Sexism sucked and provided yet another reason—besides her lack of a life—to keep her social media interaction to a minimum. If she rocked a good hair day, someone would comment, speculating which player was her current hookup. If she pulled her hair back into a bun or ponytail and looked too severe, she was dismissed as “manly.” There was literally no winning. Her boss didn’t do too much to add to the culture of toxic masculinity, but he sure as heck didn’t do a lot to diminish it.
So she managed.
After all, she’d had experience. Heck, she should add “dealing with the male gaze” under her LinkedIn skill sets.
Finally Scott’s laughter dwindled. “So what’s the deal. You working undercover on a big story?”
“He knows that I’m a journalist, Scott. More like I’m here as his guest.”
“So he invited you?”
“Yes, don’t sound so surprised.”
“You two aren’t an item, right? Because you—”
“No! No. Nothing like that.” Those words could be a career killer. How many hockey reporters had ended their careers by getting involved with players or coaches?
Lots.
“Whatever you say. I don’t know what you’re up to but I want a story from this, on my desk, first thing Monday. Something juicy.”
Yesterday morning she would have given him a thumbs-up and gone in guns blazing. But shifts had happened. Earth-shattering, tectonic fractures.
“I’m not sure that is going to happen.”
“What do you mean?” Scott’s tone cooled.
“I mean that I don’t think I want to be on the record this weekend.”
“Sorry.” His laugh this time wasn’t amused. “Who is Sports editor?”
“Let’s not play rhetorical twenty questions. It diminishes both of us.”
“Here’s what I know. Numbers are down here at the paper. Print is sucking. Digital subscriptions aren’t where they need to be. You know what that means?”
“I’m sure you are about to tell me.”
“Heads are on the chopping block. And your smart-mouthed head could be added to the pile.”
“Is this a threat?” She bristled. “I mean, come on, Scott, we’ve worked together for a couple years now. You are better than this two-bit ‘Mafia gangster meets medieval executioner’ routine.”
“You think I’m kidding. I’m not. What I’m saying isn’t an if. It’s a when.”
Neve’s stomach bottomed out. What she wanted to do was tell her boss to take the bacon cheeseburger that was probably sitting on his desk and cram it down his throat and choke. Not die. She wasn’t a monster. But definitely see the light and have a fright. She poured her heart and soul into her career and had always been a team player. Now he wanted to threaten her over reluctance to do some sort of profile on Tor?
But if she refused too hard, he’d get suspicious and he wasn’t a subtle guy. The last thing she needed was for it to get around that she’d gone off with Tor for the weekend and send chins wagging. Was she trying to sleep her way into better stories?
God. Men never had to deal with this bullshit.
But she also had a mortgage on her townhome. Her Wagoneer didn’t have a payment, but it was old and it wouldn’t take long before something big broke down. She couldn’t up and move to chase a new job or she’d leave her family. And she didn’t want to do that. Denver was home. It was where she belonged.
She had to stick it out, and by hook or by crook she’d do it.
“What’s it going to be?” he said.
“Fine.” She couldn’t risk her job. Not in this current economic climate. She’d have to find a way to sell the idea to Tor. At the very least she’d be up-front about her intentions; she owed him that much.
“Good girl,” he said approvingly, then stuck something crunchy into his mouth and chewed away her last nerve.
