I sit in my parents’ driveway with the phone dark in my lap and my chest tight with a fury that has nowhere to go. This is what David does. He coasts on other people’s work and calls it leadership.
He’s been doing it for years and he’ll keep doing it until someone above him finally notices or someone below him finally snaps, and it infuriates me that tonight, sitting in my car in the dark, I already know it’s not going to be me. Because I’m good at my job and I need this job and heknowsthat.
I pull out of the driveway and drive back to The Harbor Inn with the radio off and my jaw locked.
The next morning, I walk into Dominic’s gym prepared for a fight.
David may have torpedoed my credibility, but if I can keep my composure long enough to explain what actually happened, if I can make Dominic understand that this wasn’t my choice, maybe the last few weeks of work won’t have been for nothing. Maybe he’ll be angry but reasonable. Maybe he’ll give me a chance to fix this.
At least that’s the plan. I take a sip of the coffee I picked up on the way over, which is doing very little to offset the four hours of sleep I got, and push through the front doors.
Sarah spots me from the front desk and immediately drops her gaze, busying herself with a stack of papers. She doesn’t say good morning, doesn’t wave, doesn’t do any of the friendly front-desk things she’s done every other time I’ve walked through these doors. Great. So Dominic knows, and apparently he’s told the staff. I keep walking before she has to figure out whether to acknowledge me or pretend I don’t exist.
His office is at the back of the gym, past the ring and the row of treadmills, and the walk feels longer than usual. I can feel eyes on me as I go, or maybe I’m imagining it. Either way, by the time I knock once and push the door open, I’m ready for a fight.
Dominic is behind his desk, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, and the look he gives me when I walk in could strip paint off walls. Could curdle milk. Could probably wilt every plant in a five-mile radius if he aimed it in the right direction.
“Listen, I—“ I start, holding up my free hand in what I hope is a placating gesture.
“You have a lot of fucking nerve showing your face here,” he snaps, cutting me off before I can get three words out.
Whatever composure I’d scraped together on the drive over, all my careful plans for how to handle this conversation like a professional, evaporates completely. The exhaustion and the anger and the frustration of the past twelve hours come rushing back, and suddenly I’m not interested in being diplomatic anymore.
“Seriously?” I drop my hand and stare at him. “I came here to explain what happened, and you’re not even going to let me finish a sentence?”
He laughs, and there’s no warmth in it whatsoever. “Right. By all means, Brooke. Explain.” He gestures at the chair across from his desk like he’s granting me an audience I should be grateful for. “I’mdyingto hear this. Please. Enlighten me.”
I stay standing, because if he thinks I’m going to sit down and plead my case like some junior employee hauled in for a performance review, he’s out of his damn mind. I’ve survived fifteen years in sports journalism, an industry that treats women like interlopers at best and targets at worst.
Dominic Midnight in a bad mood doesn’t even crack my top twenty most intimidating encounters.
“My editor published without my approval,” I tell him, fighting to keep my voice level when every instinct I have wants to match his hostility blow for blow. “I didn’t know until late last night. I was at my parents’ house having dinner and the article was already live by the time I saw it. I called him immediately, told him to take it down, and he refused. I had no idea this was happening, Dominic.None.”
“That’s convenient,” he says, and the sneer in his voice makes me want to throw my coffee at his head.
“It’s thetruth.” I meet his eyes and hold them. “I gave you my word that nothing would be published until after the fight, and I meant it. My editor went over my head.”
“I think I should have trusted my gut from the beginning,” he says, coming around the desk to stand in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “I knew who you were when you walked in here, and I let myself forget.”
“Who I am?” I echo, and fire flares in my chest. “And who exactly is that, Dominic?”
“Someone who destroys careers and calls it journalism,” he says. “Someone who’ll do anything for a story. Someone who looks you in the eye and lies without blinking.”
“I’ve been doing my job with integrity, and you’ve spent the whole time waiting for me to prove you right about some story you’ve been telling yourself for fifteen years.” My voice is rising and I can’t seem to stop it. “You can be pissed about the situation, you have every right to be, but don’t you dare stand there and accuse me of betraying my word when I didn’t. This wasn’t my call.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he asks. “That’s supposed to fix this? Roman’s opponent now has details about our training right before the biggest fight of his career. The other camp is reading breakdowns of footwork adjustments and combination sequences that you described in your notes.”
“That my editor published without my—“ I start.
“I don’t care whose finger was on the button,” he cuts me off, his voice dropping. “If you knew your editor was the kind of person who’d do something like this, maybe you shouldn’t have made it so easy for him to access your notes. Maybe you should have thought about what would happen if someone decided to help themselves to your research.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words die somewhere between my brain and my tongue. Because he’s not wrong.The realization must show on my face, because something in Dominic’s expression shifts, like a predator spotting a weakness and deciding exactly where to sink his teeth.
“That’s what I thought,” he says. “Not so righteous now, are you?”
And the satisfaction in his voice is what snaps me out of it.How fucking dare he.
“Fine,” I say. “You want me to take some responsibility? I should have been more careful with my notes. I should have anticipated that my editor is a spineless, credit-stealing weasel who would sell out his own mother for a bump in quarterly engagement. That’s on me.”
