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“Do higher ratings mean more money?”
“Pretty much. More listeners draw more advertisers. She was really into ‘gotcha’ journalism.” I exhale deeply, studying the road ahead and second-guessing myself for the thousandth time. “I didn’t think it was fair to our guests, even if it created more drama.”
“You have standards,” the woman says affirmatively. “You should be proud of yourself for having integrity.”
“I’d be prouder if I hadn’t lost all my income.” I do my best to keep my tone neutral. “I might have standards, but standards don’t pay the bills.”
“But you’re the Quarterback Princess!” The little girl’s voice is infused with so much hope, it lifts my spirits, however briefly.
She reminds me a lot of myself at her age, believing the best of everyone, seeing possibilities everywhere, loving life and football and my family.
I think about my dad and the lessons he taught me from his own personal setbacks.
“That’s right.” I meet her eyes in the mirror and give her a little wink. “Life throws some crazy passes, but if you stay strong and keep your eye on the ball, you’ll catch them and run them in for a touchdown.”
Her expression is serious as she nods slowly, as if I’ve imparted some great wisdom to her. Then she dives forward to give me a hug over the seat before getting out.
“Thank you, Quarterback Princess.” Her voice is as solemn as if I were her football fairy godmother.
Or someone who showed her it doesn’t have to end when you take a stand, even if it seems like no one cares as you exit stage left.
“It was nice meeting you.” The woman pats my shoulder before stepping out of my car. “For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing, and I hope you get your happy ending.”
“Thank you,” I say, with a little less cheer. “Have fun in the city.”
I turn the wheel towards Canal Street, in the direction of the Quarter. My monitor beeps, but I don’t feel like taking another ride immediately. My brief foray down memory lane has me feeling sad and defeated, and that letter stamped in all-capsOVERDUEhas a pain whispering behind my eyes.
I do believe I made the right choice. I have to believe I did. Yet every month, I’m confronted by another article from Susan Jackson, the new star reporter forSports Illuminated.
Everyone loves her. She’s so brilliant. She’s lauded for her ability to “go deep” and get answers her subjects have never shared in public before.
Last month she did an exclusive interview with a retired baseball player who is notoriously private and rarely speaks to the press. I read it, of course, and I could tell she’d pulled the same crap with him as she did in our podcasts.
I’m willing to bet that’s the last time he speaks to a reporter.
With a heavy exhale, I reach out to accept the new ride request that popped up on my screen. It’s from someone named Eddie Rabbitt—clearly a fake name—and it’s asking for a priority pickup at the JW Marriott on Canal Street, headed to the airport.
Shaking my head, I’m sure it’s some lawyer in town for aconference. That’s always who I get from the fancier hotels in town.
I turn the wheel, am immediately stuck in traffic, and my personal phone lights up with a text.
Coco
A lady on American Pickers has a piece of Fenton art glass!
Lindsey
What channel?
Coco
WYES, of course.
The weight in my chest lifts in the presence of my lifelong besties.
Coco is a baker still living in Fireside, South Carolina, where we all grew up, but Lindsey made the move with me to New Orleans to be the producer on my new podcastGirl’s Got Game. I hope it’ll help me reclaim my career.
I tap the microphone icon on my phone and slowly dictate my response.
