Tackled (Alpha Ballers #1) (6 page)

All of these things I had learned in just two weeks of working with Bill Thompson. Still, despite his terrible and outdated opinions about women in the workplace, just covering the same beat as him was exhilarating. The man had forgotten more about the Patriots than I’d ever known, and pro football in general was his thing. He was an acidic and tough to deal with even on a good day, but his writing was fantastic, and before I could read my dad would read each of Thompson’s columns to me out loud when they came in the paper.

So yeah, I might not like being around Bill Thompson, but putting up with his sour looks and even sourer demeanor was a small price to pay to get to cover my favorite team for a living. I did hold out some small hope that some day I could bring my dad around to the Globe offices to meet Bill; he was such a big fan and it would have been one of the highlights of his life.

It was funny that real people had a way of being nothing like who you thought they’d be from taking in their body of work.

But on to more important things.

the draft. Damn. That had been a day.

After Steve and I caught Drake Rollins’ outburst on camera, the rest of the draft had seemed ho-hum, nothing exciting despite being the biggest thing happening in football since the championship game months earlier.

It should have been a huge deal, covering it for the first time for the Boston Globe, but something struck me about it after that kerfuffle with Drake. We had argued for a few minutes longer, Drake alternating between almost child-like wonder at his predicament and anger at the world for treating him like this.

Once he finally stormed out, I went back to the draft, shaking my head. Bill Thompson had not been happy that I had missed the first few picks, but I hoped by now he had forgotten about that. I didn’t tell him about the Drake thing because I didn’t think it was something he would be interested in - his focus was entirely on the Patriots and their key divisional opponents.

Bill Thompson was a grizzled old sports reporter, and he didn’t make any bones about having an allegiance to a particular team, even if that made him less than impartial. Pretty much all he cared about was how good the patriots were, and how they had gotten better as compared to their biggest opponents and rivals.

So, when I found out that he wanted to see me in his office, a couple days after the draft, I was scared. I figured he was about to fire me, and I very nearly started updating my resume, though I had a hunch that ‘two weeks at the Boston Globe’ wouldn’t look very good to any future prospective employers.

Still, I looked down at my outfit to make sure there were no strange creases anywhere, then I took a deep breath and headed into Bill’s office.

Bill’s office was stark and clean, and huge for a reporter, as befitting his many years of service to the Boston Globe. Bill sat in his chair facing the door, and didn’t get up when I came in. He looked up from his computer screen, and pushed his keyboard away, like he’d never gotten used to using it in the first place.

“You wanted to see me, Bill?”

Bill waved at me like he wasn’t interested in hearing me speak. “Sit down, Pearson.”

I gulped, and sat down in the left of the two chairs in front of Bill’s desk. I was already bracing myself for the worst. My father was going to be so disappointed that I had already gotten fired from covering the Patriots for the Globe, after just 10 days.

“You’re terrible at this.”

Ouch. Starting off on a positive note already. Just like ol’ Bill Thompson. “Bill, I -“

He closed his fingers and ran them across his lips, the sneer coming back. “Zip it, kid. I don’t want to hear it. All you kids are alike these days, all this me, me, me crap. Never shut up about anything.”

He stood up, clearly on a full head of steam. “In my day, junior reporters were never even heard from until they’ve been on the job for a decade. Because nobody gave a shit what their opinions were, or hell, even their observations, until they knew what they were talking about.”

Bill paced around the room, back and forth still behind his desk. He pointed at me. “And you, Pearson, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

I realize all of a sudden that my hands were gripping the arm rests of the chair, my knuckles turning white. This was not the conversation you wanted to have with your boss two weeks after getting your dream job. ”Bill, I –“

“I said zip it. Sure, you know your stats, you know your numbers, you’ve seen every game the Patriots have played for the last 10 years, but that doesn’t mean you know anything.”

Well, at least he was giving me some sort of a compliment, right? At least he recognized that I knew the Patriots backwards and forwards. That counted for something, right? At least there was one good thing I could tell my father after I was escorted out of the building, with just a meager box of my stuff.

