Groupie (Juked Book 2) Page 3

  “Get yerself some sleep, Son,” he says. “Maybe they’ll run one less circle around you tomorrow if you get a good night’s rest, aye?”

  I smirk. “Maybe.” He reaches over to press the disconnect button, but I stop him. “Da? Thanks.”

  “Love you, my boyo.”

  “Love you, too Dadaí.”

  He disconnects, and I stare at a black screen. For the last couple of days I’ve avoided thinking about Tiffany because I thought her relationship with the team made her someone my parents wouldn’t approve of. Someone I shouldn’t approve of. Suddenly, worrying about how her proclivities could affect a relationship with her seems ridiculous. Like judgment. Like a total double standard.

  And yet I’m still not really sure what to do about my feelings.

  The door unlocks as I hold my key fob to the electronic pad. I push my way in and head straight for the assignments desk, toting my messenger bag and lunch kit.

  Dropping them on the floor next to the oversized cubicle, I greet my friend Caleb. “Why is it so quiet? Where is everyone?” I grab a handful of papers from my company mailbox and sort through them.

  He doesn’t look up from his computer. “It’s been a strange day. Almost all the reporters had stuff set up for tonight so they’re out shooting already. And there are a couple photogs downstairs, waiting for something to happen, but the scanners have been really quiet.”

  I snicker as I toss press releases in the recycle bin. “You know what that means for tonight….”

  “Do. Not. Say it.” He swivels to face me. I open my mouth. “Don’t say it! Every time you say it the scanners go crazy and my day turns to shit. Don’t. Say. It.”

  “Breakingnews,” I say as fast as I can with a laugh.

  He groans and puts his hands over his face. “I hate you, you know that?”

  Still giggling, I pat the top of his head. “Aw. Do you think I jinxed you?”

  “It always happens, Tiff.”

  Sure enough, a scanner squawks. Caleb stiffens, but it sounds like the dispatcher is reporting something medical. We don’t cover those calls. His day is safe for now.

  “Maybe it’ll be breaking sports news.”

  “Pfft. I have literally never seen breaking sports news.”

  “Then you haven’t been around long enough, my friend.” I take my bags off the floor. “It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s a doozy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, not glancing up. Just then, all the scanners start blaring at once. Sounds like a multi-car pileup on 6-10. Those are the worst. “Dammit, Tiffany!” Caleb grabs the phone to call in the troops. “I blame you.”

  “I love you, Caleb,” I yell over my shoulder. “Don’t take any time away from the sports segment.”

  I go upstairs, thinking over today’s games and which ones we can send our lone sports reporter to.

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be a sports producer, preferably for ESPN or some other national network. But that’s a long way away. The fact that I’m fresh out of college and already an associate producer in one of the largest markets in the US is practically unheard of.

  I got lucky. I don’t deny it. I moved to Texas to get my journalism degree at the University of Houston five years ago. One of the requirements for graduation was to intern at a local TV station. That’s how I got here. I guess they were impressed with how hard I worked and how passionate I am about sports, because when the producer I worked under left suddenly, the associate producer was promoted and they asked me to step in while they were in a bind. I worked my ass off the last two months before graduation. Once I had that degree, I went full time. And I love it. We literally watch sports all day long and then write recaps of it. It’s a dream job.

  I drop my stuff on the desk and get all my programs booted up. I like being here before everyone else. As a woman, I have to put in more effort than men to prove myself in the sports journalism arena. Should it be that way? No, but so far my efforts have paid off.

  “Hey, Tiff.” Steve, my producer, walks in.

  “What are you doing here? I thought Ashley had a book fair or something today.” Ashley, his eight-year-old daughter, has been bugging him for days to have lunch with her at school so they can go shopping for books.

  “I already went. She wanted me to bring you this.” He drops a thin paperback on my desk.

  I pick it up. “One Hundred Jokes for the Laughing Mind,” I read.

  “She got One Hundred More Jokes, so be prepared next time she’s here.”

