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“Oh. ” She sounded slightly interested, which was about three degrees warmer than she usually sounded when discussing football. “That sounds interesting. ”
“Yeah, it is—except, I don’t know, it’s kind of a personal article that I wrote and now people are mad at me and I don’t really know what to do. ”
“Is it a good article?”
I tried to think clearly. Was it a good article?
It was an honest article. It was a heartfelt article. It was written to the best of my abilities.
I took a deep breath. “It is a good article. ”
“Then you remember that, and you don’t let anyone shake you. ”
Easier said than done.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I went straight to Abe’s apartment after work. I’d barely shut the door behind me before I asked, “How is it?”
His fingers gently reached out and combed back my hair from my face. “Don’t freak out. ”
I started freaking out. “Me? Never. ”
“They issued the standard. No one’s to talk to you. Or to anyone from Today Media. ”
My stomach fell out of my body and left me unanchored to reality. He’d warned me, but it was different actually having it confirmed. “All of Today Media? Not just Sports Today?” I shook my head, trying to make sense of it. “But who else would you talk to? It’s sports. It’s football. ”
His hand fell away. “It’s not just football. It’s Loft’s parent company—Kravenberg, Inc. ”
I almost gagged on my breath. “And what if you do? You get fined?”
He nodded.
“How much?”
He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Not an insignificant amount. ”
I couldn’t take the unbearable closeness anymore, and I spun away and walked to the window, where I could brace my hand against the wall for balance. Outside, the whole world was white. “I’m sorry. ”
He came up behind me and encircled my waist with his arms. “It’s not your fault. ”
Maybe not. But it certainly felt that way.
* * *
The NFL held its silence for two days.
The other news channels were not so merciless. It went straight to the top of the networks. That first evening, every major channel reported on my story. We watched from the safety of the newsroom at anchors in expensive blue suits and the same faux serious expressions they used for typhoons and shootings.
“The NFL has been accused of favoring Loft Athletics. ” Aurelius Stevenson looked positively gleeful, though he hid it well. “The popular sports website Sports Today first broke this story. . . ”
“Go home,” Tanya said eventually. “Listening to this isn’t helping anyone. ”
Abe had to attend an emergency meeting of the Leopards—that I’d caused—so I went back to my apartment. My roommates were all in their rooms by the time I got back, so I climbed into my bed in the quiet dark and nestled low with the blue-white of my laptop shining in my face.
What insidious, awful part of me made me search for “Tamar Rosenfeld” and limit the results to the past twenty-four hours? I was feeding myself poison and I couldn’t stop, unable to look away from the train wreck of my online reputation.
I hadn’t expected people to be so mad at me. Not strangers, not really. But they appeared in droves, and reveled in the word bitch like it had just been invented. How dare I besmirch their beloved players? How dare I suggest anything that might threaten the game? How dare I. . .
I read until I realized that tears had started falling, and then I pressed the laptop closed and stared into the sudden darkness with wide, wet eyes.
In the morning, I straightened my shoulders and headed in to work. Davis, a security guard whom I’d always been on good terms with, scowled as I entered the building. “Thanks for that, Rosenfeld. ”
I tried to smile and not let it get to me as I escaped into an elevator. “Any time. ”
Yet the elevator ride turned out to be even more excruciating. I rode up with two girls from the women’s magazine and a guy from News. He snorted loudly and crossed his arms. The girls didn’t say anything, but they watched me with wide eyes and nudged each other, as though communication was imperceptible simply because it was nonverbal.
At least the tension disappeared when I stepped into the office, and I gladly collapsed beside Mduduzi. He smiled at me sympathetically. “Rough morning?”
“It’s a lot of pressure, the hatred of New York. ”
“Nah, I’m sure you’re doing just fine. ”
I appreciated his vote of confidence, but it wasn’t winning me a popularity contest anytime soon.
Work continued, as it always did. There were stories to be written and follow-ups to follow. I monkeyed at the keyboard until a derivative of Shakespeare appeared, and I answered emails and fended phone calls.
On Friday, the NFL issued a statement that they were deeply disappointed in my Sports Today article, which focused on insane issues, from a reporter who clearly had her facts wrong. Their statement sounded so hurt, so wounded—why would anyone attack them that way? Who did this Tamar Rosenfeld think she was?—that I couldn’t read the entire piece.
I wished Abe hadn’t had to leave for another away game.
The NFL reacted about as we expected, but that didn’t lessen the pain with each word that they said. Gregory Philip himself sat down on one of the morning talk shows.
And after that, it just downpoured. I couldn’t switch channels or turn on a podcast without hearing about my article. About myself.
“Of course, it’s ridiculous. Just some rookie reporter trying to make a name for herself by smearing ours. ” On the screen, Coach Paglio dismissed my article with a snort and a shake, just as the entire NFL had been doing for the last week. “Wouldn’t give her any credence at all. You know who this is, right? A twenty-three-year-old kid who grew up with Krasner. No journalistic integrity there, huh?”
Aurelius Stevenson, SNN’s favorite newscaster, leaned forward, good-looking and grave in his navy suit. He nodded along with Paglio’s explanation, but that didn’t stop him from sending out feelers. “Of course, she does have the backing of several doctors saying they were pressured not to include Loft helmets in their tests. . . ”
Coach Paglio waved his hand. “I can’t control what people say, Aurelius. ”
“So you’re saying there’s no truth to these allegations?”
“None. None at all. ”
“So who is this Tamar Rosenfeld, anyway?” Stephen Jones said at a round-table discussion. “It turns out that she knows linebacker Abraham Krasner. They were kids together. Krasner’s taken a bunch of bad falls this season, so not such a surprise she wants to make it out like it’s the equipment’s fault, not his. ”
It was only when I opened my hand to press Stop on the show that I realized my nails had been cutting into the heels of my palms. Dark crescents marked the indentations, but I felt nothing.
I had to get out of the apartment. I couldn’t keep torturing myself by watching interviews that smeared me, or listening in the dark to radio shows that should be talking about averages and line-ups and defenses, but that instead focused on the best of my career.
I showered quickly and threw on jeans and my new coat. There were better ways to spend a Saturday than masochistically, but I hadn’t been able to realize that when my roommates had tried to get me out this morning. Now I was the only person here, with nothing to do. I shot Shoshi a quick text, but when she didn’t answer, I shoved on my boots and headed out the door, pausing only for one last text.