“You sound exactly like my father. Every single year, he’s convinced this is the year. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this one, Brooke.’” She affects a deeper voice, imitating him. “Twenty-one years of playoff drought, and he said that every single April.”
“And yet you keep watching.”
“Of course I keep watching. I’m not a quitter, plus my parents would disown me.” She laughs.
“You know, I’ve always admired that about you,” I say. The road straightens out for a stretch and I glance over to find her eyebrows raised. “Don’t look so shocked. I mean it.”
“I just can’t believe you’re giving me a genuine compliment. Unprompted. Without any insults attached.” She presses a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “This trip really is something.”
“Yeah well, what happens in Mexico.” I shrug, keeping my tone light even though I mean every word. “And I do think you’re probably the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. Especially with your career. You decided what you wanted and you went after it, and nothing got in your way.”
“Thanks,” she says, and the teasing drops out of her voice for a moment. “It wasn’t always easy, but I don’t think I’d trade it for anything. Sometimes I still have to pinch myself that the dream I had as a little kid actually came true. That I get to do this for a living.”
As the road climbs higher I find myself smiling at the thought of Brooke as a kid, scribbling in notebooks and dreaming of press passes and bylines.
“Did you ever see yourself doing anything else?” I ask, navigating around a tight curve. “Or was it always journalism, no backup plan?”
“Always journalism, no backup plan.” She shifts in her seat, tucking one leg underneath her. “I think when my dad took me to my first Mariners game I was hooked. I saw the reporters in the press box and the way they got to be right there in the middle of everything. Then he took me to a NASCAR race in Portland and I watched the pit reporters working and thought, okay, this is what I want to do with my life.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight, maybe nine.” She laughs at the memory. “I made my dad buy me a little tape recorder and I’d interview my stuffed animals about their athletic careers. Very serious stuff. Mr. Bear’s thoughts on his upcoming boxing match against Captain Elephant.”
I snort, picturing it. “Please tell me those tapes still exist somewhere.”
“Probably, but under lock and seal. But anyway, I had to narrow down eventually, pick my niches within sports, figure out what I actually wanted to cover. I just loved the camaraderie, the competition, being able to get the inside story that nobody else had. When I was little I wanted to talk to everyone who’d accomplished something incredible, and now I actually get to do that. I get paid to ask questions and tell stories.” She pauses, her voice shifting. “Though at the same time...”
I glance over at her, waiting.
“Sometimes I think I’d like to slow down a bit,” she says, looking out the window at the pine trees flashing past. “Not quit, nothing like that, just...”
I laugh. “Too much of a workaholic to even consider retirement?”
“You and I are both completely incapable of sitting still, so you don’t get to judge me.” She chuckles. “But one day I’d like to step back from the straight-up reporting. I’d miss the thrill of it, chasing down a story, getting the scoop. But having been in the business this long, I see stuff that I’d like a hand in changing. Improving things for newer reporters, for women coming into this industry who maybe won’t have to deal with the shit I did.”
“I can imagine,” I say, memories surfacing that I haven’t thought about in years. “Just based on how you got treated back in high school covering our matches for the paper, I’m guessing it only got worse from there.”
“Hmph.” She makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “Yeah, well. It definitely got harder. More money involved, more egos, more guys who thought a female reporter in the locker room was either a joke or an invitation.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Though I gotta say, I always kind of appreciated when you told them to back off, back in high school. Anytime guys were being assholes to me at those matches, you’d get in their faces about it.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “If I recall correctly, anytime I tried to step in you told me to fuck off because you could handle your own shit. Which to be fair, you could. I still remember Benny Kowalski’s face when you kneed him in the balls after he snatched your press pass and held it over your head.”
“Well that was a shining moment of mine. God, it felt good.” She laughs. “And yeah, I did appreciate you stepping up. I just couldn’t let you know that. Had to keep up appearances, you know? Maintain the whole hating-you thing.”
“Of course, we wouldn’t have wanted anyone thinking we actually gave a shit about each other.”
“Exactly. Very bad for brand consistency.” She catches my eye and something passes between us, an acknowledgment of all those years we spent pretending, all the energy we wasted on a war that maybe didn’t need to be fought quite so hard. Or fought at all. “For what it’s worth, I appreciated it more than I let on. You were one of the only guys who ever said anything.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, keeping my eyes on the road as we climb higher into the mountains. The pine trees are thicker up here, the air cooler even inside the car. Somewhere ahead of us, Mexico City is waiting. Roman’s title shot. The next chapter of everything.
But right now, in this car, with twenty-five years of history finally settling into something that feels almost like peace, I’m in no rush to get there.
CHAPTER 24
Brooke
We’ve been descending for the last half hour, the pine forests thinning out as the road curves down toward the central plateau. The storm has returned with a vengeance, rain streaming across the windshield in sheets while the wipers fight a battle they’re clearly losing. For a second they manage to clear a decent view, only for the sky to dump another gallon of water onto the glass.
I’ve been to Mexico half a dozen times over the years for both work and pleasure, and I’ve fallen a little more in love with the country each time. But I never quite imagined that white-knuckling through mountain switchbacks in a beat-up Honda Civic with Dominic Midnight would be in the cards for my next trip back. Nor did I think I’d be enjoying myself this much.