  I haven’t been around kids much, but I like Ashley. She’s funny and witty and loves jokes. We have joke battles every time she’s here. She’s won every single time, mostly because I didn’t know a lot of clean jokes until she started challenging me. She likes to surprise me with theme contests. Like, only fruit jokes or only people jokes. I never know what she’s going to spring on me.

  I flip through the book quickly. “Oh, it is so on.”

  He laughs. “She said you’d say that.”

  “She knows me well.”

  He flips on monitors. There aren’t any games on yet, but he likes to make sure we don’t forget. Not that we would.

  “I saw some pics of you coming out of Mack Shivel’s apartment last night.”

  “Yep.” He takes his suit coat off and hangs it on the back of his chair. “He had a small get-together for the team after the game.”

  Steve quirks an eyebrow at me. “Small?”

  I laugh. “Well, small for him. The neighbors didn’t threaten to call the cops this time, anyway.”

  “Did it happen last time?”

  “Um, I guess that was about six months ago.” I shrug. “He learned to keep it contained and stop texting his address to people. If you aren’t a close enough friend to know where he lives, you aren’t a close enough friend to come to the party.”

  Steve has never been a partier, although he never shies away from hearing what happens at the ones I attend. Not that I tell him about any of the dirty sex. “Did you get any good news story ideas out of it?”

  “Nothing that can be used now, but big things are coming, my friend.”

  He stops going through the papers stacked on his desk to look at me. “Really. Like what?”

  I clear my throat. “There were a lot of whispers last night about a certain rookie being groomed to take over as a starting midfielder next season.” I try not to change my expression as Rowen crosses my mind. I haven’t stopped thinking about him since the other night. I’ve never had anyone turn away before when I’ve been naked. I was surprised by how nice it made me feel.

  Steve raises his eyebrows. “Who’s getting cut?”

  “Mack Shivel.” I clasp my hands together and rest them on my stomach.

  Steve whistles in disbelief. “I bet that’s going over like a ton of bricks.”

  “Mack hasn’t figured it out yet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh yeah. The Rookie was at the party. No way he could have gotten that drunk and not thrown down if he knew.”

  Steve scratches his shoulder. “Yeah, that Mack Shivel is kind of a dick.”

  “Hey!” I protest. “He’s not that bad. He’s always been nice to me.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Because you’re young and beautiful and have a vagina.”

  My jaw drops, and I can’t help it when a laugh comes out of my mouth. “Did you just say that?”

  “Too much?” he asks sheepishly.

  “No. You’re just usually more….” I pause to figure out how to phrase it. “… conservative than that.”

  He shrugs. “I’ve only had one cup of coffee today. I’m a little off.”

  I twirl a pen around my finger. “Well, anyway… I’m keeping my ear to the ground. I’ll work on getting an exclusive interview with the Rookie and, if I’m lucky, with Mack when it happens.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Steve clicks his mouse a few times, and a few seconds l
ater, grabs his story idea list off the printer. We spend the next twenty minutes discussing the games coming up that day and their order of importance. We already know our reporter will be covering the Houston Astros. By far, football has the most hardcore fans in H-Town, but baseball is a close second.

  Soccer usually comes after that, but I’m not your average fan. I started playing soccer at the YMCA when I was a kid and have loved it ever since. I participated until my junior year in college, when a tibia injury made it too painful to play. I was bummed when I had to stop, but hanging out with the Mutiny helps.

  I’m not part of the team, but it still feels good to be part of that family. I would genuinely do anything for them and I’m pretty sure they would do anything for me. Well, within reason, of course.

  The room gets quiet as Steve and I turn to our work. A lot of our day consists of reading through all the wires to make sure we’re not missing any big national sports stories. There’s also editing of last night’s late games that may not have been over by the time we went on the air last night. But for the most part, things are pretty relaxed until about five o’clock, when all the games start.

  Then we’re watching multiple TVs at the same time, looking for that money shot. There’s a lot of trash talk, too, as we root for our favorite teams. It’s great fun.

