Page 18 of Power Play

The meat of the story, ladies and gentlemen.

Never let it be forgotten that Charlie Denton didn’t pull through for journalism.

Regardless, Josh is not looking so appreciative at the moment. His hat is resting on his knee and the fluorescent light is reflecting off his shiny head. “You said you interviewed Tom Brady,” he clips out.

I hold up a finger. “TimBrady,” I correct pleasantly. “Trust me, I wish I could pull off an interview with the Patriots’ G.O.A.T.”

Josh’s knee bounces up and down, and he actually bites his lower lip like he really wants to tear me a new one, but is reviewingThe Tribune’sHR policies in his head. Then, almost without warning, he blurts out, “Duke Harrison.”

“Excuse me?”

“Duke Harrison,” he repeats, slapping his Sox hat back on his head and pulling the brim low again. “We talked about doing a feature piece on him. Well, now I want you to interview him personally.”

I blindly reach for my coffee mug only to remember that I drained the last dregs over an hour ago. “You do realize that it’ll be pretty difficult to nail that down, right?”

Josh presents me with his back as he heads for the door. “I’m aware,” he throws over his shoulder nonchalantly.

My hands go to my desk for leverage as I stand, so that I can see him over the desktop monitor. “You’reawarethat it might be difficult?” I try to keep my voice level, I really, really do, but I’m also internally panicking. I’ve been hounding Duke for days now, to no avail. And that wasbeforemy boss decided to officially assign me the story I was already chasing. “What if I can’t make it happen?”

He pauses. Twists around. “The same way you couldn’t make that interview happen withTomBrady, NFL megastar?” This time, Josh doesn’t even wait for my response. “If this interview doesn’t happen, then you’re not a real sports journalist, Charlie.”

“Josh,” I say slowly in a tone that’s mostly reserved for dealing with wayward children on the verge of a temper tantrum, “I’m not sure what’s changed from yesterday. I’m going to get you that article, I promise. I’ll whip something up, get it prepped. You’ll have it by three p.m. this afternoon.”

“The Duke Harrison feature,” he announces curtly. His face is a mask of ambivalence and I’m more than positive that mine is red and blotchy from sudden stress. “I’ll be nice and give you until next Friday. That’s all of eight days from now.”

Eight days. I have eight days or . . . I gulp back my fear and ask, “What happens if I don’t make the deadline?”

Josh straightens out the brim of his hat like he means business. “You’ll be demoted.”

“Towhat?”There’s nothing below me. It’s not likeThe Cambridge Tribuneis teaming with interns. Each “department” is bare bones. Hell, we clean our own offices—or, we did, until the vacuum broke. I suspect even the vacuum couldn’t take the 70’s throwback décor anymore.

“You’ll be my secretary.”

My mouth drops open at Josh’s words. I can honestly think of nothing less I would rather do than to be his go-to grunt girl. His last three secretaries have quit within a week. Not, however, because he’s demanding, but rather because he grows a bit too touchy-feely during late work nights.

Rumors spread.

I’m not about that life.

“Josh,” I try again, giving one more go at reasoning with the man who’s universally known among the office staff for beingunreasonable, “Let’s think this over, maybe? How about we let go of this Duke thing and go for someone more realistic, like someone on the . . . the Kennedy High School’s basketball team. I can swing that, easily.”

“No.”

Would it be too embarrassing if I cry right now? I think it just might be.

Josh turns for the door one last time. “It’s Duke Harrison or nothing, Charlie. Oh! And before I forget, I recommend that you stop using your work computer for job hunting. It’s against company policy.”

And with that, my boss struts his way out of the room. I promptly drop to my chair, ignoring the way it jerks and twitches under the sudden onslaught of my weight. I do, however, gird myself for abruptly falling to the floor.

When it seems that I’m safe for yet another day, I stare sightlessly at the computer. Sure enough, I actually have the Careers page pulled up forThe Boston Globe. I wouldn’t think that Josh is smart enough to have my Internet browser tracked, but clearly I’m wrong on that score.

I should probably tell Casey to stop checking her online dating website, but since she skipped out and left me to the wolves, I’ll hold off . . . for now.

So, it has come to this: Duke Harrison or becoming Josh Wharton’s office bitch. If there was ever any doubt in mind about what moves needed to be made next, none of it still exists in the aftermath of my conversation with Josh.

I snag my phone from its place in my top drawer and open the Twitter app. Duke’s message about me having a good day is the last one that came through. Not. Any. Longer.

My fingers fly across the touchscreen, and this time there’s no deliberation. I hit SEND within fifteen seconds and then stare down at the words:

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