"Who is?" he asked. "Gimme a name and I'll get out of your hair."
"As much as I want you out of my hair," I said, "I don't have a name. Nor would I give it to you if I did."
So why exactly did I feel the tiniest flutter in my belly at the idea of Hawk with anyone else? It wasn't as if I cared about him. No way. After he put his ego ahead of my teen feelings, he was lucky I hadn't kneed him in the dick. I wasn't going to fall for him, ever. No way, not even a little bit.
"I guess I'll keep my eye on your Mr Florence," Harvey said. "I might find out all his salacious details before you do. Don't worry, I'll send you the link when it goes live."
"He's not my Mr—" I started to say, but Harvey was gone. The smell of cheap aftershave lingered, along with the sick feeling I got every time I spoke to him. I knew one thing—he would go on digging until he found something he thought the public would eat up. It wouldn't have to be true, as long as there was enough truth, preferably with photos to back it up.
I shook my head. I saved the article I was writing and opened my browser. I entered Harvey Danbury in the search field and pressed return.
The result was a page of links to stories he broke and photos he took. Some were slightly blurry. Others had black dots to cover chests and groins.
At the bottom of the page were several photos of Hawk in swim shorts, in the company of a woman with pale blonde hair and a perfect figure. They stood on a beach somewhere. In the water in one shot, out of the water in another. In a third, the woman's bikini top was gone, replaced by black censor dots. Hawk was looking in her direction, eyes toward her chest.
I saw these photos before, but never really looked. Now I did, I wonder if my perception of him might have been influenced, just a little, by his rejection so long ago.
Whoever the woman was, she might have been a girlfriend, or even a friend. There certainly wasn't a world wide web full of him with a dozen different women. At least, not that I could find. I searched for him after I was finished grimacing at Harvey's portfolio of 'work'.
Mostly I found photos of him playing football. Shocking, I know. It was almost as though that was the centre of his world, not strutting around on beaches with half-naked women.
Okay, so my perception of him was a tiny bit warmer than it was. That didn't mean I was going to fall for him. Absolutely not.
"Know your enemy," I said under my breath.
He wasn't really the enemy, except where it came to our bet. If he thought he was competitive, he hadn't seen anything yet. Winning would be good for my own ego, but also my career. Okay, a part of me wanted to take him down a few pegs. Even if the internet wasn't littered with pictures of him and various women, I was sure he didn't get turned down often. I would change that.
That teenage ego he had? It was about to get a metaphorical punch in the dick.
I closed the browser and got back to writing my article. While I worked, I couldn't help but think about the look on Hawk's face when Fred Franks spoke. His mouth was set in a firm line and his eyes looked as though he'd blurred them. He was present in the moment, but he also seemed to be thinking about something. Or someone. I presumed it was Lori, but now I thought back, I wondered if there was something more. Someone else he lost.
I was tempted to reopen my browser and search, but it felt like an invasion of his privacy to do that. If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me. If we ever became close enough for that. Which we wouldn't.
I wrote about the press conference and thought about what Hawk told me afterward. Lori Franks was like a mother to much of the team. She used to bring cakes and biscuits, or fruit during the season. She knitted ugly Christmas sweaters with the Humpbacks’ logo, a whale surfing on a football that almost looked like a wave, on the front.
"That would have taken some talent, and a lot of work," I had said. My grandmother tried to teach me to knit, but I had no patience for it.
"We all wore them to the Christmas party," Hawk said with a wistful smile. "Even though she used the ugliest wool she could find. Except Ollie Tucker's. His was navy blue. I think she had—has a soft spot for him."
"God's Gift," I said with a grimace. "I wouldn't want to try to live up to a nickname like that. Or live it down."
"It's better than Fumblethor," Hawk said, a smile creeping onto his face.
I laughed. "Yes, I suppose it would be." No one wanted to be the one to fumble the ball, and hand the win to the other team as a result.
"What's the worst nickname you've ever heard?" I asked.
Hawk frowned in thought. "Remember Joshua Cribbage? His was Cabbage. That's pretty bad."
"Unless you like cabbage," I pointed out. "He used to bite into it, raw."
"Yeah. He was weird," Hawk said.
"Just a bit," I agreed. "I wonder where he is now."
"Last I heard, he's a lawyer," Hawk said. "Onto marriage three. Or is it four?"
"Some people didn't waste time after they left school." I poked a spoon into my tiramisu.