  While we wait, there’s time to research, and there’s only one topic I want to do research on: Rowen Flanigan.

  After putting his name in the search engine, I sort through dozens of articles. Most of them are about him being recruited straight out of college. Many recap his college stats. Even more articles mention him during the overview of the game.

  His stats are amazing. An average of over 0.6 assists per game last year and seventeen goals. That’s well above the national average, even for the pros.

  An article from further back catches my attention. I scan it, and everything falls into place.

  “Son of a bitch,” I say under my breath.

  “What?” Steve asks absentmindedly, doing the two-finger peck on his keyboard.

  “The rookie. He’s soccer royalty.” I stare at the screen, stunned. I don’t know how I missed it.

  Steve comes up behind me, putting his hands on my chair to read over my shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “Look.” I point to a picture of a younger Rowen, red hair disheveled. He’s sitting at a table next to an almost identical version of himself, who’s maybe twenty-five years older. “His dad is Ryan Flanigan.”

  Steve leans closer. “Are you serious?”

  “The article says it right here: ‘Rowen Flanigan, only son of the European football legend, Ryan, signed a letter of intent today to play soccer for the University of Southern Michigan.’ Holy shit, Steve,” I say, swiveling my chair all the way around to look at him. “His dad is Ryan Flanigan. Do you know how insane that is?”

  “I wouldn’t call it insane, but yeah, that’s awesome. Have you met him? Is he a nice guy?” Steve sits in his chair, and I flush as I think about meeting him. Both times.

  “He’s really, really nice,” I say nonchalantly. “Kind of quiet. Prefers to people-watch than be in on the action.”

  “You think we should interview him?”

  I think about it. “I’d like to wait. Since this is the first I’m hearing about it, my guess is he doesn’t want it to seem like there’s any nepotism going on. But do you think we have time? He looks like his dad, so at some point, people are going to figure it out.”

  Steve taps his finger on the desk in thought. “His dad retired, what, fifteen years ago?”

  I scan the article. “Somewhere around there, yeah.”

  “Fifteen years ago there weren’t any teams worth following in the States, so it wasn’t a popular sport. People followed tennis more.”

  “I remember that. My mother made us watch almost every championship game back then.”

  “There were some fun players then. But, anyway, almost no one in the States followed soccer, and they certainly didn’t follow the European leagues. Not many people will be able to put it together.”

  “You think I have time to get to know him a little better before I hit him up for the exclusive?”

  “Yeah, but if he boots Shivel out, I want an interview with him before anyone else. That’ll be a major scoop.”

  “Of course.” I look at my monitor. Rowen Flanigan is the son of a legend.

  He already intrigued me. Now, I might become obsessed.

  I rap my knuckles on the door of the apartment and wait for it to be answered. I’m late, but I needed extra time to ice down my legs after today’s practice. Practices seem to be getting harder, not easier. I understand, though. We’re in the middle of a season, and playoffs are coming up. I have to be in tip-top shape in case one of our starters gets injured.

  It’s a pretty nice neighborhood. Inside the loop, close to the stadium. It’s actually not that far from where I live, which is information I’ll keep to myself.

  While most of the newer teammates, like myself, have at least a thirty-minute drive to work and have at least one roommate, I live alone in a garage apartment ten minutes away. Having a dad with lots of connections comes in handy sometimes. Which is not something I will ’fess up to tonight.

  The door swings open to reveal Daniel, my team captain, grinning widely and with a lit cigar in his mouth.

  “Welcome to poker night, Rookie!” he yells a little too loudly. I assume they’ve already started hitting the whiskey he promised when he invited me over. “I hope you brought all your hard-earned pennies, because I plan on taking them from you tonight.”

  “I’m not worried,” I reply, going inside. “There’s something to be said for desperation when playing poker.”

  He laughs and slaps me on the back. I follow him into the living room, where a giant poker table is set up. After a rousing chorus of hellos from the guys no longer holding cards, I pull up a chair next to Christian. The smoke is thick, and the chips are piled high in the center of the table.

