Page 2 of Striking Heat
I chuckle. “I feel bad for these women. Every one of them seems like they were a standout at one point or another in their career. That doesn’t mean it’s going to go well here, you know?”
“Be sure to be kinder about that in your write-up.” Nick takes a sip of his beer.
“I saw an interview where Dixon said how exciting it was to join a team that was being built from the ground up. I wonder if the 3-0 loss still has her feeling that way.”
“Probably not,” Nick replies, rising as the buzzer sounds. “Thankfully that’s over.”
We both applaud, but there’s not much coming from the other fans. There are only a few Tampa fans hanging out. Most of them have kids, and their little girls, wearing soccer jerseys from what looks like a local soccer club, are waiting to catch a glimpse of the professionals. None of them are wearing Blaze jerseys, which doesn’t really surprise me. There are only a few veteran NWSL players on the team, and none of them made a splash today.
“Are we going to wait around for interviews?” Nick asks. “I think I got enough pictures, but I can get one or two in the pressroom, if you want.”
I nod. “Yeah, Martin is going to require it. I should see if any of them regret agreeing to play for the Blaze.”
“Don’t be an asshole.” Nick chuckles. “That game didn’t hold much promise, though,” Nick concedes, like he knows I might be right to ask.
“I know. Sure, they’re new, but I expected a bit more than that.” I sigh. “Think I should still ask them about their goals for the season? Or should it be more of a ‘how do you plan to survive’?”
We both laugh.
“It’s probably better if you stick to your normal MO and rip them to shreds.” Nick motions for me to start heading out of the aisle.
I make my way through the long halls that lead to the field, my press pass secured around my neck. I run a hand through my dark hair and hope to god someone is in a talking mood when I finally reach them. The halls are lined with yellow and blue stripes—team colors all the way down. I swear I can still smell the fresh paint.
There’s a stage for the players to sit on, with a microphone table in front of them that has a tablecloth with the Blaze logo displayed prominently in the center. Below, chairs are lined up in rows, with an aisle down the middle. I sink into one of them and listen as the other reporters are busy talking amongst themselves.
“Nice digs,” Nick says beside me, his tone mocking.
The girls keep us waiting, like all teams do. The coaches probably had a lot to say after that performance. The doors off to the side of the stage open and Coach Watts, Dixon, and Monroe come in to talk with us. Brand-new little deer brought in for the slaughter.
I sit back and watch Dixon answer a reporter’s question. Monroe is sitting there like a dog that’s been kicked one too many times and is terrified that one of the questions could be about her performance. Mine won’t be. I’m focused on Dixon. I turn my gaze back to her, as she’s still speaking, answering her questions with a tight smile. I haven’t been listening, so I have no idea what question she is answering.
I wonder if it’s as unfriendly as my questions are going to be. Because that’s what I’m known for. Being a hard-ass reporter who has stared right at athletes like Tom Brady and asked, “Why the hell are you still playing football, man?”
It was a mean question, but it got the attention of many sports outlets and landed me a job with the Tampa Bay Times, a top-notch paper in Florida. Through all the changes with social media taking over, they’re always finding ways to be inventive. We’re exploding in our online presence, and the paper even lets me take to TikTok to spout my thoughts on sports teams. The public eats that up.
I raise my hand and wait to be recognizes me so that I may ask her my questions. When the woman in a blue pantsuit finally gets to me, Dixon bites her lip. She must have heard of me.
“Go ahead, Mr. Taylor,” the suit says.
I stand and smile at her. “Thank you,” I reply sweetly. I want the office staff to still think favorably of me. However, I doubt Ms. Dixon will once I’m done with her.
“Are you still excited to come to the Tampa Bay Blaze after that performance tonight?” I ask her.
“What do you mean?” she stammers out, looking to the suit for help. “I’m sorry, I’m going to need more.”
Her tone is small and unsure. I almost don’t want to do this to her, but I will.
“After the performance you just put on out there. Do you still think you and this team have much promise? I mean, you’re the striker, am I right?” I wait for her to nod. “Can’t be good for the one responsible for scoring to not even get one shot off on goal.”
I sit back down because I don’t actually anticipate her having a good answer for my question. The new ones never do. There’s a rumble in the crowd; whether they agree with my question or not, I have them talking. And they might be just as interested in my question as I am.
“Well, sir—sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” she sputters out.
“Taylor. Danny Taylor,” I reply, standing again, my smug smile in place.
“Mr. Taylor, it’s not just my job to score.” She sits up straighter like she’s more prepared now to answer. “This is only the first game. You shouldn’t be so quick to be so dismissive of us. Wearegoing to find our rhythm and show you just what this team is made of. So, give us all a minute before you speak so disrespectfully about my team.”
I love the way her jaw juts out in defiance, and I love that she challenged me. I don’t doubt that she will, with that determination.
