Daylight, page 6
“I don’t know much, but I do know you are…how does it go? Down bad? Is that what the saying is?” Amaya, Quinn’s girlfriend, asks.
“Yes, she is down very, very bad,” Quinn nods her head.
I shake my head in vehement disagreement, though the tears falling down my face and the gaping hole in my chest would suggest otherwise. I don’t know how to articulate my feelings or my thoughts. When it concerns Alex, it’s very black and white. We are friends, have always been friends, and will never be anything more than friends. But now, it feels like the black and white are fusing into a gray area, one that I’m terrified to explore.
My gaze falls back to the television as the players take the field again, my chest quite literally about to split open with pride as Alex leads his team. Unable to stop the outpour of emotions for the majority of the third quarter, Quinn knows it’s a lost cause when I’m screaming at the officials after a missed flag that likely prevented Chicago from scoring.
They’ve narrowed the gap, just a bit, the score now being 24-14, Atlanta winning. With one quarter to go and it being a two-possession game, anything can happen and I fear that I’m on the verge of cardiac arrest.
Watching Alex get sacked for the fourth time sends me into another fit of rage, even though he picks himself up and walks it off like it’s nothing. It’s so different, not being there and seeing it all play out with my own eyes.
I hate it.
“I never knew your quiet friend Elle was such a drama queen,” I hear Amaya whisper.
“I’m not a drama queen!” I exclaim, a frown taking over my face.
“Oh, Eleanor,” Quinn smiles, laughing softly. It makes me laugh, too.
Maybe I’ve been a little ridiculous this evening, but I have every right to be so enraged. I miss my job. I miss Alex. I miss both of them, together.
After zoning out for a split second, I find myself screaming— Amaya and Quinn too— as a pass intended for a receiver on the other team gets overthrown and is intercepted by one of Chicago’s guys and is returned for a 73-yard touchdown.
It was insanity.
It’s always a risky move, deciding to do two-point conversions when things are so close. My stomach is in knots, because if they lose, this is it.
Portwell makes the call anyway. And by some grace of God, it worked.
24-22.
They’ve shut Atlanta out for an entire quarter, almost two. If they can score one more time without letting Atlanta, they’ll win the game.
Alex will have a playoff win under his belt.
My heart constricts with joy and sheer, utter pride at the thought. He deserves this.
Chapter Nine
Elle’s Point of View
This part of the season is always fun. There are so many transactions happening with the non-playoff-bound teams, the news is constant. It’s been keeping me busy for the most part, and this week has been a lot better than last.
I had to write a piece about Alex getting fined by the league for unsportsmanlike conduct with the press, which is kind of ironic. I haven’t talked to him in a few days, but I know he’s getting nervous about their next match-up. He’s also still not happy about the league sidelining me, but there isn’t anything I can do about that at this point in time.
He opted out of his mandatory media on Wednesday, a way of silent protest. I don’t necessarily agree with him hurting his reputation because he wants to help me, but once he sets his mind to something there isn’t much you can do to change it.
I tried to get tickets to go to the game myself, but I can’t afford that even at face value. Sitting in my cubicle, looking at resale tickets, and thinking of any scenarios in which I can figure this out is starting to drive me crazy. I would never ask Alex for tickets, the four tickets a year he gifts to my grandparents is more than I wish to take from him.
I exit Ticketmaster out of frustration and go to the break room as my desk phone begins to ring. My heart stops when I see the caller ID flash Peter Koury’s name.
I weigh the outcomes. How much trouble would I be in if I don’t answer, and how much trouble am I in if I do answer? “Hello?” I ask, alarmed.
“Ms. O’Connor. I have scheduled us a meeting for 4 o’clock. My office,” he says, his voice bored as though I’m inconveniencing him by answering the phone.
“I can do four-thirty, I have a meeting with-”
“Cancel it,” he answers flatly. I silently bang my head into my desktop.
“Understood,” I sigh. He hangs up, nothing further to add, apparently.
I’m losing patience for this, and fast. Being ordered around constantly, expected to answer at Koury’s beck and call is exhausting.
I was supposed to meet with the executive producer of one of our morning shows. I wrote a segment for one of their shows for tomorrow morning. To Koury, neither of us are real people, so our time doesn’t matter. We took an hour out of our schedules to go over the segment with the anchor this afternoon, but all for nothing now. I call down to daytime, asking to talk to their executive producer. After explaining the situation to her, she is able to move a few things around so we can meet now, before my meeting with Koury.
The daytime crew is generally pretty adaptive. They control the air for hours, and hours, and hours, so they tend to let their stream of consciousness handle it and ditch the script completely. One of their producers reached out to me, asking if I could put a package together on the history of this year’s Super Bowl.
I have a hunch word got out that I was benched because this is not something within my realm of usual responsibilities. I was happy to help out, though. I needed something to do that counted as billable hours. With the loss of doing sidelines for games right now, I’m also taking a severe cut in pay.
After I meet with the executive producer and the anchor, I hang around on their floor. I see a few familiar faces and don’t have enough time to go back down to my office before my meeting.