  “Fuck. I’m out,” Randall Shahriary says, throwing his cards on the table. “Fucking Shivel. When did you get this good at poker?”

  Shivel grins like the Cheshire Cat. “I told you not to get your hopes up, old man. You can’t keep up with us young’uns anymore. On the field or off.”

  Shahriary stiffens slightly at the jab. It’s not a secret he’s one of our older players. As a retiree from the Premier League in Europe, he’s played for the Mutiny for a couple years. Sammy Marshall and Luca Montoya are also former Premier League players. Neither of them look too happy about the comment either.

  “Watch yourself,” Luca says, leaning back in his chair. “Thirty-five might seem old to you American pussies, but we’ve been playing since you were in diapers. We got tricks you’ve never even seen.”

  Shivel puffs on his cigar. “Those tricks certainly aren’t helping you geezers in poker, that’s for sure.”

  Luca rolls his eyes, stands, and mumbles something about needing another beer.

  “What’s your poison?” Daniels asks me while we wait for the last two players to finish their showdown. “I’ve got the hard stuff right here.” He shakes a half-empty whiskey bottle at me. “But there’s some Shock Top in the fridge.”

  “Beer is more my speed, thanks.”

  “Luca!” Daniel yells. “Grab the rookie a beer!”

  “What are you gonna do, Sanchez?” Shivel prods Christian. “You’ve been staring at those cards for ten minutes. You ready to give up yet?”

  Christian takes a deep breath before tossing a few chips in the pile. “I raise you.”

  Shivel chuckles and takes a drag off his cigar before tossing in more chips. “Call. What you got, motherfucker?”

  Christian lays his cards on the table, revealing two kings and three queens.

  I look at Shivel, who is trying to come across as unaffected, but years of people-watching has made it easy to see his tells. His fingers twitch slightly, and h
is eyebrows raise a miniscule amount. He’s won, and he’s drawing it out as long as he can. Asshole.

  “Not bad,” Shivel finally says. “But not enough to”—he slaps his cards on the table and jumps to his feet—“beat a straight flush, bitch! Whooo!” He raises his arms in victory, still hooting, and scoops up all the chips.

  “Son of a fucking bitch,” Christian yells and slams his fist on the table. “How does he keep doing that?”

  “My money’s on cheating,” Sammy says, tossing his cards to Daniel so he can shuffle.

  “Shut up, old man,” Shivel responds. “Don’t hate just ’cause I took your hooker money.”

  “No one here pays for hookers, ass-wipe,” he retorts. “No one except you.”

  “I don’t have to pay for hookers.” Shivel stacks his chips in neat little piles while Luca passes beers around and everyone else stretches or fidgets, getting ready for the next round. “Why do I need hookers when I got a group of whores who show up at my place after every game?”

  I stiffen and hope I’m not turning red, especially since he’s looking right at me.

  “Shut up, asshole. You’re a real dick. Would you deal already?” Christian snips at Daniel, who is still shuffling the cards while Shivel makes a lewd gesture in Christian’s direction. I watch the cards as Daniel passes them, but I can feel Shivel still looking at me, waiting for some sort of response. Sure, Tiffany keeps crossing my mind, even my dreams. But I don’t know her, or at least, not enough that this conversation should affect me at all.

  “Rowen seems to like one of the cleat chasers. A lot,” he finally says. “Isn’t that right, Rookie?”

  All eyes are on me. “Not sure what you’re talking about.” I take a swig of my beer, willing the redness not to creep up my neck and give my embarrassment away. This isn’t a conversation I want to have, but Shivel won’t let it go.

  “You were in the room with Tiffany an awful long time. Did she show you that thing she does with her tongue? It’s Santos’s favorite. Ow!” he yells as Santos punches him in the shoulder.

  “What happens behind closed doors stays behind closed doors, you dick.” Santos picks up his cards to sort them in his hand. “Isn’t that a rule you made up?”