He put his hands on the table, propping himself up as he leaned over it. “But that doesn’t mean you understand football. That doesn’t mean you understand what it’s like to really get in there and duke it out. And that means you don’t understand where the players are coming from, where the coaches are coming from.”

So that was it. Bill Thompson was firing me because I had never played football, either in high school, in college, or professionally. This all came down to me being a woman. I felt my hackles rise, and I momentarily told myself not to do anything stupid, then immediately disregarded that notion.

“Now hold on, Bill.” I realized I was standing up, getting on Bill’s level. “I may not have played football, but I understand the game just as well as anyone else who hasn’t played or coached it. I can relate to readers, give them an interesting perspective.”

Bill stared at me like I had grown a second head, shocked that I had the audacity to stand up to them in his own office, me, a kid with no experience, and a girl at that! “Sit down, Pearson.”

I didn’t want to, but the force of his tone and the look on his face made me do it. I sat back down, my hands gripped tight around the arm rests of the chair yet again.

Bill started pacing again. “I should fire you. I should fire you right now and give the job to someone else who knows what they’re doing.”

I tried to put on as brave face as I could. I knew the worst was coming, and I wanted to be as ready for it as I could. Don’t cry, Lily. Do not cry. Sure, you are about to lose your dream job after just a couple weeks, but this was not the time for waterworks. Keep it together, and after this you could figure out what to do next.

“I should fire you. But unfortunately for me and luckily for you, I can’t.”

Huh? Relief started to wash over me, even though I definitely wasn’t out of the woods yet. I leaned forward, eager to hear what Bill had to say next.

He put on a pained expression, like he didn’t understand all that was wrong with the world, but that didn’t stop him from being angry at it. “That video, the video of you and Drake Rollins at the draft. They put that up on the website.”

Shit. I had meant to tell Steve that we probably shouldn’t run that, but in all the excitement of the draft, I had forgotten. Of course he would have uploaded it right away, without anyone telling him not to.

“The website is blowing up, apparently all everybody wants to see and talk about is Drake Rollins getting snubbed at the draft, and the one reporter who got an interview with him.”

An interview? The argument that Drake and night had yesterday was not at all what I would think of as an interview. Still, if it help me keep my job, I’d take it. That was the most important thing right now, as long as I got to keep covering the Patriots, I would do it.

“So, what does that mean for me?”

“It means that the top brass want to keep you around. They’ve been going nuts over the website numbers since yesterday, and now they’ve got dollar signs and stars in their eyes. If it were up to me, you’d be out in the street, but unfortunately this one isn’t up to me.”

Now the relief washed over me in full, and I sat back, a little bolder than before. So I still had a job after all. Maybe Bill Thompson wasn’t looking out for me, but even he couldn’t argue with the numbers, the views that I brought in. Score one for Lily.

“Thanks for the heads up, Bill.” I stood up again, or rather, started to, but Bill waved me down yet again.

“One more thing. Now the top brass wants to chase this story as long as they can, and run it into the ground. And they want you to do it.”

All the relief turned cold. “What does that mean?”

“It means they want you covering Drake Rollins 24/7, if that’s how you kids say it. They pretty much want you on him all the time.”

Following Drake? Shit. “Drake Rollins is all washed up, even before his career started. No team will touch him, he’s not going anywhere. Following him around is just a waste of time.”

Bill Thompson looked at me with something approaching a tiny bit of respect, that almost instantly disappeared. “Normally, I would agree with that assessment,” he grumbled. “But I happen to know something you don’t, part of the library of things I know that you don’t. Drake Rollins isn’t done yet.”

Shit. I had seen the cloud, and now I had just seen the silver lining, and Bill was hitting me with even bigger cloud behind it.

“Pack your bags, Pearson. You’re on Drake Rollins patrol from now on.”

“Pack my bags? Where am I going?”

“Where else? Foxboro. Now get out of here.”