I find a staffer who I recognize from my floor, and he smiles as I walk toward him. We chat for a bit, and he informs me that he moved from prime time to daytime because the hours were better. I disagree with him on that one, but I keep my mouth shut.
We bitch about my current situation. He thinks my punishment is over the top, and that reporters in the past have gotten away with a lot worse. I’m inclined to agree with him.
I hang out with them until I have to meet with Koury. I don’t know what he could want to talk about, he was pretty clear on my probation. I can’t imagine hell freezing over would have him reconsidering.
His assistant sees me coming and instructs me to wait outside his office until he’s ready for me. I decide to text Alex while I wait, not having talked in a few days.
Hey. Hope all’s well with you. Currently sitting outside Koury’s office. Will keep you updated.
That’s weird. What do you think it’s for?
Legit have no clue.
Weird. Good luck.
As I’m about to respond, his office door opens.
Well, here goes nothing.
“Ms. O’Connor,” he nods, gesturing for me to sit. The look on his face tells me he wants to be here just as much as I do.
“Hi,” I say quickly, suddenly extremely uncomfortable and out of my element.
“You’re a very mediocre reporter. Average, at best. Why Bradford spinning out over your probation is fucking beyond me,” he says, getting straight to the point and doing nothing to hide the annoyance in his voice. It takes all the power in my body to keep my jaw closed.
“We are friends, we met in college, sir,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“Yeah. I gathered that,” he says, filing through papers on his desk. “I’m sure you heard what he’s saying now too, yeah?”
“I’m sorry, sir, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific,” I shake my head. There’s a lot of shit that Alex could be saying. I haven’t talked to him in several days, the possibilities are endless.
“He’s only going to do press if it’s with you,” he meets my eyes, nothing but pure resentment behind the look he gives me. “We fined him. He didn’t care. We said, ‘do it next week, we triple your fine’. His response?” He looks at me expectantly. I sit there speechless, all courage swiftly kicked out of me the second he called me a mediocre reporter. “‘Good thing I make nine million dollars a year.’,” he says mockingly. I go still. “So, with Bradford fighting to the death for you— why, I do not understand— you’ve left me with no options here, Ms. O’Connor. You will cover the rest of the games the Comets play in for the remainder of the season. At this rate, that won’t be many. You will only interview Bradford. No other players, no reports. At the end of the season, your contract with the National Football League will be terminated and you will seek employment elsewhere. Is that all understood?” He says, not looking up from his cell phone.
There’s a rotten taste building up in my mouth, but all I can do is swallow it back with the faint nod of my head. What else am I supposed to say to that? There’s nothing else I can do.
“You’re dismissed. Check your email for flight and travel accommodations.” He dismisses me with the wave of a hand, and I feel the bile in my stomach rise.
I stand up, making it as far as the elevator until I let the tears penetrate the corners of my eyes. I try everything to blink them away until I’m making a beeline for the bathroom, letting them fall freely behind the security of a closed stall.
One stupid slip-up cost me everything.
But on the other hand… it opened my eyes to a lot of other things, too.
I’m royally fucked either way, aren’t I?
Quinn is home when I get home, which is perfect because I need some girl time before heading to San Francisco. They play on Sunday, which will call for a long weekend. Tonight, I want to get wine drunk with Quinn and spill my very confusing thoughts to a third party.
As expected, she’s down to lend an ear and has the cork popped before I have my shoes off. I can always count on her to liven my mood, and I know tonight will be no different.
I put my work bag on one of the chairs in our kitchen, knowing I’ll be grabbing it from its spot in just a short twelve hours to go right back to work. Once I change out of my business casual and into a pair of sweats, I’m officially ready to unwind.
Sometimes, it is hard for me to fully disconnect after work. There are some parts of my brain that never turn off. I’m always thinking about the next project, the next story. Leaving work at work is hard, especially when most nights, I come home to an empty apartment.
Quinn has a girlfriend, and they spend a lot of time at her place. On those nights, it’s easier for me to just keep working than it is to turn it off.
Walking back to the living room, I throw myself onto our sectional. Quinn follows suit.
“So, Eleanor, what’s the occasion? You never want to get wine drunk with me anymore,” she asks, making herself comfortable on the couch.
I frown. “Until two weeks ago, I didn’t have the time. Now I have all the free time in the world. I got assigned the game on Sunday, though. I fly out tomorrow,” I state, staring straight out the window in front of me. The New York skyline is pretty, and the dark sky makes the buildings pop. I don’t appreciate this view enough.
“Whoa, what?” She asks, taken aback.
I explain to her the events of today, and what went down in Koury’s office. She’s baffled that he both talked to me like that and that they backtracked on my probation.
I’m not surprised about them backtracking my probation, all things considered. They can’t have a star quarterback foregoing press for the entirety of the playoffs when they are in high contentions to be playing in the Super Bowl. Now, if it were September, this story might have a different ending.
I agree with her though, it is surprising that he talked to me in the manner that he did. Obviously, a man in power, I’m a woman with no power, the dynamics make sense. But given our situations, I feel as though he should’ve been a little less douchebag and a little more ‘you hold the key to getting Alex to talk’.
