“Huh. Anyway, I think by the submission this is going to be detailed, which is great, but what if some of the terminology or game play is wrong?”
“Why don’t you go to a game? We have a team here.”
“I’m not sure that would help me understand the game. Like what does a tackle mean? Or a sack? Those were two words she used.”
“Seasoned or new author?”
“New. Otherwise, I might let it go. I like the concept though, a lot.”
“Oh!” Basha’s dark eyes widen. “What if you interview the team or something?”
“Like an on-the-field reporter?”
“Sort of, I guess. I’m thinking more like the coach or someone giving you a crash course in all things football.”
Hmm. “I like that idea a lot, actually. I wonder how I’d set that up?”
“Check with Valentine. I bet she can figure it out for you.”
“I’ll go see her after I fill this mug up.” I rinse the yogurt cup and put it in the correct recycle bucket. “Thanks, Basha.”
“Of course. Let me know how it goes.” Basha exits the breakroom, leaving me there with my thoughts. I like the idea of being on the field or whatever. Firsthand knowledge is better than anything Google is going to give me.
After I fill my mug, I head to the other end of the floor, where our superhuman publicist, Valentine Geis, sits. She’s typing frantically on her keyboard and bobbing to whatever she’s listening to through her headphones. I stand in front of her cubicle to avoid scaring the crap out of her by tapping on her shoulder.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asks after removing her headphones.
“Any chance you can set me up with an in-depth tour with the football team?” I fill her in on why.
“Which one?”
“We have more than one?”
Valentine laughs and nods. “Professional, college, and high school. Take your pick.”
“Oh,” I say, letting the “oh” linger a bit longer than I should. “Definitely professional. If not, any of the colleges would be fine.”
“Let me see what I can do. I’ll let you know. Is there a timeline?”
“The sooner the better. I’d like to get back to this agent and author soon. The story has a ton of potential, but for my peace of mind, I want my ducks in a row before I take it to Kit and Jonathan.”
“You got it. I’ll email you.”
“Thanks, Valentine.”
I head back to my desk and pull out one of my many red pens to start an edit on a project, only to have my email flash a few minutes later.
From: Valentine Geis <[email protected]>
To: Kelsey Sloane <[email protected]>
Subject: Today, 4:30
Kelsey,
Bud Walter, the coach of the Portland Pioneers, says you’re welcome to attend practice today, if you’re free. He’ll have a player available for you to speak with after, as well.
Let me know and I’ll confirm.
Valentine
Relief washes over me. I send my reply to Valentine and then minutes later she has all the information I need and tells me I’m going to meet with Myles, Coach Walter’s assistant. She also writes that Myles is a flirt and doesn’t hold back with his oversharing.
The rest of the day drags on. I’m nervous and excited. Learning and experiencing something new is always high on my list of things to do, but this might be the most over-the-top thing I have ever done. Most would take an author’s word for it or have a fact checker read over the story. I’m not most. I want firsthand knowledge of what I’m reading about. It gives the story a different feel.
Outside, I hail a cab and tell the driver where I’m going. The stadium is only a few blocks away, which I could’ve easily walked. But the parking lot stretches on forever. And ever. I swear it takes us longer to drive to the entrance of the stadium than it took to get to the gate.
There’s a man waiting at the door for me and smiles as I approach. “Hello, are you Ms. Sloane?”
“Yes, please call me Kelsey.” We shake hands.
“I’m Myles. I’m Coach Walter’s assistant.”
“Oh, you’re one of the coaches?” I open the Notes app on my phone and start typing.
“No, I’m on the office side of things,” he tells me as he leads me through the empty concourse. “I take care of everything, aside from anything that has to do with coaching. There’s a whole other staff for that.”
“Got it. Is this place always so empty?”
“Until the night before a game and game day. Then it’s a madhouse. All our offices are on the top floor, with a view of the field. There’s more life up there,” he laughs as he presses the button on the elevator panel. “So, you’re writing a story?”
“No, not me, but it’s a potential story. I’m an acquisitions editor at Willamette Publishing. A submission came across my desk this morning about football, and I don’t have a clue about the game, so I thought I’d poke around a bit.”
“Gotcha. Well, let’s start with the tour upstairs and then I’ll take you over to the practice field.”
“There’s more than one field?”
Myles nods. “The grounds have a stadium, a practice field, as well as a field house with an indoor field. During the preseason, fans can come watch practices and scrimmages. During the off season, we allow people and other organizations to rent the space. It’s great for conferences, and we have the parking to host large events.”
“What else happens at the stadium?”
“A lot of concerts during the summer months. Conventions. You name it.”
I type out the information on the stadium, even though I might not need it. It’s still nice to have and might be something we can use in the future.
Despite the crappy weather, the team is outside practicing. Myles points out the offensive and defensive players, the quarterback, and the coaching staff. My fingers type rapidly, trying to keep up with everything he says. I’m hyper-focused on the quarterback and the lowdown Myles is giving me about him. I press record on my phone and film the action, only to drop my device at the sound of bodies crashing into each other.
“Let me grab that for you.” Myles hands me my phone. Thankfully, the screen didn’t scratch or crack.
“Was that a tackle?”
“Yes, but there’s more than meets the eye when it comes to a tackle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, the offensive linemen are trying to block the defensive linemen from getting to the quarterback, while the defensive backs are ready to tackle the offensive player down the field.”
“Oh my, this is complicated.”
“Come on, let’s go out onto the field. If I can be honest with you, it’s my favorite place to be.”
“Why’s that?”
“As odd as it may sound, I love feeling the thunder under my feet. Just wait.”
The whistle blows again, and the same thing happens with the quarterback yelling, and then I get it. The players running together feel like thunder, and the crunch of them hitting each other reverberates and causes me to shiver.