"It's not like you can't handle something like that with your sports reporting and copy editing," Harry offered.
"Someone else is
doing the sports reporting. Big-shot new owner has a whole staff to cover four
counties, so he doesn't want to inconvenience poor little me. Make me go to
sporting events where I might be so depressed, seeing all those athletes in
action while confined to my wheelchair. Can we say Tiny Tim syndrome?"
"So… Are we going
to get any new material about the boss from h-e-double-hockey-sticks?" he
murmured, and very carefully didn't look at me.
"You might. If I
don't invest in voodoo dolls or a Mafia contract, first." I caught sight
of the Golden Arches too late to get into the curb lane to pull in. The guys
didn't seem to notice.
"So the bozo
took away your sports column. Not a smart move. Having you write romantic
advice is like—" Pete snickered and slid over in his seat, to protect his
knees.
"Like having me
for a track coach? I've been a track coach. And even though I haven't had a
date since… Okay, longer than I want to remember. I can still give advice to
idiots who think a stranger can help them when they can't seem to find their
common sense with both hands!" I narrowly missed pounding the horn,
sparing the guy in the rustbucket Ford in front of us a heart attack.
"So tell us what
you really think." Harry dug in his pocket for his phone. "Mancuso's
for pickup?"
"You got it. The
usual, please."
Now that I had gotten
the bad news out in the open, and the guys gave me their usual teasing
sympathy, my appetite was coming back. Extra-thick pizza, onions, olives,
marinara sauce and garlic, with cheesecake on the side. It might not give me a
good night's sleep, but it would go a long way toward soothing the ache in my
soul.
I had a good record
on the track and on the basketball court in high school and college, and had
proven myself as a part-time sports stringer for the Tattler. It hadn't
been pity that prompted Conrad Severidge to give me the sports beat. Or let me
keep it after I turned my back into modern art. I had proven myself. (Okay, it
also helped that I introduced him to his wife. And let him marry her. Hey, she
was my college roommate.) So why did it look like pity in Daniel Sheridan's
eyes, when he gave me my unwanted new assignment?
I wanted to strangle
someone. I wanted to leave tire tracks up the back of his designer suit and
skid marks across his too-handsome face. I entertained myself with thoughts of
what Felicity and Kurt could do to make Sheridan's life miserable, once they
found out about this afternoon's development. A certain rich boy might soon
find himself in some pretty unhappy, peculiar, embarrassing situations. It was
good to have friends who knew what would make me happy, even though I didn't
have the guts to defy how my parents raised me and do it for myself.
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