Page 7 of Striking Heat
“What are you so deep in thought about?” Nick asked, hitting the back of my chair.
I look over at the man who has become my only friend at this paper. He’s one hell of a wingman too. The whole dark-hair, dark-eyes thing has women going crazy. He looks like he’d been an athlete, but he has always said he isn’t a meathead. Whatever that means.
“Sorry, just thinking about that last piece. I wonder how she’s doing with it being out there in the wild.”
“What do you care?” Nick asks me.
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t, I know that. I’m just starting to get a little restless doing pieces like this. I could have said more. Maybe written about how nice it was that the Cromwell’s were giving college athletes a chance to live out their dreams. Or that the stadium is bringing a lot of jobs to the Tampa area.”
“And a lot of traffic,” he reminds me of the serious jam we got into leaving the stadium. Which actually worked out in my favor because I was able to write my article since I always travel with my iPad and keyboard.
“Yeah, that sucked,” I agree with him.
“I’m sure it won’t be as busy this Saturday as it was last Saturday.At least, if they read your article.” He chuckles like he thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.
“That wasn’t the goal of the article. And I’m sure some of the tried-and-true fans of soccer will be there to support them.”
“We’ll be among them.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like there’s anything else on the agenda.”
“What? You not getting any action lately? What about that girl from the bar Friday night? What was her name—Jenna, Janice?” He waves his hand at me like it doesn’t matter. Because I’m sure to him, it doesn’t. “Didn’t you get her number?”
I nod. “Jessica was her name.”
“Whatever. Did you get the digits?”
“I did.”
“But you haven’t called her? And you definitely didn’t take her home?” Nick shakes his head.
“Nope, I haven’t done either of those things,” I confirm for him.
“What are you waiting for? What’s wrong with this one?” He tries to sound annoyed with me, but I know he isn’t. We hang out all the time. Even though we work together, our evenings out are still an adventure thanks to his antics and the way he likes to meet women. “I set you up perfectly for that one. She was all hot and bothered that you were a swimmer and know Michael Phelps.”
“I don’t know Michael Phelps that well. We just swam together from time to time,” I tell him for what feels like the hundredth time. Michael swam on the same relays and made the same teams. We’re the type of friends who will talk to each other in passing, but neither one of us is going to reach out and ask the other to hang out.
“She didn’t need to know that. She was all about hanging out with you two in some weird double-date night,” Nick says with a laugh. I can tell he’s still proud of himself for having his plan work so well.
“Either way, man, that girl was a nonstarter,” I tell him, rolling my eyes at him.
“No one said you had to marry her. Just fuck her.”
“You should really put that on a Hallmark card, bro.”
“Yeah, you’re the writer, not me,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, I’m the writer. The writer who probably caused that girl to run and cry as soon as she saw my article. I’m pretty sure I wrecked her Sunday.”
“She asked for it. Remember what she said about you? She called you out, fired back. Bitch got what she deserved. Don’t give her another thought. And if it bugs you that much, just focus on another one. Pick a new member of the team and go after her.”
I shake my head like it’s clearing a fog from my mind. “That’s not my style. I’m going to keep going after this one. There’s a bit of vigor there. I’m going to see this one through.” I smirk, thinking about how her blue eyes got all hot and fiery when she was sparring with me.
“Get ready, because it’s going to be game day before you know it!”
I snicker. “Yes, it certainly will be.”
My conscience creeps back in, but I push it down and remind myself that I have a job to do. And maybe if I can get enough traction and accolades built up, they’ll finally let me write the kind of stories I want to write. Time is all I need, and I have the perfect subject for my next few pieces. Mac is feisty and just the right person to help me on this little journey of shock-brand journalism I seem to be building.
