“I quit.”
Josh’s jaw practically unhinges as he stares up at me from his desk the very next morning. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I place my printed resignation letter on his desk. “I quit.”
“You can’t just quit,” he grunts, panic effusing his tone with a tremble he can’t hide. For the first time, I realize that I hold an ace. The Tribune is already crumbling. My departure, however unimportant at another newspaper, would mean the death of this one. “If anything,” Josh adds, “I should be the one firing you.”
“Too late.” I tap the sealed envelope on his desk that contains my three hundreds words to Freedom. “I’ve already resigned. Considering the circumstances, I don’t believe that I owe you a two weeks grace period. You understand.”
He lurches to his feet and thwacks his Sox hat on the desk. “You’re fired, Denton.”
I’ve been working for an idiot for the last three years. “Josh,” I say slowly, in case he’s been having a rough morning, “You can’t fire someone after they’ve already quit. That’s not how this works.”
“Your writing is shit, Charlie. You won’t find a job anywhere else than at The Tribune.”
Ah, manipulating tactics. How surprising.
Not.
“I’ll find something,” I tell him coolly, already picking up my bag from where I’d placed it on a grungy chair. I’ll tell you this. I am so effing ready to be on my way out the door. Who knew that quitting would feel so liberating?
I get halfway to the door when Josh speaks again. “I got news this morning that The Huffington Post picked up your article on Harrison. The Huffington Post, Denton. This could be career changing for you. Harvey Levin from TMZ already reached out to tell me he wants more of the same sort of leads from us. You could turn this into a regular gig, picking up intel on the Blades, and contributing to TMZ under The Tribune’s name. Think of the possibilities.”
Except that my “in” with the Blades is no longer speaking to me. Unsurprisingly, Duke has ignored my Twitter DMs. (It’s crazy that we have yet to exchange phone numbers, and at this point, we never will).
To Josh, I say, “I’m not interested in that sort of journalism.”
“Harvey loved your article on Harrison.”
My hands close into fists at my sides. “Yeah? Well, did you tell him that you stole that article and published it without my permission?”
“My office, my rules, Denton.”
“Exactly the reason I’m quitting,” I snap, twisting back again for the door. Good riddance. Over my shoulder I add, “Just be thankful that I’m not suing you, Josh. At this point, I’ll just be happy if I never had to see your face again.”
I leave Josh yelling at me from inside his office. I don’t stop for the douchebags in finance, who regularly enjoy calling me a lesbian, nor do I say anything to the a-hole in the tech department, who once asked me to sit on his lap and call him “Daddy.”
Screw that.
The only person that I do stop for is Casey. Not that I know why, because it’s not like I won’t be texting her later on today to give her all the details. Regardless, I stop at the doorway of our office and knock on the 1970s wooden paneling. Her head jerks up at the sound, and immediately I hear her mouse clicking away rapidly.
“Stop checking your dating website,” I tell her, the first smile I’ve felt all morning stretching across my face. “Josh keeps tabs.”
“I wasn’t,” she says, a blush staining her cheeks.
“You were.”
She swings her chair around to face me fully, the way she always does, and threads her hands together before resting them on her stomach. “Lunchtime? I want some of those little tacos from around the corner.”
“I quit.”
“What?”
I nod, a little more happily than I should be considering that I’m now unemployed. “I quit. Just now. I’m heading home but just wanted to tell you.”
Casey looks a little star-struck, and confirms this when she whispers, “You’re my hero. Go fly away now, my little butterfly. Get the hell out of here and then text me as soon as you get home, so that you can give me all the details.”
Casey and I aren’t big huggers, so I promise to do as she says exactly.
Except, I’m not going home—not quite yet. There’s someone I need to pay a visit to before I curl up on my couch and let the reality of today sink in.
“Why should I help you when you’ve smeared my name across national news? Actually, I should be suing you for defamation right now.”
I’m at Gwen’s fancy townhouse in Brighton, one town over from Cambridge. Thank God for Mel, who provided me with Gwen’s address.
