On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

I’ll ask about it later.

“Thank you for coming into work early as always.” Mr. Bruce stepped into my cubicle. He picked up the bag of pretzels on my desk and treated himself to a handful. “I take it that you haven’t heard the news?”

“No.” I leaned back in my chair. “Is LeBron joining a new team again?”

“Ha! This is a way bigger story than that, Miss Johnson.” He crossed his arms. “Kyle Stanton just broke his typical media silence by announcing that he hates New England and he wants to be traded—two days before his team is set to start in the playoffs.”

WHAT? My jaw dropped to the floor.

“Why would he ever do something like that?” I could barely hear my voice. “That’s career suicide …”

“I know.” He shook his head. “Beats everyone. Every beat writer in this country is fighting to figure this shit out by the end of the night. And by every beat writer, that now includes you. You’ll work under Michael’s direction.”

Of course.

“Um, sir …” An intern cleared her throat from behind.

“I’m talking to Miss Johnson right now, Harriet.” He held up his hand. “My morning breakfast order can wait.”

“Kyle Stanton’s agent and personal assistant are in our lobby, sir.” The words rushed out of her mouth. “They say that he wants to arrange an exclusive interview with your best reporter.”

“Um, wow.” Mr. Bruce’s eyes widened, and he smoothed his tie. “Well, uh, of course, send them up to the boardroom, Miss. Johnson, set up the bar with coffee for the three of us and Michael Router, would you?”

Ugh. “Right away, sir.”

He left my cubicle, and I headed to the pantry to grab a basket of snacks. There was an open box of baking soda that I considered placing in Michael’s beloved sugar jar, but too many interns were eyeing my every move.

“Can you slip this to Mr. Stanton’s agent for me?” One of them slipped me something soft. “Tell him to give these directly to Kyle the next time he sees him.”

“What is it?”

“My panties,” she said. “I folded it just enough, so you’re not touching the wet spot.”

She walked away, and I tossed them into the trash.

When I made it to the board room, I stilled at the sight of Kyle standing near the window.

His eyes met mine as I set down the tray.

“Like I was saying—” Mr. Bruce looked more nervous than I’d ever seen him. “I’m confident that Mr. Router will paint your story in the best possible light. And given the circumstances and where we are in the season, we’re willing to fly out to wherever you need us to be, on whatever day you want. Does that sound good?”

“She’s not the interviewer?” Kyle gestured toward me.

“Miss Johnson? Oh, no.” Mr. Bruce let out a low laugh. “Miss Johnson here is an editor in training. She can assist Mr. Router with prep, but that’s about it.”

“So, she’s a goddamn intern?” Kyle asked.

“The senior lead of interns and an editor in training.”

Kyle stared at me in utter disbelief.

I looked away from him.

“Now, I’ll leave you with Mr. Router and Miss Johnson if you wish, so that you can get acquainted, and then I’ll return to set up a few things.” He shook Kyle’s hand and left the room.

Kyle’s agent and his assistant rushed out right behind him.

I was tempted to leave as well, but the look in Kyle’s eyes told me not to go.

I plopped down into a chair at the far end of the table.

“Well, now that we’re alone.” Michael opened his notebook. “I want to start by saying that I find it so insane how the fans are treating you over a comment when your record is beyond stellar on the field this year.”

Kyle continued staring at me, not saying a word.

“But unfortunately —” Michael continued. “That’s the world we live in right now. People take one line and just run with it. Isn’t that right, Courtney?”

I didn’t answer.

Michael clicked his pen. “Let’s start with the obvious, Mr. Stanton. Why are you requesting a trade, when your team is about to make a run for the Super Bowl?”

Kyle clenched his jaw. “Would you mind excusing me and Miss Johnson for a while, Mr. Router?”

“Um, sure. How long?”

“Forever,” he said. “But let’s go with the rest of the day for starters.”

“Um, well …” He looked between us. “Is this like some type of catch-up session since you have the same alma mater?”

“Something like that,” Kyle said. “I’ll let you know when I need you.”

“You can stay in the room, Michael.”

“You can fucking go, Michael.” Kyle’s deep voice followed mine.

Michael didn’t argue. He picked up his things and left the room.

The moment the door shut, Kyle walked toward me.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing,” I said. “But if it’s career suicide that you’re after, congratulations. I think you may have sealed the deal.”