What do I know, though?
“Wanna address the elephant in the room?” She asks, handing me the bottle of wine.
On wine nights, we forego glasses. Tonight, we’re drinking straight from the bottle. After what I’m about to admit to her, I’d better start chugging.
“You were right. Down bad,” I sigh, taking a few gulps before handing the bottle back to her.
“I usually am. Wanna talk about it?” She asks quietly.
“What’s there to say?” I shrug. “We weren’t even together and I all but lost my job because of our relationship. If I want to work in the industry, we can’t be together. It’s as simple as that.” I blink back tears again.
“First of all, when have you ever backed down from a challenge? If you want to work in the league and date Alex, who the fuck is there to stop you? As long as I’ve known you, Elle, you’d never let someone stand in your way just because of some bullshit, outdated rules.”
I open my mouth to interject but she puts her hand up to stop me, continuing her spiel. “Second of all, Carrie Manthaw—your hero— got married to a quarterback she quite literally met on the job. You two have known each other since you were nineteen. You weren’t professionals, you were kids. And like I said, I’m usually right. He’s been in love with you since then. It just took you a while to get with the program.”
“I was eighteen when we met,” I frown, hugging the bottle to my chest.
“Leave it to you to miss my fucking point completely!” She exclaims, slapping a palm to her face. It sends me into a fit of laughter. “Call up Carrie. I bet she has some insight and can shed some light on your situation. And do you want my advice, professionally?” She asks.
“Oh, what the hell. Give it to me,” I exhale, gulping down more of the wine. We’ve almost reached the bottom of the bottle.
“Finish out the season, quit your fucking job, and find a network that appreciates you. Quit working for the league. All of the networks already know who you are, they would jump at the chance to offer you a job. Fox Sports, NBC Sports, GoSports, wherever. Just get out from direct employment of the NFL,” she says pointedly. I stay quiet.
I drink the rest of the bottle, the thoughts in my head swirling at a million miles an hour.
Chapter Ten
Alex’s Point of View
“So, tell me. You come from quite a family of athletes. Do you ever feel like this is what was expected of you, or was this something you’ve always wanted?” She asks.
“Well, Eleanor…” I trail off into a monotonous spiel about faith and family and whatever, wanting this to be over with. I hate being asked that question, and she knows I hate that question. We’re doing a pre-taped interview to air before the game tomorrow.
She guides me through about a million and one questions, and both of us are on our best behavior. My guess is that a lot of what she’s asking came from someone above her, because her questions are never this bland. It’s taking a lot for both of us to get through this one.
I’m still surprised she’s even here, to be honest. I didn’t expect Koury to fold. I decided to take matters into my own hands in the eleventh hour, since I couldn’t go through another game without her being there. Last week was a train wreck.
Mechanically, I make my way through the interview. It’s basically second nature to me, but not even Elle can keep me engaged in the questions I’ve been asked a million different times in a million different ways.
After fifty-eight excruciating minutes— not that I was counting (I was)— we wrap it up. I exchange thanks with her producer and her cameraman as they begin to take down the set they created for the interview.
We take the elevator up to Elle’s floor, having made the decision to hang out tonight. Probably not the best choice in retrospect, but hindsight is twenty-twenty.
Once Elle told me she got reassigned to this game, we made a plan to hang out tonight. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her and neither of us have been great at holding a conversation when we message back and forth.
“You used to be so into the sit-down interviews,” she laughs. “What happened?”
‘‘Well, when they make me do the same variation of the same damn interview over and over again, it gets boring,” I shrug. “I’m just glad you were the one to do it.”
“I don’t think anyone else could’ve handled that, Alex. They would’ve thought you were bored out of your mind, counting down the minutes until we were done,” she jokes, taking her heels off.
I laugh, shrugging my jacket off. “Well, I would say you’re wrong, but…”
“I get it,” she nods. “Thanks for playing along. That was probably my last time doing one of those.” I look up to meet her gaze, and her eyes are glassy, tears rimming the bottom of them.
“Oh, Elle,” I say softly, moving toward her and swiftly pulling her into my embrace. “I had a good time with you. If it was your last time— which I don’t believe it to be— you did a damn good job at keeping me fully engrossed with your journalistic abilities,” I say wholeheartedly.
She laughs into my chest, the sound filling my insides with warmth. “My journalistic abilities, really?” She shakes her head, still laughing. She pulls away and looks up at me. Her head rests snugly on my chest, right below where my heart lies. I wonder if she can hear how fast it’s beating right now?
As if she senses the tension that’s settled over us just as it’s fallen, she pulls away from me. “There are some new movies streaming right now. Want to check them out?” She asks, running a hand through her loosening curls.
I check my watch. I’m supposed to report back to my hotel room for check-in at six. It’s three. Plopping down on the couch, I let out a sigh.
“Yeah, sure. You pick, though,” I nod, not wanting to make a decision. She told me once that she almost majored in film because she loves movies so much, but then realized she didn’t want to be the one creating them, just watching them.
