Page 1 of Hot Damn
Cami
“Hot damn!”
I barely avoid a fist to the face when the guy next to me punches the air. He can’t be more than five four and at five eleven in bare feet I tower over him.
The last thing I need—or want—is a black eye. Leaning back as far as the wall behind me allows in case he comes up swinging again, I warn, “Hey, watch it next time.”
He whirls around like he’s under attack, one arm out, palm up to hold off the threat while the other hand presses his phone to his chest, his eyes darting this way and that before landing on me.
His assessing gaze takes me in for a few seconds and I see the moment he dismisses me, a sneering twist of his lips overtaking his face. The smirk doesn’t do anything to improve his looks. In fact it does the opposite; the predatory smile makes me think of serial killers.
Before I can ask what has him so excited, he shuffles backward putting a good four feet between us, his creepy gaze never leaving me as though he thinks I’ll follow him to snatch the phone he’s cradling like it’s a bag of crack and I’m an addict looking for a fix.
Idiot.
I know most in the industry and he’s no different.There is not a chance in hell I’m going near Herman Draper by choice. In the world of journalism he’s a bottom feeder, a freelancer after any story he can sell to the highest bidder. He’ll peer through windows and hunt through garbage cans in search of some tidbit to reveal about any celebrity of interest to the public, especially those his information would tear down.
I’m pretty sure he was nabbed on a break and enter a few years ago.
The man gives respectable journalists a bad name.
I didn’t realize who he was when he slipped into the room and settled beside me a few minutes ago. Now I have to wonder why he’s here. Sports reporting isn’t his thing.
Then again, it’s not mine either.
I’m here because the usual guy called in a favor I’d been dumb enough to owe him. I should have known Bas would send me to a stinky locker room.
Okay, fine, it’s not the locker room, but close enough.
I’m not a fan of professional athletes for a number of reasons, the least of which being they smell. Although this room the press is jammed into lacks the usual athletic aroma, instead it’s filled with a mix of expensive and cheap perfumes and colognes as well as a slight trace of BO.
That last could be attributed to Draper though. The man looks like he’s slept in his clothes for more than a few days straight.
Noise at the front of the room draws everyone’s attention, and looking up I see Coach Walker Alcott step into the room. He’s followed by assistant coach Blake Watts, and players Beckett Higgison, Chase Hawkins, and Branton Lattimer Watts. While flashes pop all around the room, I watch the group get settled in seats behind a long table lined with microphones and wonder what questions they’ll be asked.
As I said, sport isn’t my thing and I’m a little out of my depth here, but a favor is a favor and Bas is a cool guy, and if I’m honest,I’d probably have said yes to anyway. And that’s what I am—honest—in my job and life.
I had my fill of liars before I hit double digits and I’ve no plans to live that way again.
Besides, it’s not like I’m here to interview anyone. I just need to pick up some highlights, a few soundbites we can use on the network and paper’s websites. Bas watched the game at home where he’s recovering from a sprained ankle and will already be pulling together the article to go in the sports section of Sunday’s paper as well as the one the network will use in their sports roundup.
I don’t plan on asking questions. I’ll leave that to the experts in the room. Of which there are many.
Except one.
Herman Draper.
He’s more of an expert in gossip, the dirtier the better.
I glance over and see Draper worming his way closer to the front. He’s got a look on his face that has me standing straighter, my gaze focused solely on him now.
“What are you up to?” I murmur, moving closer.
I’m not sure why I’m following him. The action is at the front of the room with the players and coaches answering questions about tonight’s game. I’ve got my ears on them, listening for anything I can use, but my gaze is locked on Draper. Whatever he’s up to, I don’t like it.
Can’t say why.
Maybe it’s the way his flinty eyes glint or the smarmy smile on his face. Whatever he has planned, I know it’s not going to be good. Shit usually gets flung when Draper is around.
