Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 31113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31113 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 156(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 104(@300wpm)
"Actually, you made it mine when you hired me for this job," I snap. "I don't care what bullshit you report, just get it done. Isn't that what you said? You left the decision up to me, and I'm making the decision not to report anything else on this story."
His face turns red, but he doesn't blow up like I expected he would. Instead, he smiles, a savage, chilling smile that sends ice into my veins. "Fine," he says. "Then I have another story for you instead."
"And what would that be?"
"You can air the security camera footage we have of Jonas Michaud practically fucking you in our parking lot yesterday."
My heart stops. Literally freaking stops.
"He was all over you." His lips twist, his smile bitter, mocking. "And you damn sure weren't telling him no. Tell me, Ms. Knight, do you always fuck your sources, or is he special? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you're fucking an athlete. That's how the story usually goes with women in sports, isn't it? You just can't help yourselves."
I leap to my feet, my chair rolling backward into the bookcase behind me. "Stop it," I hiss, slapping my hand down on top of my desk as a wave of fury rolls through me. "You can hate me all you want, I don't care. But you leave Jonas out of this, Darren."
"Why? He's news. Or did you forget what we do here?"
"He isn't a freaking a story!" I shout. "Their lives aren't stories!"
"Yeah, they are," he says, smirking at me. "That's what you're here to do. Turn them into stories. It's what you're good at doing, and if you want to keep doing it, you'll run the damn story on Theo Kline and his puck bunny. Or we'll run the story on you and Jonas Michaud. The choice is yours."
"I quit."
His eyes widen, genuine surprise filtering through his expression.
"I quit," I repeat. "Find someone else to do your dirty work because I freaking quit." I jerk my flash drive from my computer and hurriedly start grabbing my belongings, trying to scoop them into my bag before I lose the battle, and the tears I'm holding back by sheer force of will alone start to fall.
"You can't quit," Darren says. "You need this job."
"No, this job needs me," I say, understanding just how true that is for, perhaps, the first time. That's why he's tried so freaking hard to bully me into believing this is all I can do. He needs me to keep believing it because no one else could do what I have or put up with what I have. Darren needs me because I'm good for ratings, and that's good for him. But I don't need him.
"Dammit, Jamie. Be reasonable and think about this."
"I am thinking about it," I say, spinning on him. "I've been thinking about it. All year, I've done nothing but think about how freaking much I hate this job because of you. You're a sexist, misogynistic pig, and I swear to God, if you even think about airing that video, the whole world will know what you've put me through. The sexual harassment, the gender discrimination, the bullying, I'll out every last vile word you've said to me this year." A mocking smile twists my lips. "Do you think the network will keep you then, Darren? I know the national networks won't touch you."
I loop my bag over my arm, grab the flowers Jonas sent me, and then scoop up the box with his jersey inside, casting one final, withering glance at Darren Smith. He's silent in his chair, his face pale. He knows I mean every word. For once, he's listening. For once, he's hearing me.
And for once, he has no power here.
"Go to hell, Darren."
I walk out with my head held high.
Chapter Nine
Jonas
"Move your ass, Jonas!" Wes barks, tapping my skate with his stick. "You're moving too goddamn slow for someone who wants to win a Cup."
"Who made the stupid fucking decision to leave Drill Sergeant Psycho in charge of practice today?" Gray mutters, leaning over the boards like he's dying. On second thought, he might actually be dying. He looks a little green. How he's a professional hockey player, I don't know. He's a damn good one, I'll give him that. But I don't think he knows the meaning of the word exercise.
Kellan snorts laughter.
"I heard that, asshole," Wes calls, spinning to face us. He skates backward across the ice, a psychotic smirk on his face. "And Coach left me in charge because Kris and Theo had to take care of something."
"They should have taken you with them." I lean over the boards and grab a bottle of Gatorade before downing half of it. "I can't feel my fucking legs."
Logan gives me an odd, assessing look. "What the fuck is up with you today?"