1
“Get some glasses, jackass—I’ll donate to the cause.” The man’s shouts caused Taran to wince, and not only because of the volume.
New York fans were obnoxious, but they also tended to be wrong. That was a good call. The ball was so low it almost hit the dirt. Not even close to the strike zone.
“Guy’s got it out for us. He might as wella’be wearing purple the way he’s calling for the Rockies,” another fan added as Taran worked not to roll her eyes.
The ridiculous part of it was, the game was all but over: two outs, top of the ninth, Metros by three. Nobody was on base for the Rockies. The fans might be screaming, but all they needed was one more strike, and the game was done.
“Strike,” the man behind the plate called as the ball smacked into the leather mitt. Cheers sounded across the stadium, and the music played. Check the box for another NY Metros win, putting them at the top of the AL East.
Even with the screaming crowd, the entire game had been a disappointment. Taran needed a story for her sports gossip blog, and typically, a Saturday night at the ballpark brought something out.
But not tonight.
It was like everyone fun stayed home. Not one gossip-worthy person had shown up. No politician eating a hot dog, no Grammy winner singing the National Anthem, no star-studded boxes for a photo op of Hollywood’s elite. Not even former players watching their team; just an average game.
She pushed off the armrests and stood before heading up the concrete steps that led away from the Sports Illustrated box seats behind the home team dugout. Although the tickets were up for grabs for any of the reporters on staff, she used them more than anyone else. Sneaking between the people, she weaved toward the tunnels beneath the seats that housed forty thousand fans for every game day.
“Hey, kid,” security called out as she rounded the corner out of the crowd and into the back tunnels. “Hey—kid.”
Taran turned. Being four-eleven, she dealt with this a lot. Especially when she dressed to blend in. Not being noticed was the key to getting a story.
“Not a kid, not lost, don’t need to find mom or dad.” She pulled her lanyard out from under her shirt and flashed her press pass.
“She’s good,” Grey announced from farther down the tunnel. He was normally the security doorman, and Taran knew him well. The middle-aged man smirked as she got closer. “Might have even confused me today, Taran. Really working the young kid look.”
She shrugged. It was easier if everyone ignored her. And everyone usually ignored a kid. Her image required her to blend in.
“Got something juicy?” he asked, waiting for a funny story she’d usually spill without effort, but she shook her head.
“Not today. It’s like fun had an allergy to the game tonight.”
“It was quiet. We didn’t even kick anyone out. But the Rockies suck this year, so it’s not shocking. I expected a blowout.”
Taran nodded, but her phone buzzed in her pocket before she could add more. The second buzz told her it was a call, not a text, meaning it was her family or her boss. She wasn’t sure which was worse. Either way, she was in for a lecture.
“Have a good night,” Taran said to Grey before heading farther down the tunnel. She pulled her phone out, frowning at the name before accepting the call. “Hey.”
“How was it? Get anything?” her boss said without even a hello.
Taran sighed. “Wayne, my blog is not your problem.”
“Your blog helps drive our hard copy sales. It’s linked on our website, and if you keep up the stories, people keep reading your full-length articles. And for the last few weeks, its sucked.”
Taran scratched at the coffee stain on her T-shirt above the words: It’s okay if you don’t like baseball. It’s kind of a smart person sport. It was impossible to say he was being unfair because her blog had been dragging for a while. It was April, and her clicks had been down since mid-March. She knew why. Like she expected, March had been a rough month, and finding gossip wasn’t high on her list of priorities. If she wanted to take the easy way out, she could have explained why she was dragging. But she was tired of the sympathy.
“I’ll find something,” she assured him.
“Or create it.” His statement was flippant.
Taran sucked in hard. “We work for Sports Illustrated, not the National Inquirer.”
“It’s a blog, for God’s sake. Get the clicks, then retract it tomorrow. No one cares.”
Her fingers tightened on the phone, pressing the metal into her palm. There were hard lines she didn’t cross.
“That’s not who I am.” Even if she was currently a gossip reporter, she wasn’t willing to outright lie in any story. Man, she was amazed that they even needed to have this conversation. Five years ago, she never would have believed she’d work for this type of man. But over these last few years, everything about her life had taken a hard left turn.