Her Secret Fling. Sarah Mayberry
seventy in a few weeks’ time. She already had his present, but asking him what he wanted had become a bit of a ritual for the two of them.
“A pocketful of stardust,” he said. “And one of them fancy new left-handed hammers.”
She smiled. He had a different answer every time, the old bugger.
“Careful what you wish for.”
“Just seeing you will make my day.”
She couldn’t wait to see his face when she gave him her present. She’d had her first gold medal mounted in a frame alongside a photograph of the two of them at the pool when she was six years old. It was her favorite shot of the two of them. He was in the water beside her, his face attentive and gentle as he guided her arms. She was looking up at him, laughing, trusting him to show her how to get it right.
He always had, too. He’d never let her down, not once.
“Love you, Uncle Charlie,” she said.
“Poppy girl, don’t go getting all sentimental on me. Nothing more pitiful than an old man sooking into the phone,” he said gruffly.
They talked a little longer before she ended the call. She lay on the couch for a few minutes afterward, reviewing the day again.
She was proud of herself for standing her ground against Jake Stevens, but she wished she hadn’t had to. The only place she’d ever been aggressive was in the pool. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a stand-up argument with someone.
Just goes to show, you’ve led a sheltered life.
She stood and walked to her bedroom. She was pulling her shirt off when she caught sight of a familiar orange book cover on the bookcase beside her bed. The name Jake Stevens spanned the spine in thick black print.
“Uh-uh, not in my bedroom, buddy,” she said. She picked up The Coolabah Tree with her thumb and forefinger and marched to the kitchen. She dumped the book in the trash can and brushed her hands together theatrically.
“Ha!”
She’d barely gone three paces before her conscience made her swing around. Before she’d met Jake, The Coolabah Tree had been one of her favorite books. His being a jerk didn’t change any of that.
She fished out the book and walked into her living room. She looked around. Where to put it so it wouldn’t bug the hell out of her?
She laughed loudly as an idea hit her. She crossed to the bathroom and put the book amongst the spare toilet-paper rolls she stored in a basket in the corner near her loo.
She was still smiling when she climbed into bed.
“ANYONE WANT A COFFEE?” POPPY ASKED.
Jake didn’t bother looking up from his laptop. There was no way she would bring him a coffee, even if he was stupid enough to ask for one. The three weeks she’d been at the Herald hadn’t changed a thing between them.
“I’m cool,” Davo said.
“White for me,” Hilary said.
Jake glanced over his shoulder as Poppy moved to the back of the press box. The room was buzzing with conversation and suppressed excitement. In ten minutes, the Brisbane Lions and the Hawthorn Hawks would duke it out for the Australian Football League Premiership.
Jake still couldn’t believe that Leonard had assigned the newest, greenest writer on the staff to cover the AFL Grand Final. It was the biggest event in the Australian sporting calendar, bar none. Even The Melbourne Cup didn’t come close. The Herald would dedicate over six pages to the game tomorrow—and Poppy hadn’t even clocked a month with the paper and had only a handful of columns under her belt.
Granted, her articles had been a pleasant surprise. Warm, funny, smart. She needed to loosen up a little, relax into the role. Stop trying so hard. But in general the stories hadn’t been the disaster he’d been anticipating. Which still didn’t make her qualified to be here.
They’d flown into Brisbane two days ago to cover the teams’ last training sessions and interview players before the big event, and he’d been keeping an eye on her. What he’d seen confirmed she was a rookie in every sense of the word. She interviewed players from a list of questions she’d prepared earlier, reading them off the page. She studiously wrote down every word they said. She was earnest, eager, diligent—and way out of her depth. Yesterday, Coach Dickens had brushed her off when she tried to ask him about an injured player. She’d been unable to hide her surprise and hurt at the man’s rude rebuff.
Better toughen up, baby, Jake thought as he watched her wait patiently in the catering line for her chance at the coffee urn. Most journalists would eat their own young for a good story. As for common courtesies such as waiting in line.
As if to demonstrate his point, Michael Hague from the Age sauntered up to the line and slipped in ahead of her, chatting to a colleague already there as though the guy had been saving him a place. Poppy frowned but didn’t say anything.
Jake shook his head. She was too nice. Too squeaky clean from all that swimming and wholesome food and exercise. Even if she developed the goods writingwise, she simply didn’t have the killer instinct a journalist required to get the job done.
He was turning to his computer when she stepped out of line. Hague had just finished filling a cup with coffee and Poppy reached out and calmly took it from his hand. She flashed him a big smile and said something. Jake couldn’t hear what it was, but he guessed she was thanking him for helping her out. Then she calmly filled a second cup for Hilary.
Jake laughed. He couldn’t help it. The look on Hague’s face was priceless. Poppy made her way to their corner, her hard-won coffees in hand. Her gaze found his across the crowded box and he grinned at her and she smiled. Then the light in her eyes died and her mouth thinned into a straight, tight line.
Right. For a second there he’d almost forgotten.
He faced his computer.
He was on her shit list. Which was only fair, since she’d been on his ever since he’d learned about her appointment.
He shook the moment off and focused his attention on the field. The Lions and the Hawks had run through their banners and were lined up at the center of the ground. The Australian anthem began to play, the forty-thousand-strong crowd taking up the tune. The buzz of conversation in the press box didn’t falter, journalists in general being a pack of unpatriotic heathens. On a hunch Jake glanced over his shoulder. As he’d suspected, Poppy’s gaze was fixed on the field and her lips were moving subtly as she mouthed the words to the anthem.
It struck him that of all the journalists here, she was the only one who could even come close to understanding how the thirty-six players below were feeling right now. He had a sudden urge to lean across and ask her, to try and capture the immediate honesty of the moment.
He didn’t. Even if she deigned to answer him, just asking the question indicated that he was softening his stance regarding her appointment. Which he wasn’t.
The song finished and the crowd roared its excited approval as the two teams began to spread out across the field. Jake tensed, adrenaline quickening his blood. He loved the tribalism of football, the feats of reckless courage, the passion in the stands. It was impossible to watch and not be affected by it. Even after hundreds of kickoffs over many years, he still got excited at each and every game. The day he didn’t was the day he would retire, absolutely.
The starting siren echoed and the umpire held the ball high and then bounced it hard into the center of the field. The ruckmen from both teams soared into the air, striving for possession of the ball.
Jake leaned forward, all his attention on the game. Behind him he heard the tap-tap of fingers on a keyboard. He didn’t need to look to know it was Poppy. What in hell she had to write about after just ten seconds of play, he had no idea. Forcing his awareness of her out of his mind, he concentrated on the game.