Page 3 of Striking Heat
“I guess Tampa will just have to wait and see if you can deliver,” I shoot back. I don’t miss the way she glares at me.
The next reporter is called on, and it’s a question for Monroe.If my question would have been for her, I doubt she would have been able to answer.
Dixon’s blue eyes are locked on my dark brown ones. The front office woman places a hand on her shoulder, and her attention turns away from me. They exchange a few words, and Dixon gets up to leave the room. The press conference is over.
A few of the reporters shout out, “Mac, Mac.”
It dawns on me that when I did my research on this team, there were several articles that called her “Mac Attack.” Grinning ear to ear, I realize I have the perfect title for my article. She may hate that name by the time I’m done with her.
Chapter Two
~MAC~
“Mac Attack Lacks Attack.”
I keep staring at the online article published by the Tampa Bay Times as if the title of it might change. It was written by that asshole who asked a ridiculous question about my performance. Cindy, our PR rep, warned us about reporters like Danny before. He does things like this to rattle the players, and under no circumstances should we engage with him.
I don’t think I followed her second rule, which is why she made me leave the room almost right after the response left my mouth. I apologized to her, not that I really meant it. But I felt like I should. I just got here, and I don’t want the reputation of being difficult.
I’m the twenty-four-year-old captain of a brand new NWSL team, something that doesn’t really happen to girls fresh out of college. Not unless you were on the US Women’s Olympic or World Cup Team. I was on neither of those rosters, so I do not have the luxury of being too difficult with anyone. I’m still proving myself.
His article is one of the worst things someone has written. He calls the team an unnecessary nuisance in Tampa and thinks thatTampa feels the same way, based on the way fans fled the scene of the crime before the final buzzer even sounded.
“Ugh!” I yell out in my team-provided housing. It’s a nice one-bedroom apartment that came fully furnished. I haven’t really gotten around to making it look like it’s mine yet, but I guess it’s not. I want it to feel like this could be somewhere I might live. It’s decorated in pale blue and yellows. Team colors, yes, but a more unstated color palette so that I don’t feel like I’m living at the stadium.
I’m the captain, so I didn’t have to share an apartment if I didn’t want to. I could have easily roomed with Cass, but her and I did that for four years of college. I was looking forward to my own space, and she was too. She was also lucky enough to be given an apartment of her own.
I look up and spy my favorite little oasis, which I made for myself out on the balcony. It’s not much, but it’s mine. A few plants sit on a plant cart, and there’s a chaise lounge for lounging and a small table and chairs. I grab my MacBook and head out there, then I lie down on the deep blue chair cushions and stretch out.
The computer rests on my legs as I continue to scroll through the article. There are a few mentions of the other girls on the team, but I’m the subject of the piece. I keep reading as tears prick my eyes.
Lackluster performance.
Striker with no strike.
Lack of fierceness that we saw in college.
Maybe she wasn’t ready for the big leagues.
The last one stings more than the rest, if I’m being honest. I mean, how could it not? A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away, then click play on the audio he got from a fan.
“I didn’t know who she was before she came here to Tampa, and based on her performance, I’m not sure I want to learn more about her.”
That’s more than I can take. I slam the laptop closed and place it on the table. Covering my face with hands, I remember what my mama would always say.“Take three deep breaths. The world feels more manageable after three deep breaths.”
I try once, twice, and then a third time. None of those work.
I hate him. What kind of a name is Danny Taylor anyway? It doesn’t strike me as the type to have a byline in the NY Times or some posh publication. He certainly slung mud at me like he was a teenage bully who was fighting with me at the arcade. Cindy assured me that this is what he does. He writes from a fan’s perspective. He likes to believe that his edgy journalism is his way of telling the truth about the sports world, and I just happen to be his latest target.
This should blow over, she promised. Shut him up with your talent, she advised. I wish it were that easy. His words hurt. He didn’t say anything that I hadn’t wondered about myself.
I have an itch to go down there, but I don’t. Instead, I sink down in my lounge chair, tears springing to my eyes again. I hate what he wrote about me. Because now what I have been thinking about myself is out there, and the rest of the world is thinking it too. The Blaze is under a microscope, and people are questioning the choices for positions like captain and the players on the field.
I let the tears fall. I reach over and grab a pillow to cover my face. All of our balconies are interconnected, and I don’t want anyone to hear me. I don’t want to bring any more attention on me than there already is. Management or someone from the team will surely want to meet with me, and I’ll have to get it together, but for right now, I want to fall apart in peace and quiet.
I hug the pillow and cry quietly. My crying wears me out so much that I fall asleep lying there on the lounge chair. I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake up to someone gently shaking me.
“Mac, honey, you okay?”
