Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(39)
Part of her wondered if there was a scarlet Hoe stamped on her back. But since nobody mentioned it . . .
Back on firmer ground—both literal and metaphorical—she unlocked her studio apartment and headed in. With a brush of a kiss over the picture frame holding her family, she flopped into bed and groaned into the pillow. Her entire sleep schedule was thrown off whack now. And God knew, she needed sleep more than she needed to breathe. When her cell phone sounded with Bobby’s ringtone, she debated pushing it off the bed and onto the floor. But just her luck, it would break and she’d be forced to buy a new one since she was too broke to pay for the protection plan when she first got the thing for free with her upgrade. With reluctance, she answered.
“Hi, Bobby.”
“How goes the whale hunt?” he answered in lieu of greeting.
“Just call me Captain Ahab.” She rolled her eyes at the cheesy line. Bobby, however, had an appreciation for the cheesy, and he laughed.
“Got the footage from the weekend?”
“Yeah.” She’d spent half the night last night editing it in her hotel room. Too amped to sleep. Too close to running back down four flights of stairs and pounding on Killian’s door to have another round of amazeballs sex. “There are a few spots the tech guys will have to clean up. I couldn’t get it to completely isolate my voice, and it was so damn loud. But it was a fun one. Tailgating is never a hard assignment. Fun people.”
“Good, good,” he said distractedly. “Look, I need you to use what connections you have to worm your way in to another story.”
“I’m already using all my worm-skills right now with Killian,” she reminded him. Staring at the ceiling, she stretched her back. Airline seats were murder on the muscles. At least the flight back had been a smooth one. “I’m not really in a position to take on anything too involved.”
“Uh-huh.” The tone said I don’t care loud and clear. “Anyway, you’re gonna use whatever girlie skills you’ve got to get an in with Coach Jordan’s daughter.”
She sat up straight, sore muscles forgotten. “You scheduled an interview for me with Cassie Wainwright? Seriously?”
He made a disbelieving sound. “Don’t be stupid. They’re not giving any interviews right now. Not Jordan, not Owens, not Wainwright. They’re a tight-lipped ship. And since nobody can find Stephen Harrison, it’s pretty much a non-starter. But you . . .” He sounded positively gleeful. “You’ve got tits on your side.”
She stared down at her chest. “Not really.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he repeated. “You’re friendly with the guys, they like you. They see you as their little sister.”
All but one . . . There was nothing sisterly about the way Killian had treated her the night before.
“She’ll have seen you around. You’re about as non-threatening as possible. So use it. Take her out for a few cocktails. Play the ‘men suck’ card. Compare your most recent breakups. Paint her nails. Whatever. Girl shit. Get the story.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry, at what point did we get bought out by The National Enquirer? Because absolutely none of that sounds like my job description, or anything remotely close to what I would consider doing for a story.”
“Your job description is ‘get the damn story.’ That’s all. So, get the damn story. I don’t care how you do it. Everyone else has struck out, big time. But you haven’t even tried. If you use the sneak-attack approach, real sly-like, she won’t even see it coming.”
Aileen rolled her eyes now and settled back down. Worm-like, indeed. “To quote the great Bobby Mundane, ‘Don’t be stupid.’ She’ll have had media training by now, and she’s likely going through another crash course of it this minute. She’ll know I’m a reporter. And she doesn’t look like an idiot. In fact, she sounded pretty darn smart in that one interview they did when she came out into the light with Coach Jordan. Sorry, but she’s not going to fall for it.” And I’m not even going to try it.
She was persistent, and could be a little naggy if it helped. But deliberate misleading of a subject was something she wasn’t interested in. Nor was digging through trash or stalking from the bushes. There was no way she’d get any respect if she resulted to such low standards.
Bobby sighed. “Rogers, I’ve been trying to help you. We’re losing clicks. Piss ant–sized blogs are popping up all over the place. Every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks if they can afford to buy a domain, they can run a sports blog. Shit’s gotta be more impactful than how many marshmallows can Michael Lambert stuff in his big mouth.”
“Hey, people loved that video.”
“If you don’t come up with a Cassie Wainwright or Killian Reeves–size story, you’re done.”
The finality, the absolute calm with which he said it, froze her blood. “Bobby, what the hell? I do my job, I’m good at it. Those other guys are just rehashing anything people can see on ESPN. People are at the website because of what I do.”
“Sorry, kid.” As if the half-hearted apology was enough, he hung up without a good-bye.
Aileen seriously debated throwing the phone against the wall . . . but that damn the protection plan. Instead she placed it with deliberate care on the nightstand, then threw the pillow instead. It hit with a soft thump and fell harmlessly to the ground. Not half as satisfying.