The Last Guy

Vicky considers me. Nods. “Might be good for the lull we expect around the holidays.”

Marv gives me a narrowed look. “What’s so great about being a coach for kids? Wouldn’t it be better if you sponsored a fundraiser instead? Those schools need money.”

Savannah pipes up. “We can do a bake sale for them!”

I hold in my eye roll.

Stone stops tapping her foot, and I feel the weight of her eyes on me, but this time, I’m playing hard to get. I refuse to glance at her.

“You’re absolutely right,” I say, speaking to Marv. “I’d like to plan a charity event someday, but I’m just getting started.”

“Which schools do you go to?” Savannah asks.

“Deadrick’s the main one,” I say. “Academically, it’s been the lowest performing high school in Houston.”

A few reporters nod. I hear someone say right. They cover this city. They know the areas where these schools are located. It’s crime-infested and hard for a kid to break out.

It’s Stone who speaks next. “So you just waltz over during the day—in your Armani suit—and show them how to throw a ball?”

Marv smirks.

I don’t just volunteer. Sure, on paper, I coach in my downtime, but I’ve donated over a hundred thousand dollars this year alone for new helmets and food for the kids to eat before practice. I want to do it for all the schools, but Deadrick is where my former teammate Hart coaches.

I turn to Stone and my gaze brushes over her, lingering on her lips before taking in her shirt buttoned up to her throat. “I go on Saturday mornings and help the regular coach out. He used to play with me in Atlanta.”

I glance at Lorie. “If you decide to do the piece, I suggest you focus on the kids and the struggle they face—not the guy who shows up on the weekends. Those kids . . . they’re amazing . . . they just need someone to tell them.”

Stone lets out a little sound like she’s surprised.

Marv purses his lips. “It’s an okay story and since you’re you, people will tune in. The question is do we really need another story about some athlete—”

“It is interesting,” Stone interrupts, her face brighter than it had been when I’d come in. She looks like a reporter after a story. “Honestly, I’d like to know more, like how many hours does he spend with these kids? Does he get to know them on a personal level? Does he feel like he’s making a difference?”

“Why don’t we revisit this closer to November,” Marv juts in, silencing her.

She huffs under her breath and presses her pen into her notebook. She doodles a taco with a frown on its face.

“Let’s move on.” Marv looks at Vicky. “We got anything live and hopping for tonight?”

Vicky adjusts her glasses and checks something on her phone, picking back up with today’s news. We’re constantly getting updates from social media, emails, Reuters and the Associated Press wires. “The new petting area at the zoo opens to the public at three. They’re really doing it up big with a mix of exotic animals, plants and flowers, a waterfall, that kind of thing. It’s supposed to be gorgeous. One of the Bush cousins had her wedding there.” She checks her clock. “We’ve got plenty of time to get a reporter there for the live ribbon cutting at six. A few of the more famous local artists are unveiling murals.”

“Stone, you should take it. You’d be great,” I say to her softly. It’s an impulse remark, based mostly on the fact that she’s been down. I picture her in a garden with flowers, a waterfall . . . I stop that train of thought.

Marv perks up. “Yeah, you take the petting zoo and Savannah can head to the Courthouse for the verdict on the Smith case. They’re saying the jury is close, but they’ll have the verdict by five.”

Stone flinches. “Smith case! Marv, you didn’t mention the verdict in the rundown. I’ll take it. I’ve interviewed the lawyers on both sides. I know more about it than anyone here.”

He waves her off. “Already decided. You get the zoo. Thank your friend Cade here for suggesting it.”

I stare at him, my brow furrowing. “I didn’t know about the Smith case or I wouldn’t have said—”

“Already. Decided. Meeting adjourned.”

I seethe quietly, but my fists are curling under the table. I want to punch his sharp, squirrel face.

I turn to Stone, and her expression is tight as she gathers her things.

“Look, I’m sorry about getting you the wrong story,” I say. “I was trying to help.”

“Thanks,” she bites out as she stands. I rise as well, not wanting her to leave before we hash this out.

“He was hanging on to the Smith case for the end. You can’t blame me for that. Marv has his own agenda.”

She makes an exasperated noise, and I can tell she wants to get past me, but I block her way to the door.

“Look, about the other night . . .” I lower my voice. “I want to talk to you. Will you come to my office?”

Most of the room has cleared out, but there are a few lingering, and I don’t miss that Savannah’s one of them. She cuts her eyes at us as she picks up her notebook and phone.

Stone stuffs the wad of bran muffin in her bag and glares at me. “Sorry. I need to get busy on the petting zoo.”

And with a twist of her hips, she brushes past me, bumping me to the side as she marches away.

I watch her the entire way out the door, her cute little nose in the air.

Damn, I like her.

Rebecca

VICKY HEADS UP the hall to the control room as soon as the meeting ends, and I take off after her. My insides are all messed up from Cade’s expression after the meeting. He actually wants to talk to me? Like I didn’t see him kissing another woman less than five hours ago—less than forty-eight hours after covering my body with red marks from that sexy beard and blowing my mind with his enormous . . . perfect . . .

Not going there.

More importantly, he opened his big mouth and got me stuck covering baby animals instead of the Smith case. Granted, a prison inmate suing a doctor for malpractice isn’t as sexy as immigration reform or police brutality, but it’s a human rights case. It enhances my image as a serious newswoman—as opposed to preschool beauty pageants and petting zoos. It will also keep my mind focused on serious, work-related matters, and not having drunk monkey sex with that . . . player.

“Vicky!” I call, hustling in my navy pencil skirt. This one has a slit up the front, allowing me to move faster. “Hey, Vicky?”

She turns and gives me a smile, tossing her red hair over her shoulder. “You look better today. I hope it means you’re taking my advice?”

“I went for a two-mile jog this morning.” That ended in a half-mile sprint home, I silently add. “Have you had a chance to chat with Liz?”

Our station manager Liz Chapman started out in Marv’s position before she was promoted two years ago. She’s pretty much the only person with the power to veto his sexist, sizest, ageist attempt to demote me.

“Ah.” She nods and continues walking once I’m by her side. “Not yet. She’s in Barbados for her sister’s wedding. As soon as she gets back next week, I’ll schedule a lunch.”

My shoulders droop. If Liz is out for a week, it’ll be more like two weeks before she has time to talk to anyone. News piles up faster than compost on a dairy farm. She sees my response and gives my arm a pat.