The urge to check the phone in my pocket burns hot, but if I do, I’ll lose another limb. The women in my life have made it abundantly clear that movie nights are not the place for my job, even if she is the cruel mistress that makes me her bitch.
Mum and Emma are bookending the sofa with a bottle of prosecco and an open bag of Revels, on the end table between them. It’s all so… domestic. The Middle East war reporter reduced tonormalcy.
In a weird way, it’s both grounding and claustrophobic.
I siphon off a handful of popcorn before passing the bowlto Mum. There’ll probably not be much left by the time she’s through with it. I think popcorn might be my mother’s favorite food group.
A vibration in my pocket draws both their attention. “No.” Emma points a crisp in my direction. She waves her arm around in a square. “Work-free zone.”
I nod, trying to focus on the movie, but the buzzing continues. It’s clearly a call, and depressingly, almost everyone in my life is in this room. I mean, my best friend isn’t, but I’m not sure he’d call even if his life depended on it.
That leaves only one option: it’s my boss.
A weary sigh threatens to steal my breath.
Mum picks up the remote to pause the movie but I shake my head. “Take the call, son. It could be an emergency.” The way her eyes hold mine tells me that’s bullshit, and she knows it. What kind of reporting emergency could there be in small-town Larne for a sports reporter?
I sigh again, pulling my phone out and groaning at the confirmation that my boss is calling. “Yeah?”
“Robert, rumor has it you’ve bagged yourself a white whale. I hope you’re going to be using her to your advantage. For the good of the publication and all.” There’s a dark chuckle from him that follows, filling the air.
The urge to tell him to go fuck a cactus is strong. What a revolting piece of shit.
“You and Pete can make this a hell of a human-interest piece. That girl’s gold right now—scandal, redemption arc, all wrapped up in one. Readers eat that shit.”
I can’t listen to this anymore. If I don’t change the subject, I’ll tell him to fuck himself and tank my career. The words slip out before I can stop them. “I need to take a week off.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line. That’s one way to shut him up I suppose.
“I’m listening.”
“Rhiannon and I, we’re going away for a trip.”
The eyes of the two women in my life bore into me from across the room, as their eyebrows creep up their foreheads.
“I’ll agree, but you need to make it a working vacation. Get to know her, get some good dirt on her for your piece.” He takes my silence as an invitation to continue. “You’ve been playing it safe since the doping scandal. You want your byline back on the national radar? This is how you do it.”
He’s chosen his words very deliberately, threatening to reawaken the ghost of the man I used to be—the ambitious correspondent who pushed too far and got someone hurt.
My stomach turns. I can still see the sand, the smoke, the way the air shimmered in the heat when they told me the local translator hadn’t made it out. My story. My byline. My fault.
It was supposed to be truth-telling. Accountability. Instead, I handed someone a death sentence for a headline.
And now, here’s my boss, dangling the same poisoned carrot—get close, get the story, consequences be damned. It’s a thinly veiled threat rolled in temptation.
I’m good at reading people, charming them into trusting me, sharing their truths with me. A skill that’s gotten more than just me burned in the past.
“You were a name once, Robert. Don’t waste that.”
The movie’s suspenseful strings rise, and for a moment, it’s like the soundtrack knows exactly what kind of man I’m on the edge of becoming again.
I glance at Mum. She’s a quiet reminder of why I came home. I can’t ruin my—or anyone else’s—life chasing stories. But I also can’t afford to say no to my boss. Mum’s gaze feels like a hand on my throat—gentle, but pinning me in place.
I’m resigned to say yes, but there’s no way out of it feeling like I’m not selling a piece of my soul.
When I hang up, my mood is sour. Mum studies me with the practiced, charged quiet of a concerned mother, whileEmma doesn’t beat about the bush. “You should get a different job.”
I arch a brow. “You mean a real job?”