Shit. Six months ago I would’ve been over the moon to be covering Drake Rawlins as a professional journalist, even if he couldn’t cover me with his body.

But now, the prospect of spending any time around him, while certainly appealing on a sexual level, seemed like career suicide. Drake Rollins was going nowhere, a downfall that he had created all on his own, despite his incredible talent.

And as much as I wanted him to do terrible and naughty things to my body in bed, I did not relish the idea of my career going down the tubes with his.

Shit.

CHAPTER 08 - DRAKE

Three days after the draft…

the draft was over. No team took me.

Fuck. My awesome career and millions of dollars was over and gone before it even began. What was I gonna do now?

I had come back to the hotel room my agent had been paying for. He kept assuring me that he’d get back to me, that this wasn’t over yet, but I didn’t want to hear any of it.

I’d called my parents, of course, but they already knew what had happened. The conversation wasn’t long; I couldn’t bear to keep talking and hear more of the disappointment in their voices.

Other than talking to my parents and agent I avoided my phone for a couple days. The texts and calls were crushing at first, and I turned off the ringer after the first couple hours. Then they trailed off as all the sympathy people felt was replaced by getting on with their own lives.

In a way that made things a little better. Sure, I liked that people were thinking about me, but I didn’t want to walk around with this feeling that I had let everyone else down for too long.

Of course the video from the draft of me and Lily arguing had gone viral. Just my luck. Now I had that to add to all the things people had heard about me in the months since I had caught my last touchdown for Cal.

All that kind of stuff and no on the field performance makes it really easy for people to forget how good you are. I didn’t do a lot of social media stuff as it was, but even I knew I was getting raked over the coals all over the place.

I couldn’t avoid my phone entirely, though. My agent, Adam Snyder, had told me on the last call that he’d call again this morning to go over next steps with me. I was glad to hear it - even though I was still pissed over what had happened, I knew Adam was on my side.

Of course, Adam was in it for the money, but still, the fact that he kept me on despite going undrafted was still a big deal to me. I knew that if I stuck with him I might be able to get another shot.

My phone screen lit up and I saw it was Adam calling. I took a deep breath and picked up. “Hey Adam.”

“Drake! How are you holding up?”

“I’ve been better,” I sighed. “Got anything for me? Give me some good news, please.”

“I’m working on it, I’m working on it. Give me a little time, Drake. Things are moving.”

“Can you give me a hint? Don’t leave me hanging here!”

“I don’t want to say anything and jinx it.” As agents went, Adam was the most superstitious I had ever met, and that was saying something.

“Come on, man, this is my life we’re talking about.”

“I know. That’s what I called to talk about, actually.”

I paused. Adam Snyder wasn’t exactly known for dispensing life advice over the phone, but at this point, at the end of my rope like I was, I was more than willing to listen if he was going to send any wisdom my way. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You need to come around, Drake. This crazy life style of yours isn’t gonna get you any farther than this. Twenty years ago a pro athlete could get away with a messy life off the field, but now with all this technology around, everyone recording everything, that shit won’t fly.”

Adam was also not a man who swore lightly, unlike most of his contemporaries. I listened intently. “I know, I know.”

“No, Drake, I’m not sure you do. You can say that all you want but the proof is on twitter, it’s on all those sports sites talking about you. You know how many calls I’ve gotten about you in the last 24 hours?”

“How many?”

“Zero. Fucking zero. It’s like you’re radioactive, man, no one wants to touch you with a hundred foot pole, and no one wants you going anywhere near their team.”

My heart sank. That is exactly what I didn’t want to hear. It took me a little while to find the right words, and Adam let me take my time. “Is there any good news?”

“I’m not sure yet, I’ll be in touch if there is. But you gotta really sit down and think about your life, man. You gotta figure out if football and professional sports really are for you.”

“What the fuck?” Adam really knew how to get a rise out of me. “Football is all I’ve wanted to do since the first time I caught one. There’s nothing more important to me.”