And what an address it is—while I’ve been living in a one-room hovel, Gwen James is living life to the fullest. Her townhouse sits next to a pretty park, boasts a pool and lounge area, and even has the sort of grand, circular stairwell that every girl dreams about when she’s seven years old.
Like I said—living life to the fullest.
Meanwhile, I’ve hit rock bottom.
Life’s fun like that sometimes.
“Like I told you,” I tell her, “The TMZ piece was never meant to be published. I wrote it to appease my boss, but I couldn’t go through with it. I threw the article away and wrote something completely different for the newspaper.”
“Do I look like a whore in that one, too?”
I cringe because, yes, in the first rendition, I had taken some liberties in telling the sort of story required of me to keep my butt on The Tribune’s payroll. But that story doesn’t reflect my morals, nor does it reflect the sort of journalism I want out of my career. I’m not in the market for cheap shots.
Pulling open my bag, I withdraw a copy of the story that I wanted to write and place it on the coffee table. I tap my finger on the printed headline. “This is what I sent to my boss for review. You’re mentioned briefly, but only to highlight the way you’ve helped shape Duke’s career over the last few years. Words that came straight from his mouth. There’s no mention of you otherwise.”
With a move originating from clear suspicion, Gwen leans forward and pinches the stapled corner with two fingers. Lifting it to her face, her eyes quickly skim the front page.
“You included the tidbit about his family . . . about their phone calls during the games.”
I don’t allow myself to feel hurt by her shock. It’s expected, considering that the only recent article about Duke to hit the Internet is one that tears him to shreds. Clearing my throat, I say, “My angle was to examine the mindset of a professional hockey player over the course of his career, especially one so beloved by his fans.”
Gwen doesn’t say anything for a minute, and it is the longest, most painful, sixty seconds of my life. She flips her red hair back over her shoulders, crosses and uncrosses her legs at the knees.
Finally, she sighs. “I’ve known you for years, Charlie. I don’t think we’ve always seen eye-to-eye—I know jealousy is a problem for you—but I want to be honest.”
More honest than her telling me that I’m a jealous, green-eyed witch? Oh, do tell.
Not.
Since I’m fully aware that my plan will bomb without her assistance, I plaster a smile on my face and do my best to make it look authentic. “I appreciate your honesty, Gwen.”
Gwen nods demurely like I’ve passed some sort of weird test. Then, she taps her fingers on her bent knee. “I know you want to talk with Duke. However, I don’t think he’s interested in talking to you.”
“I owe him an apology.”
“Yes,” Gwen says without preamble, “you do owe him an apology. Duke has worked incredibly hard over the years to ensure a clean resume off the ice.”
“I understand.”
“No,” Gwen counters stiffly, as she watches me closely, “I don’t think you do. If you had, then you wouldn’t have thrown something like this back in his face.”
My hands turn a little sweaty at her words. “What do you mean, something like this?”
“A woman using him to achieve her own career?” Gwen shakes her head, glancing up at the ceiling like she’s in need of heavenly assistance. “Charlie, do you not pay attention to the tabloids?”
It’s ironic, considering that my very last article for The Tribune ultimately became tabloid fodder across the country. In my personal life, however, I don’t pay attention to the magazine rags.
I tell Gwen just that, to which she sighs. Loudly. “I’ve told Mel that you have no taste whatsoever, and you’ve just proved me right. Again. I hope you know that.”
“I do now.”
“I’m not going to tell you everything, Charlie.”
“Because you want to date him?”
Gwen blinks. “I have a boyfriend. Why would I want Duke?”
Now I’m just confused. “Just a few weeks ago you were hanging on his arm and talking about engagements.”
More blinking. I’m beginning to wonder if she has a sty in her eye. “Darling,” she coos abruptly, “I have no interest in Duke Harrison. Sometimes I get carried away with the flirting, but that’s just who I am. Not all of us can be such an Ice Queen like you.”
Ice Queen.
