It’s nearly ten by the time we’re done, having talked and laughed our way through dinner and dessert and another glass of wine on the porch, and the only sounds are the gentle lap of waves against the dock and the occasional call of a night bird in the trees.
For a moment I let myself imagine a version of my life where I come back here more often, where I don’t let work consume every weekend and holiday, where I remember that the people who love me aren’t going to be here forever waiting for me to find the time.
When it’s time for me to head back to the inn, I hug them both longer than I usually do, and Mom squeezes me tight before she lets go.
“Drive safe,” she says. “Text when you get back.”
“I will,” I promise.
The night air is cool against my skin as I walk to my car, and I take my time, letting the quiet settle around me. I sit for a minute with the window cracked, letting the breeze wash over me.
When my phone buzzes, I pick it up immediately and my stomach drops straight through the floor. Four notifications from The Sporting Standard’s app. I tap the first one with a sense of dread already building in my chest, and the headline hits me like a punch to the throat.
Inside the Camp: How Roman Kincaid and Coach Dominic Midnight Are Preparing for the Biggest Fight of Their Lives.
No. No, no, no.
Under the headline there are direct quotes from my notes, with details about Roman’s training schedule, specifics about the footwork adjustments Dominic’s been making, the combination sequences I documented during last Tuesday’s session, and a breakdown of the sparring rotation. All of it pulled directly from the raw files I uploaded to the shared drive, my raw files, my unpublished, unvetted, absolutely-not-ready-for-publication notes that I stored on a project drive because that’s what project drives are for.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
I keep scrolling, hoping somehow that it’s not as bad as I think, that maybe David only pulled the innocuous stuff, the color details and background material that wouldn’t matter. But no. It’s all there.
Everything that could possibly hurt Roman’s chances in the ring, laid out in clean prose with my observations polished into pull quotes like I wrote them for publication. Like I handed them over willingly. Like I looked Dominic in the eye and promised his fighter’s strategy was safe with me, and then turned around and sold him out for clicks.
I call my editor, David.
He picks up on the third ring. “Brooke? It’s the middle of the night here and?—“
“What did youdo?” I cut him off. “How dare you use my notes for that piece?”
“The teaser piece? Isthatwhat you’re calling about?” he asks, like I’ve interrupted his night over nothing. “Corporate wanted content. Engagement’s been soft this quarter and your notes were solid enough to pull something together. It’s good stuff, Brooke. Readers are eating it up.”
“Those wererawnotes, David,” I say. “Unpublished, unvetted notes on a shared drive that exists for file storage, not content mining.” I’m speaking as calmly as I can, because if I letmyself talk at the speed I’m actually thinking, I’ll say something that gets me fired. “I gave my word to my source that nothing would publish until after the fight. I looked him in the eye and told him his fighter’s strategy was safe with me.”
“It’s a teaser piece,” he says again, and I can hear him leaning back in his chair, settling in for what he clearly thinks is going to be a conversation where he talks me down from an overreaction. “Eight hundred words, tops. It’s good publicity for your subject, gets people excited about the main profile. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone doesnotwin,” I say. “Roman Kincaid’s opponent now has access to detailed breakdowns of his training strategy right before the biggest fight of his career.” I stare at the glowing screen of my phone, at the article that has my raw observations polished into pull quotes. “And I look like a liar who couldn’t keep her word.”
“You’re being dramatic,” he says.
There it is.Dramatic.The word men like David reach for when they want to make a woman feel small for having a legitimate grievance. I’d bet my entire salary he’s never once called Greg in featuresdramaticfor losing it over a missed photo credit. But a woman calls him out for a genuine breach of professional ethics, and suddenly she’s being dramatic.
“I’m being accurate,” I say, and my voice drops into something cold and hard, the voice I use for sources who are trying to lie to me. “Which is something I take seriously even if you don’t. You published my material without my knowledge or consent. That’s not editorial judgment, David. That’s a breach.”
The phone goes quiet for a long moment.
“Look, I hear you,” he finally says. “Maybe I should’ve given you a heads-up. But the higher-ups wanted content and your notes were right there on the drive. It’s not like I went through your personal files.”
“It’s exactly like you went through my personal files,” I tell him. “It’s where I store working materials that aren’t ready for publication. It’s not a buffet for you to pick through whenever corporate wants to boost engagement metrics.”
“Brooke.” He’s using that paternal, let’s-all-settle-down voice, like he’s talking a junior reporter off a ledge instead of addressing a senior correspondent whose work he just strip-mined without permission. “It’s done. The piece is live, it’s performing well, and your profile is still going to be the main event. This just builds anticipation.”
“Take it down,” I say.
“I can’t do that.” He sounds almost amused now, like I’ve said something naive. “It’s got fifty thousand reads already. The numbers are great. Corporate’s thrilled.”
“Then we’re going to have a very serious conversation when I get back to New York,” I tell him, and I hang up before he can respond, because if I hear him say one more patronizing thing about why it was perfectly fine to betray my source’s trust for a bump in quarterly engagement, I will lose what’s left of my composure.
