Page 10 of Accidental Dad's Best Friend

Someone in the back echoes.

“Yes,” Liam reaches into one of the folders he brought it and pulls out the latest issue of The League, a magazine that follows the politics and news of professional sports teams all over the country, everyone from the NFL to tennis, and tosses it to the middle of the table. “Pop quiz, what genre is this magazine categorized in?”

“Sports?” someone asks.

Liam points at him. “You would think, wouldn’t you? But as of recently, it is being considered sports business. As if they can just make up genres now. And that makes them…”

God, here we go…

“Competition.”

“This is ridiculous,” I cut in. “They are niche. Yes they cover business but only the business of sports. How is that competition for us?”

Liam’s eyes meet mine. Because he isn’t talking about journalistic competition, even though he may have been able to argue that point if he dances in enough circles to convince everyone. No, The League is competition to us—to him—because they offered me a job recently. A job as their chief editor slash top journalist. A job where I’d be writing about the teams I love. They even inquired what I was getting paid here at Next Big Thing and offered to double it.

I was ready to accept it. In fact, I’d gone as far as putting in my notice with Liam. With a tight smile and a far too firm handshake, he nodded one time and simply said, “Good luck.”

What he meant was, good luck getting the job. Because two weeks after I put in my resignation, Next Big Thing accused The League of bribing journalists to quote-unquote “switch sides” and for a minute, the League had a big stain on their reputation. The job offer was also withdrawn.

Go figure.

“You tell me,” Liam goes on. “You seem to know them well. So I am sure you know how cutthroat they can be. All I’m doing is making that known.”

For a moment, we hold each other’s gaze. I want to tell him to fuck off. That I was offered the job because I inquired with them in the first place. I may play golf every other Sunday with Liam and the guys at NBT but I get beers with the boys at the League.I want to point out that if you don’t want to lose your employees, if you don’t want to loseyour friends,maybe you shouldn’t shoehorn your journalists into working for you and only for you. Forced loyalty isn’t loyalty at all.

But I don’t say that. I might be hot headed but I’m not stooping to his level right now. Instead, I shove away from the table. “Publish what you want but count me out on this one.”

I leave the meeting room and head home for the day. I’ve had enough. Enough of working for my supposed-to-be best friend. Enough of signing off on shady articles that discredit other people in the industry. People who have worked hard to get where they are, and damn good writers at that.

When I get to my condo on the other side of town, I park my black Lexus in the designated spot and make my way upstairs. The Ello house is a luxury condo community downtown. Complete with two-story gym, a rooftop pool and even a private bar, it’s a bit over the top. But I am finding that in this industry, privacy and seclusion are worth the price, especially when I’m tied to Liam Sloane.

After kicking off my shoes by the door, I pour myself a double of bourbon and sit on the couch, just in time to catch the end of the Avalanche game. I keep the volume low as my mind wanders back to the meeting. He’s out of his fucking mind doing what he’s doing. But the problem is that no one ever tries to stop him. What he’s doing, writing embellished, passive aggressive articles about other magazines is slander at its worst and gossip at best.

I take a sip of the hot, sweet liquid and hold it in my mouth long enough to make my lips burn and my teeth numb. Someone needs to give this man a taste of his own medicine. Not only is he fucking with the livelihood of good people just trying to make a living in the industry they love, but he also destroyed my chance at a dream job. I could be writing a column on the Avs’ captain returning thanks to a gamble made by their coach, not sitting onmy couch listening to it on ESPN. If people knew what Liam did, what he is still doing, I mean shit. He’d be put in his place for sure.

And that’s when it hits me.

If someone wrote an article about him, the same kind of article he writes about other people, he’d get a whopping taste of his own medicine. But it would have to be someone good. A damn good writer, someone who knows how to tell the truth in a way that would both grab the world’s attention but also be crafty enough that it doesn’t just sound like we are firing shots out of being trigger happy.

Someone who's worked in the shitty side of this industry before and knows how to expose it at any cost. Someone who cares more about being honest than being liked.

I pound the last of the bourbon and set the empty glass on the end table before grabbing my laptop. I could just pull the number up on my phone. It’s a number I would never delete, even if I never plan to contact her. But I don’t want to talk to her. Not yet. First, I just need to know where she is. What she’s doing. And how to find her in a less personal way.

I haven’t said her name. Not since that night. Since the last time I saw her, I haven’t even allowed myself to think of her name. Though she’s come to me in dreams.She’s come for me in dreams…

I shake the thought from my mind. The images of her face looking up at mine. Of her breasts and her hips and the way her strawberry blonde hair curled around her face and her legs wrapped around my shoulders. I can’t think about that right now. Because that, as far as Liam is concerned, as far as anyone is concerned, never happened.

I type her name in on the search engine.

Isabelle Sloane.

The search doesn’t pop as hard as I expect it to. As far as social media is concerned, she’s a ghost. It doesn’t surprise me though. She was never an attention seeking girl. I am a bit surprised though that I also can’t find her on any professional platforms. My heart sinks in my chest a little at the thought of Isabelle not writing anymore. She’s so goddamned good at it. She’s better than her father even. It’s probably why he resents her.

My lips quirk in a momentary smile. “Isabelle.” I whisper. She hates it when I call her that. Hates it when anyone calls her that. It’s half of why I do it, to ruffle her feathers. The other half is because it’s a pretty name. It suits her. But no. Isabelle wants to be called Izzy and she’ll tell that to anyone who makes the mistake.

Epiphany number two slams me in the chest.

Izzy.I should be looking up Izzy, not Isabelle, Sloane.

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