“Bringing it to your attention? That isn’t what’s fucking happening here. I want an explanation as to why, instead of writing stories for my paper, you’re creating content for someone else’s. If you want to use my paper to find yourself a husband, you’re shit out of luck. Fuck him, hell, fuck whoever you want, but the story you get me had better be real, and exciting enough to sell papers or you’re out.”
Mr. Fagan was red faced and blowing hard as though he had run up the two flights of stairs we used to access our workplace. As horrible as he could be, this paper meant everything to him, and a glance around his tight office, with its 1970’s PI movie decor was all the proof needed. A filing cabinet gathered dust on the corner of the room with a fax machine resting on top. The relics fit in perfectly with the black handset telephone on his wooden desk, and the man himself. There were no family pictures. No personalization of the room at all, and I had the sense that if he walked out on the job tomorrow, another would take his place and no one would know the difference.
“This photo” — I jabbed a finger at the page in front of me — “was taken completely out of context. It was a publicity stunt, done by an athlete known for exactly this. If they had reported the night correctly, you would know that kiss was given without my permission and was not well received. I’m doing this job because you forced my hand. Do not question my professionalism. Kane Bryson is a story. Nothing more.”
Hey, look at that. Now I was acting like someone out of the stairmaster club.
As the silence stretched between us, and I refused to back down, Mr. Fagan nodded tightly.
“Make sure you keep it that way. You’re a good kid. Don’t fuck up.”
With that less than stellar dismissal, I left his office and decided I needed real coffee. Swinging by my desk to grab my purse, I took a minute to rinse my lovely mug before I headed out. A quick dry off and I hung it on the wall with the other employee mugs and took a moment to appreciate the message on its side.Fuck off, I’m writing. Simple, effective, and satisfying.
* * *
After a quick stop offat Bean and Gone, a small coffee business that saw more caffeine addicts through its doors each morning than even the Starbucks across the road could manage, I decided it was time to get a move on with my story. Kane was due at the pool for a meet and greet with the current national team and some prospects at midday, but heading in a couple of hours earlier would mean I could set up somewhere and write the introduction. Maybe even get some straight answers out of Kane, for once.
Glancing down the street briefly as I pulled out my cell, I did a double-take and shot out an arm for the dinosaur that came trundling down the road. Taxis in Swenton were all but extinct at this point, having been superseded by the likes of Uber in the last decade. It was with a sense of nostalgia that I slid into the back, waving at the heavy-set man, with a heavier set mustache, through the plastic partition.
“The aquatic center, please.”
He grunted roughly and pulled into traffic without looking. The blare of a horn behind us was ignored with the same steadfast silence that I was sure my driver would maintain in any situation. I smiled a little and sat back in my seat. Engaging in conversation would have been pointless, and against taxi etiquette, so with little else to do, my mind wandered back to the photo.
Kane had one arm wrapped around my back, his much taller body curled over mine, keeping me just off-balance. The hand closest to the camera was cradling my neck, his thumb pressing into my cheek to keep me in place. Even with his face pressed to mine, the black and white of the picture couldn’t dim his good looks. All of this I would have been fine with. The problem was me. My body was loose in his arms. My nails biting into his bicep, where I gripped him. I didn’t look like a woman who hated the person I was with. I definitely didn’t look like the professional I had just assured Mr. Fagan I was.
I looked like a girl who hadn’t been kissed in five long years.
And that was a problem.
Kane had a way of dragging me back to the girl I was. He reminded me of a time when I thought I could have everything. The career, the man, maybe a family someday. I cut that thought off viciously. No point in thinking about what could have been. Kane made his decision a long time ago, and I was going to respect that. What was happening now was nothing more than a bored athlete, looking for a distraction from a big event in his life by revisiting simpler times.
I sneezed and rubbed my nose subtly, surprised there would be dust in a taxi like this. These cars were often treated better than the family dog. I wouldn’t say a word about it, though. There were rumors that the remaining taxis in Swenton belonged to one of the mafia families. Don’t ask, don’t tell, and certainly don’t piss them off. I had a lot of respect for investigative reporters, but I would never have volunteered for the job. Life expectancy was shortened far too much for the pithy amount they made on each story.
With no fanfare whatsoever, my taxi pulled up to the curb, my destination reached. Shuffling toward the door, I tapped my credit card on the pay point he presented, and slid out onto the sidewalk. I barely managed to shut the door before the yellow and black behemoth trundled out of the parking lot again.
Inhaling a slow, deep breath, I took a moment to center myself before letting it out and heading into the pool area.
Deja vu.
Chlorine stung my sinuses as I walked down the ramp from the reception desk into the pool area. The white noise of the water and the slapping sound of hands pulling bodies through the liquid was the same as it had been years before, just on a much larger scale. Coach Turner looked the same too. Polo shirt tucked tight into khaki shorts, the same uniform he had worn back then. The scowl was the cherry on top of the memory lane I was apparently trodding today. For that reason, I kept my eyes away from the pool and its inhabitants as I climbed into the bleachers and pulled out my laptop to start writing.
Today, in the Swenton Aquatic Center, marks…I grunted and deleted the line.
It starts with a dream, and then…delete.
Opening lines were the worst.
Twenty minutes later, I was glaring at the single black line, taunting me with its flashes on the blank page when I felt it.
Drip. Drip.
A drop on my hair, on my shoulder. I knew what I would see when I looked up. History, continuing to repeat itself.
Kane stood over me, smirking as though he knew exactly what he was doing by dripping on me while I tried to work. Sitting in the bleachers while he practiced in the pool. We had come full circle.
“Do you mind?” I asked, because what else could I say? Kane grinned, a spark in his eye making me suspicious that I might not be the only one thinking of the past today.
“Not at all.”