For years, hearing the nickname thrown back in my face had the ability to pull me down for days. Hearing it from Gwen right now, however, doesn’t affect me whatsoever. Maybe because now I know that it’s absolutely not true.
I return the blinking, waiting her out.
“All right, fine,” she snaps, smacking my article onto the coffee table. Her tea saucer shimmies under the pressure, and the liquid sloshes over the rim. “I liked Duke—liked. But he hasn’t returned those feelings in two years, if not longer. He’s not one to mix business with pleasure for a very specific reason.”
Gwen would make an awful journalist. She has no knack for storytelling. No knack at all. “You mentioned that . . . Anyway you might want to fill me in?”
With a little cat-like hiss, Gwen straightens from the settee and begins to pace. “The only reason I’m telling you this is so you can see that you stand no chance of ever winning back Duke.”
The words are harsh. I swallow them, digest the hurt that comes along with the insult, and push forward. “I can respect that.”
“It was right after he won his first Stanley Cup. He was twenty-four, living on top of the world. It was his night to keep the Cup. Do whatever he wanted with it. Most of the guys took it home to their family, drank out of it—that sort of thing. Duke planned to do the same, except that he’d recently started dating this woman. She was a few years older than him. Awful cuticles. We go to the same nail salon.”
My eyes fall shut and I count to ten in my head for patience.
I hit seven when she continues.
“So, Duke’s been seeing her. He decides that on his night with the Cup he wants to spend it with her. They do . . . Whatever it was they were doing. He goes to bed, drunk and naked, and wakes up the following morning to find that his girlfriend is gone, the Cup is missing, and there are pictures of him naked plastered all over the Internet.”
Oh, my God.
Duke Harrison was catfished.
Okay, maybe not catfished, but he was screwed over. One-hundred percent. How did I not know about this?
My brain quickly sorts through the information. This happened ten years ago, which means that I would have been sixteen and . . . completely consumed with helping Dad with the cancer treatments. Keeping up with celebrity gossip had been dead last on my priority list, if it had been on the list at all.
But that still doesn’t explain . . . “How in the world has that story disappeared from the Internet? And what the hell happened to the Cup?”
Gwen gives me a dirty look, like I’ve interrupted her story time. “Good PR agents, a number of lawyers, and more than a handful of lawsuits. Keep in mind that this was just at the beginning of social media hitting it big. It was a lot easier to shut things down when you only had to worry about contacting certain websites.”
I silently concede that this makes sense. Today, no amount of lawsuits would stop the spread of naked Duke Harrison pictures from blasting across the Internet. One minute his photo would be popping up on TMZ, and in the next, that sucker would be arriving in Australia for all the Aussies to ogle.
“And the Cup?” I ask. “Where did they find it?”
“At a strip club in South Boston.”
“Classy,” I mutter.
That feeling of being ill returns. Raking my fingers through my kinky hair, I ask, “How do you know all of this?”
Gwen shrugs one delicate shoulder. “He told me.”
Ah. And yet he didn’t tell me. For some reason, that bothers me more than anything else. But in the same breath, can I blame him? While we’ve certainly gotten to know each other, it’s not as though I’ve revealed my inner secrets.
I haven’t revealed how strongly I feel about him.
I stand up, my mind made up. “I need to find Duke.”
Gwen’s gaze flicks to mine. “Hope you’re ready to fail.”
People change over the years, but Gwen will always be petty. “I need you to take that printed paper and approach whatever news outlet that you think will print it.”
With a shake of her head, she says, “Still looking out for only yourself, I see.”
“I made an amendment to the end,” I tell her, flipping to the last page of my feature on Duke. “I like him, Gwen. I like him a lot. I can do this with your help or without, but I’d prefer to remind you of a time long ago when you cried on my shoulder all night after your boyfriend broke up with you. He’d been sleeping with a girl in BU’s marching band, right?”
Her eyes narrow into slits, and I know I’ve caught her. She drops onto the settee dramatically. “You’re manipulating me.”
“No,” I drawl smoothly, sliding the papers toward her again, “Not manipulation. It’s called a power play.”
