Page 18 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Everyone in the car laughs at that and I smile. It’s only half fake.
“That’ll be the postlunch entertainment, so don’t have too many drinks,” Maggs says. “This is gonna be a classic. I can just feel it.”
In that case, I sincerely hope I won’t be seated anywhere near Ryan for lunch because I’ll need to drink if I do. He’s the one person who could spoil the storybook spell of the day. He’s the epitome of disillusionment and I should know.
As we’re walking inside, I get a call and stop short. There’s one person it’s likely to be since almost all my friends are here. Slipping my phone from my tiny bag, I check the display. It’s my boss as I suspected. Shit. Contemplating whether I should ignore it or take it, I spin around and walk back out toward the street.
“Where are you going?” Maggs yells and I hold up a hand, signaling her I’ll be a minute as I answer the call.
“It’s a good thing you answered,” he says.
“What is it? I only have a minute. I’m at—”
“Do you have anything for me? Any shots or dirt or, say, maybe a scandalous video clip?”
“No.” My gut sinks with dread that someone’s pic or video from last night might have gone viral. “I’m sure I’ll have something for you by the end of the weekend.” I hate the thought of asking Ryan’s permission to blow up the story about theSports Illustratedspread, but now I know I’ll have to do it—and sooner than later.
“That’s funny, because I saw a couple of IG clips of RO dancing at a club on Nantucket last night and could have sworn you were in one of the shots. You holding out? I thought we had an agreement.”
“No, hey. This is my personal time, my best friend’s wedding. You can’t expect me to—”
“We have an agreement, Ms. Wilde. You were given time off after only one month on the job with the understanding that you would provide some exclusive clips or photos or something, damn it. I don’t want to be scooped again by some amateurs. Make sure you send something by the end of the day.”
“Or what?” I say, temper and something deeper like protectiveness imposing itself over the fear.
“Or . . . it’s your job. You know there’s an endless line of recent grads panting to get a job in this business, right?”
Panic flares up through my self-righteous whatever, because I need the income, especially now that Mom is depending on me too. Of course. I’ve suspected she was broke for a while, but she finally admitted the city hiked her property taxes and the house needs work before it falls down around her. I should have realized it sooner than two days ago. Should visit her more often.
“I have something,” I say, suddenly not too proud to placate my boss. “I just need to get confirmation.”
“What is it?”
“I said I need confirmation.”
“So get your confirmation. In the meantime, I want to know what it is, Ms. Smart-mouth.” He likes me, likes the smart mouth. That much I’m confident about.
“There’s a rumor that RO may be the star of anSIlayout showcasing his buff body.”
“That’s only good if we get photos to go with it. Confirm so we can use his full name and exclusive photos. And get it to me by tomorrow. I’ll have Leyla read it—”
“No way. It’s my scoop and I—”
“You wanted to be on vacation. Your vacation replacement will get to read it. End of story.”
“You haven’t convinced me yet that you’re a hard-ass, but don’t try too hard.” I know he relies on my connection no matter what he says about the line of undergrads waiting to take my job. But I shiver with the risk I’m taking.
“We’ll see how good the photos are.”
“I’m not sending the photos. I’m bringing them with me when I return on Monday. If I get permission.”
“You’ll get permission. Otherwise what good are you?”
“This call is over.” I hang up. Shit. How am I going to preserve a picture-perfect storybook wedding weekend while taking photos so I can use them for my show? How am I supposed to ask Ryan’s permission to gossip about hisSIphoto spread without rocking the boat?
But then, I know he won’t want to cause a commotion, won’t make a deal out of it, because he wants to make sure this wedding goes well too. He may be a bastard, love-‘em-and-leave-‘em player of epic proportions, but he’s a good brother and friend.
I ought to know since he’s been like my brother and friend all these years, hasn’t he? Still is.
The bastard.
