friends for five years. It would’ve been weird had I not said that,” she shakes her head, unbuckling her seat belt. “Everything happens for a reason. I’m failing to see this reason just yet, but I digress.”
I smile at her sadly. She’s always been an eternal optimist, finding the positive side out of every situation. She wallows for a few minutes until she spins it in her head, having come to terms, and then she’s good to go.
Not me, though. That’s what drew me to her so intensely when we first met. She truly is a ray of sunshine, but not in an obnoxious way. She genuinely lights up the room, bringing a warmth to it that feels like home to me. I’ve grown to love it.
She opens her car door and I follow, though my brain is a million miles away. I’m trying to come up with a solution to this right now. “So that’s it?” I ask once we’re inside. She’s pulling a bottle of wine from the shelf in front of her. Not investigating the type, she grabs the first one in front of her.
She eyes me suspiciously. “What do you mean?” She asks, a defensive bite to her voice. Though she’s only been to my Chicago apartment a handful of times, she’s well-versed in knowing where things are. I don’t own much despite the size of the place, so my kitchen utensils are limited to three drawers and two cabinets.
“You’re not going to fight it? You’re just giving up?” I ask again.
She rolls her eyes. “Alex. It isn’t giving up. If you got ejected mid-game, would you stand on the sidelines begging to be put back in?” She asks, digging for a bottle opener. After finding one, she opens up her bottle of white like a pro.
I purse my lips, nodding once. “It isn’t fair to you and you know it.”
“It might not be fair, but I certainly knew what I was getting into,” she shrugs, pouring a fourth of the bottle into her glass.
“That’s bullshit! What do you mean, you knew what you were getting into? Elle, no one deserves to be out there more than you. Everyone loves you,” I sigh, running a hand through my unruly hair. Curls keep falling into my eyes, and my attempts at sweeping them away from my forehead aren’t working.
“I’m just saying that there’s a certain standard, working in this specific industry. Carrie showed me the ropes and she didn’t hold back. She was forced into retirement for being too old, Alex. Do you know how fucked up that was? The douchebags in the focus groups said people at home wouldn’t want to watch her much longer due to her rise in age and, quote, ‘the botched plastic surgery’. That’s why she brought me up. And the kicker, Carrie never even had any work done, that’s just how women age! So yes, I knew what I was getting into!” She exclaims, slamming her glass into the counter top.
“I had no idea about Carrie,” I sigh, feeling like an ass now. “Shit. Elle, I’m sorry. I know the league isn’t exactly the poster child for progressivism, but I didn’t realize…” I trail off, my words awkwardly filling the silence of the room.
Elle brings her glass to her lips, taking two long drags of her wine. She tucks a long, wispy strand of her golden hair behind her ear, and clears her throat. “There’s no reason for you to have known that. As far as I know, it didn’t spread past the fifteenth floor at Headquarters,” she shrugs.
A chill runs down my spine at the mention of Headquarters. My uncle worked in the building for several years while I was growing up, doing sports analyst work. What his qualifications were outside of being a former player were, I’m still not sure, but just the thought of ever going back to that building is enough to make the pit in my stomach grow.
Headquarters is a high rise in New York City. Equipped with just about everything you could imagine you need to run a sports empire, I spent many summers there with my uncle. While he would do his work, he would make me sit and watch hours of high school game tape on a laptop at the empty desk next to his.
I still remember the dreary, ice-cold cubicle he worked out of. The entire floor he worked on was the same shade of sad gray, and all of the people who worked with him were picked from the same branch of Miserable Tree he was.
I dreaded the weeks I had to spend with him. It was always the same routine. Hours of game tape in the morning, hours and hours of physical practice at night. When we weren’t in his dungeon of an office, we were at his cave of an apartment. The days were always the same, and as the summer went on, I could feel the life draining from me bit by bit.
I hate to feel like I’m complaining about it because I wouldn’t be in the position I am if not for the effort that my uncle and my dad put in. But, there is something to be said about the automatic fear response I’m currently having at just the mention of Headquarters, and the wave of memories flooding my brain right now.
Snapping from the trance, I change the subject. “What’s Carrie Manthaw up to these days, anyway?”
“Beats me. She’s lucky she got out when she did. Clearly, it’s all gone to shit,” Elle exhales, taking a long sip of her wine.
Yeah, I’ll drink to that.
Chapter Five
Elle’s Point of View
The sound byte of Alex and I went viral.
Someone posted it on a social media website and the video racked up 5 million views overnight. News outlets are reporting on the ‘romance’ between us, compilations of our interviews together, and personal photos of us from college… it birthed a fire I cannot seem to put out.
Despite every warning signal in my brain telling me to stay hunkered down in Chicago, I’m going to lunch with my grandparents. I’m currently on hour one of the almost two-hour drive to Pontiac, the town where my grandparents live. Traffic was bad leaving the city this morning, which added an extra half an hour.
