High school sports.
From playoff hockey to teenage quarterbacks and parents with folding chairs.
I swallow the first answer because it tastes like pride.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me it was worth it.”
I look at the article open on my laptop.
Ryan McAllister does not explain himself.
“It was worth it.”
“Good,” Gil says. “Then survive the fallout.”
At ten, I join the editorial meeting by video with wet hair, a second cup of coffee, and the expression of a woman who has not slept enough to be polite.
The managing editor wants to know whether the paper has documentation on every factual claim. Legal wants the original access emails. Digital wants a follow-up headline that does not sound like the newspaper is apologizing with its hands up.
I answer each question.
Yes, I have the emails.
Yes, I have the credential notice.
Yes, I can separate what I personally observed from what I interpreted.
Gil mutes himself for three seconds, probably to laugh.
When the meeting ends, he stays on.
“You held up well.”
“I am powered by spite and dry shampoo.”
“Use both responsibly.”
“Unlikely.”
His face softens just enough to make me nervous. “This is the part after California you never let anyone see.”
I look away from the screen.
“Back then you vanished into shame,” he says. “This time you stay visible.”
“That’s your pep talk?”
“That’s my order.”
“Bossy.”
“Employed,” he says. “For now.”
