I make a face, more surprised than I should be. “He’s always been so awful to me.”
The copyeditor is printing the article as we speak, the scent of toner becoming overwhelming in the room. “I think that’s his thing,” she tells me. “He once told my friend that she was an eight, but she’d be a ten if she’d let him pick out her clothing.” She rolls her eyes, then hands the paper over to me. “But anyway, it’s a really great article. Super gripping. I can’t believe you were willing to be alone with Carson Slate, knowing what his dad did…they sound way too alike for comfort. I love that you totally stuck it to him, though.”
My heart sinks; it truly feels like it’s somewhere around my stomach, wedged between my kidneys.
My world is starting to crumble around me, everything is turning hazy and dark.
I mumble a goodbye to the copyeditor and hurry to the building’s stairwell, the only place I can think of where I can be alone to read the article. I toss my purse onto the concrete landing and drop to the top step, knees pulled up, to read. The headline isn’t promising: Carson Slate: The Quarterback’s Cover-up. As described, my name comes first on the list of authors— by Astrid Tyler, with Devin Gussup.
My fingers shake as I read the piece so unlike my own, it’s practically unfamiliar. Gone is the connection to other students dealing with their parents’ influence. Gone is the fact that Carson himself feels guilty over the alibi being incorrect, the fact that he genuinely wasn’t sure what the truth was. Gone is him being a great ballplayer who wants to share credit rather than be the team’s hero. The article casts Carson as a jock who is used to getting what he wants, and willingly lead the police to believe an alibi he knew was false. It doesn’t quite say that Carson was covering up a crime for his father— that’d be libel— but the insinuation is there.
Worse? This section: I went undercover as a sports reporter at the Bowen vs. U. Laketon game. Slate’s reputation for being something of a womanizer proved true; despite refusing interviews for the better part of a year, he spoke with me that day, and again that evening. Over the following five weeks, Slate offered up information on himself, his brother, and his fathers— in-between commenting on the shortness of my skirts or asking about the size of my breasts. It was clear to me that Slate didn’t consider me a “real” reporter, but rather, one of the many self-professed “Sluts For Slate”— and it’s hard not to wonder if this dismissive, possessive attitude toward women isn’t learned from his father.
I feel like I might throw up. This isn’t right, it isn’t true, and now it has my name on it, and it’s going to press—
I force a few breaths, though they do little to calm me. Think, Astrid, think. The story can’t be stopped, clearly, but that doesn’t mean I can’t mitigate the damage somehow. First, though, I’ve got to get to Carson and show him what’s going to press. In fact—
Yes. That’s the plan. I didn’t want people to know Carson and I were together before, since it would delegitimize the story. But now that I want the story delegitimized, Carson and I need to be obnoxiously public. Stupidly public. Gross, get-a-room public— so everyone will believe us when we say that Devin reworked my original story to sell papers, and that I didn’t really okay it.
I text Carson hurriedly.
Astrid: We need to talk ASAP. About the paper and the story.
He hits me back quickly.
Carson: I’m about to go into a team meeting that’ll be a few hours, after?
Astrid: Okay, but right after please.
Then I do the only thing I can do.
Wait.
15
I don’t really know how long team meeting typically last, but four hours later I still haven’t heard from Carson. I text him to ask if he’s still there, and it shows that it’s been read, but he doesn’t respond— he must still be there. I can’t sit still any longer, though, and my suite mates will be home soon; I know if they see me like this, I’ll need to explain what’s going on, and I really, really feel like Carson should be the first to hear it. So, I grab my purse and head over toward the stadium. I have no idea if this is where team meetings are even held, but I’m pretty sure he’s mentioned there being rooms for that exact purpose here.
“Can I help you, miss?” a security guard asks as I approach the locked gate.
“Hi there! I’m with the Bowen Blaze,” I say quickly, and produce the press pass from that first game— it’s been tucked in my purse ever since. “I’m supposed to meet Carson Slate here after his meeting?”