Page 52 of Power Play

“My office, my rules, Denton.”

“Exactly the reason I’m quitting,” I snap, twisting back again for the door. Good riddance. Over my shoulder I add, “Just be thankful that I’m not suing you, Josh. At this point, I’ll just be happy if I never had to see your face again.”

I leave Josh yelling at me from inside his office. I don’t stop for the douchebags in finance, who regularly enjoy calling me a lesbian, nor do I say anything to the a-hole in the tech department, who once asked me to sit on his lap and call him “Daddy.”

Screw that.

The only person that Idostop for is Casey. Not that I know why, because it’s not like I won’t be texting her later on today to give her all the details. Regardless, I stop at the doorway of our office and knock on the 1970s wooden paneling. Her head jerks up at the sound, and immediately I hear her mouse clicking away rapidly.

“Stop checking your dating website,” I tell her, the first smile I’ve felt all morning stretching across my face. “Josh keeps tabs.”

“I wasn’t,” she says, a blush staining her cheeks.

“You were.”

She swings her chair around to face me fully, the way she always does, and threads her hands together before resting them on her stomach. “Lunchtime? I want some of those little tacos from around the corner.”

“I quit.”

“What?”

I nod, a little more happily than I should be considering that I’m now unemployed. “I quit. Just now. I’m heading home but just wanted to tell you.”

Casey looks a little star-struck, and confirms this when she whispers, “You’re my hero. Go fly away now, my little butterfly. Get the hell out of here and then text me as soon as you get home, so that you can give me all the details.”

Casey and I aren’t big huggers, so I promise to do as she says exactly.

Except, I’m not going home—not quite yet. There’s someone I need to pay a visit to before I curl up on my couch and let the reality of today sink in.

“Why shouldIhelp you when you’ve smeared my name across national news? Actually, I should be suing you for defamation right now.”

I’m at Gwen’s fancy townhouse in Brighton, one town over from Cambridge. Thank God for Mel, who provided me with Gwen’s address.

And what an address it is—while I’ve been living in a one-room hovel, Gwen James is living life to the fullest. Her townhouse sits next to a pretty park, boasts a pool and lounge area, and even has the sort of grand, circular stairwell that every girl dreams about when she’s seven years old.

Like I said—living life to the fullest.

Meanwhile, I’ve hit rock bottom.

Life’s fun like that sometimes.

“Like I told you,” I tell her, “TheTMZpiece was never meant to be published. I wrote it to appease my boss, but I couldn’t go through with it. I threw the article away and wrote something completely different for the newspaper.”

“Do I look like a whore in that one, too?”

I cringe because, yes, in the first rendition, I had taken some liberties in telling the sort of story required of me to keep my butt onThe Tribune’s payroll. But that story doesn’t reflect my morals, nor does it reflect the sort of journalism I want out of my career. I’m not in the market for cheap shots.

Pulling open my bag, I withdraw a copy of the story that I wanted to write and place it on the coffee table. I tap my finger on the printed headline. “This is what I sent to my boss for review. You’re mentioned briefly, but only to highlight the way you’ve helped shape Duke’s career over the last few years. Words that came straight from his mouth. There’s no mention of you otherwise.”

With a move originating from clear suspicion, Gwen leans forward and pinches the stapled corner with two fingers. Lifting it to her face, her eyes quickly skim the front page.

“You included the tidbit about his family . . . about their phone calls during the games.”

I don’t allow myself to feel hurt by her shock. It’s expected, considering that the only recent article about Duke to hit the Internet is one that tears him to shreds. Clearing my throat, I say, “My angle was to examine the mindset of a professional hockey player over the course of his career, especially one so beloved by his fans.”

Gwen doesn’t say anything for a minute, and it is the longest, most painful, sixty seconds of my life. She flips her red hair back over her shoulders, crosses and uncrosses her legs at the knees.

Finally, she sighs. “I’ve known you for years, Charlie. I don’t think we’ve always seen eye-to-eye—I know jealousy is a problem for you—but I want to be honest.”

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