My Quarterback Ruined Me on Live TV

"Cole asked for you by name."

Naomi dropped the eight-episode documentary contract onto my editing desk, covering a mattress ad I was cutting for a local lifestyle blog.

"Why me?" I asked, pushing the pages back toward her. "Six months ago, I anchored prime-time segments for the national network. Now, I splice clips for coupon sites. He ruined my career."

"He asked for you specifically," Naomi said. "The network wants a redemption arc. Cole wants you behind the camera."

"He wants to humiliate me on national television."

"He wants to pay you one hundred and twenty thousand dollars," Naomi corrected, tapping the payment clause. "That clears your eighty-four-thousand-three-hundred-dollar legal debt and gets you out of this basement."

I scanned the penalty section. "A four hundred thousand dollar breach fee if I quit. You want to bankrupt me."

"I want you to finish the job. Seventeen days until the championship game. You film his training, his physical therapy, the hotel stays, the private life." Naomi leaned over the monitor. "Sign it, Sloane."

"I am not walking back into that locker room just to be his PR puppet."

"You are walking back in because you have no money," Naomi replied.

I picked up my cracked press badge. Inside the frayed lining sat a 128GB microSD card holding forty-seven minutes of a kitchen argument and raw audio from eleven late-night therapy sessions with Cole.

"Give me a pen," I said.

Thirty minutes later, I stood in the athletic facility lobby beneath a screen looping Cole's denial. I have never used unapproved medication, he said. And I certainly do not have a personal relationship with any network staff.

My termination email from the network had arrived in my inbox exactly nineteen minutes after that live broadcast ended.

"Isn't that the woman who forged his medical records?" a visitor muttered behind me.

"Welcome back to the inner circle, Sloane."

I turned back around. Victor, the team's general manager, stood near the security gates. He wore a sharp navy suit and a tight smile.

"I did not think you would show your face here again," Victor said.

"Naomi sent the contract over," I replied.

"I am glad you are getting a second chance. Especially since I decided against handing your medical portal access logs over to the local police."

"You do not have those logs," I challenged.

"I have enough to make your life difficult." He held out a supplementary document. "Team legal just needs master tape deletion rights. Standard procedure."

"Nothing about this is standard. If you want deletion rights, I need a clause for independent journalist verification. And automatic fifteen-minute remote backups to my private server."

"You are in no position to negotiate," Victor warned.

"Then I do not shoot."

Naomi walked up beside Victor and stamped the page with the production seal. "Just sign it, Victor. We are on a tight schedule."

Victor raised his silver fountain pen to initial the change. The tip hovered over the paper for a full second before he pressed down. He knew I just secured a leash on his control.

"Locker room is open," Victor said, his voice flat.

I hoisted the heavy camera onto my right shoulder and pushed through the double doors. The smell of athletic tape and damp towels hit the air.

Cole stood by his locker. He had just stepped out of the showers, wearing nothing but a white towel low on his hips. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his collarbone. My lens immediately caught the right outer side of his knee. Four fresh puncture marks dotted the skin, surrounded by deep purple bruising.

Jace, the backup quarterback, spotted me first. The easy grin dropped off his face. He nudged the player next to him.

"Is she serious?" Jace asked loudly.

"Look who crawled back," a voice called out from the back row.

"Hide your prescriptions, boys!" another player yelled.

Jeers erupted across the room.

Cole turned around. He looked straight down the barrel of my lens. He took two steps forward, closing the distance between us.

"You've seen this before," Cole said, his voice carrying over the noise. He gestured to his bare chest and the towel. "Do I need to reintroduce it?"

"We are rolling, Cole," I warned.

"I know. That is why I am asking." He took another step. "Are you going to ask me about my routine? Or just stare?"

He wanted to turn our eighteen secret months into a locker room joke and watch me lower the camera.

I kept the red recording light on. I tilted the lens down, zooming in on his leg.

"Please introduce the four new needle marks today," I said loudly.

"What did you just say?" Jace snapped from the corner.

"I asked about the knee," I repeated, keeping the camera steady.

The laughter in the room died instantly. Silence sucked the air out of the space. Cole gripped the edge of his towel, his knuckles turning white.

Tap. Tap.

Victor stood in the glass-walled observation room overlooking the lockers. He knocked his knuckles against the window, his eyes narrowed at Cole.

Cole shifted his stance, angling his broad shoulders to block Victor's line of sight to my camera. He leaned down, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper.

"Do not point that lens at the blue bin," Cole said.

"I film everything," I replied quietly. "That was the deal."

"Sloane, I am warning you. Keep the camera up."

I glanced past his hip. A blue plastic trash can sat near the training table. Two discarded glass vial caps rested on top of the crumpled athletic tape. They matched the color of the unapproved painkiller injections he swore he never touched. I also noticed he kept his right heel slightly elevated, refusing to put his full weight on that bruised knee.

"You are limping," I observed.

"I am fine. Point the camera at my face."

"I need to swap the battery," I said, ignoring his command.

I unclipped the battery pack from the back of the rig. As I shifted my weight, the cracked plastic of my press badge snagged on the metal zipper of my jacket. The rigid casing snapped open.

The tiny black microSD card slipped from the lining and hit the damp rubber floor.

Cole slammed his bare foot down over the memory card.

"What are you doing?" I hissed.

"Saving your neck," he muttered back.

I froze. Victor paced toward the edge of the glass room, trying to see what caused the sudden movement. Cole stared down at me. The arrogant mockery vanished from his features, replaced by raw, unfiltered alarm.

"Move your foot," I demanded.

"Not until he looks away," Cole ordered.

Victor turned his back to answer a phone call.

Cole slowly lifted his heel. The plastic card slid across the wet floor and bumped against my sneaker.

"You actually kept the only original audio," Cole whispered.

"Did you think I would destroy my only leverage?" I asked.

I scooped up the card and closed my fist around it. Cole's eyes stayed on my hand.