Page 5 of West Bound

No. It’s not happening. Phoenix West cannot come to my town and take over my team. I won’t allow him to bulldoze his way into my carefully crafted life and pull that hidden loose brick. It simply cannot happen.

I pick up my phone and my fingers speed across the screen. I pause when I’m ten sentences in and decide this text must be a phone call.

I tap CeCe’s name and put the phone to my ear.

“Hey ho. Why are you bothering me? I’m busy,” is how my best friend of twenty years greets me.

“Is it true?” I feel out of breath like I ran here from home, yet I’ve not moved from my desk.

“Iiis what true?” She draws out. “That you’re a crazy bitch calling me up before I walk into an important meeting to ask me some vague question while sounding like a fat kid tearing down a candy aisle?”

“Weird analogy, C. Is it true that Phoenix West is getting traded to the Wranglers?” I hear the rustling of papers on the other end go silent.

The sound of CeCe breathing is amplified through my phone's speaker.

“Where did you hear that?” She finally asks.

“So it’s true then?” I flip back into my chair, letting the breath I was holding whoosh out of me like my soul exiting my body.

“I have no idea, Viv. This is the first I’m hearing of it, so I can’t verify. Listen,” I hear the clip of her heels as she walks the halls of Wrangler Stadium. “I’m heading into a meeting that apparently is of extreme importance. When I’m done, I’ll see what I can find out and call you as soon as I know anything. ‘K?”

I nod my head knowing damn well she can’t see me, but somehow she knows.

“Chin up, buttercup. It’s just rumors. You know how those run rampant right before the trade deadline. Go do some online shopping and don’t think about he-who-shall-not-be-named. Love you, ho.”

“Love you too, hoochie.” I click end and slam my head on my desk.

Please don’t let it be true. Anyone but him.

I’ve filled my online shopping cart five times, and five times I have emptied it only to start over. I’m restless and I keep watching the clock as another minute passes and then the next.

CeCe has been in her meeting for over an hour and I feel like I’ve been stuffed into a cannon, ready to explode the minute the fuse is lit. The longer time passes without any update on the Wranglers and Phoenix, the worse the feeling in my stomach gets. What started as a sinking in my belly is now a full on coupe that has me hanging in peril.

I check my watch, again, and find that it’s only been three and a half minutes since the last time I checked.

“Ugh!” I grunt and flop back into my chair.

“What’s the matter, Polly Pocket? Someone piss in your cheerios?” Dan, my annoying co-worker, pops his head over the top of my cubicle and peers down at me.

Slamming my laptop shut, I stand so that I am almost face to face with him and give him my best “don’t fuck with me” glare.

“No, but I’m about to punch you in the throat. That will make me feel better. So back off, dickwad.”

Dan raises his hands in front of him and a smirk plays across his mouth. “Woah. Chillax little lady. No need to get your thong up your crack. I just heard you huffin’ and puffin’ over here and thought I’d check on ya.”

I smack my hands on my desk and lean closer to him. “First off, jackass, no one says chillax anymore. Read urban dictionary or something. You need new comebacks. Second, don’t worry about my mood or my thong. Both are just fine and not in any need of your concern or assistance. Go back to your hole and work on some riveting piece about the local senior night at the community center or one of those other journalistic masterpieces you claim to write.” That last comment hits him right in the kisser. Just as I intended.

Dan is a middle-aged, two-bit reporter who has been relegated to pieces that usually only get assigned to the newbies. But ever since he majorly screwed up an important assignment by fucking one of the witnesses, who happened to be the barely legal daughter of the owner of the Houston Heatwave basketball team, he’s been assigned the bottom of the barrel reporting.

It was either that or be fired all together.

He pulled out an academy award winning performance when he groveled at the feet of our station manager. Lucky for him, the Heatwaves owner is a good friend of our managers and he was able to talk him off the ledge by promising that Dan would never report on any sporting events or priority Houston news again. That seemed to appease the owner. Now Dan’s been stuck reporting on events such as the pig races of San Jacinto county and a scuffle that occurred at senior bingo night. That one was a real doozy. Nothing says journalistic excellence like two pink haired grannies stabbing each other with bingo markers and lost dentures.

Dan snarls at me and opens his mouth to give me what is no doubt a lackluster insult, but is stopped when my phone rings.

“Hold that mediocre thought,” I tell him, holding up a finger and grabbing my phone from my desk.

It was CeCe and whatever she had to say, I wanted to hear it away from prying ears. The news she was going to spill would either get me the lead on a breaking story and be the cause of an ulcer, or simply be fodder for the tabloids.

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