Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

BLAKE

"I moved to Chicago to cover sports," I remind my boss with a death glare. "You know, the Bulls, the Bears, the Cubs?" The Blackhawks, the Sox, the Windy City Thunderbolts … If a ball or puck is involved, I'm all over it.

"That was the plan," Gillian says, still typing away on her computer like my presence is of no consequence whatsoever. When I first interviewed for this job, I thought Gillian was a total bombshell—all sleek and sophisticated without a single hair out of place. While not my normal type, she made such an impression I considered venturing beyond the LA standard of bleach blonde, fake tan, and often more than one surgically altered feature . It wasn't until I saw a wedding picture on my new boss's desk that I realized she wasn't looking.

Widening my stance like a boxer squaring off with his opponent, I respond, "That was not the plan, Gillian. That was the job I was offered."

She continues to click on the keyboard for several moments before deigning to look up. "I agree that was the job you thought you got, but what can I say? Things change. "

I'm so boiling mad right now I feel like I'm standing on the Vegas Strip at high noon in the middle of an August scorcher. I inhale slowly, and on the exhale tell her, "I left LA to cover Chicago sports. I'm a sportswriter. It's what I do and why you hired me."

She finally lifts her fingers from the keyboard before pushing her chair back from the desk. With one well-manicured hand, she gestures for me to sit down. "Blake," she sounds like she's talking to a preschooler, which I find highly condescending, "we had a little bit of a snafu when Charlie decided he didn't want to retire until basketball season was over."

Not only is Charlie Clark a legend in sports journalism, he's also a hometown hero. He played for the NBA for a record twenty years before retiring. Yet, as much as I respect the guy, I can't help but say, "I don't see how that's my problem."

"I understand your confusion." I'm sorry you wet your pants, and I'll call your mommy to pick you up if you need me to.

"My contract states quite clearly what my job title is," I remind her.

"And that's the job you're going to have when Charlie retires."

"In April …"

She shrugs her slim shoulders while simultaneously executing a disdainful eye roll. How did I ever find this woman attractive? " Which is four months away. Being that you're already on the payroll, I've decided to give you other assignments until you step into Charlie's shoes."

Dropping into the chair across from her, I run my hands through my hair like I'm endeavoring to rip it out. "By sending me to some lodge in Wisconsin to interview the Midwestern Matchmaker?"

"Partially," she says cryptically.

Trina Rockwell used to star on a show called Midwestern Matchmaker before it got cancelled. Then she and her fiancé, Heath Fox, opened a lodge in the town where they fell in love. Now she's apparently hosting dating encounters to match singles en masse.

"Gillian, I don't cover crap like dating getaways for the hopelessly lonely and unattached. I'm not a romance writer."

She raises one arched eyebrow so high it nearly hits her hairline. "The thing you need to ask yourself, Blake, is how you want to start out this job. Do you want to be thought of as a team player or do you want to set yourself apart as a troublemaker?"

"I'm not the troublemaker, Gillian. I'm just the guy who wants to do the work he's been hired to do."

Her expression relaxes to the point where she almost looks pleasant. I'm not buying it. "I'm a newspaper editor who needs her staff to be willing to step outside the box if that's what the paper requires."

"You think Chicago Wind needs an exposé on a dating getaway in Wisconsin?" I try my darndest to make sure my tone conveys every ounce of contempt I'm feeling.

"Yes, Blake. This kind of thing is why we created the Windy Season circular. Chicagoans want to know the dish on all thing social. And being that you're our shiny recruit from the West Coast, you're the guy for the job."

I can't seem to stop myself from asking, "Because I have a tan? You don't have very high standards, do you?"

"You're the man for the job because you're currently the only single person without a permanent assignment." Smack. Down.

While I could go on pleading my case for the next hour (day … month …) I know it won't do any good. I can either walk away from my dream of writing about the sports teams I grew up with, or I can do this favor in hopes of garnering the best possible work environment. "What does the assignment entail?" I sound as though I'm accepting a death sentence.

"Two weeks in Elk Lake, Wisconsin. You'll be back by Christmas Eve."

"You just want me to interview people about their experience? Ask them what they think of the event and all? "

She shakes her blonde hair from side-to side, making it look like a silk curtain swaying in the breeze. "No one can know you're a reporter."

"Excuse me?" Wait a minute, she just said I was the only single person on staff without a permanent assignment. She can't mean … "You can't possibly want me to pretend I'm one of the singles being set up?" Please don't mean that.

The slow smile that crosses Gillian's mouth makes my blood run cold. "I'm not interested in dating right now. I've only just come out of a serious relationship." I don't mention that relationship ended three years ago.

"You don't have to marry anyone."

"I don't have to date anyone, either. I'm not a piece of meat for you to pimp out for the entertainment of your readership."

"That's unnecessarily harsh, Blake. All you have to do is be social. Act like you're interested, then write about your experience and let other singles know whether you think this getaway is a worthwhile endeavor."

I feel like I did that time my parents told us we were going to Disneyland, and we wound up at some county fair in Kentucky. It wasn't their fault our alternator broke, and they couldn't get a new one for three days, but I still felt duped. Taking one last stab at freedom, I ask, "How in the world am I supposed to go to a bunch of singles' events without people knowing who I am? They'll suspect I'm writing about them."

Gillian looks confused. "Why? Who are you?"

Is she purposely being obtuse? "I'm a well-known sportswriter from Los Angeles."

She snorts disdainfully. "Nobody in Chicago cares about LA. In fact, I think it's safe to say that nobody in Chicago even knows who you are."

Ouch. "I did grow up here," I remind her.

She smirks before scooting her chair back under her desk. "If you see your parents or childhood friends up in Elk Lake, tell them to pretend they don't know you. But don't you dare tell anyone else who you are or why you're there or you may not have the job you came here for." She starts typing again like she didn't just threaten my livelihood.

I don't move for what feels like an hour, although I'm sure it's only a couple of minutes. I just sit there staring at my boss like she's a newly discovered life form from another planet. It isn't until she picks up her phone and makes a call that I realize she's done talking to me.

Standing up slowly, I force my unhinged jaw to close. Meanwhile, Gillian spins her chair around and starts to talk to the person she just called. What just happened here? Have I really just been sent to Elk Lake, Wisconsin, for a dating getaway?

As I walk out of the office, I fantasize about moving back to LA. The only reason I left was to fulfill a childhood dream of reporting on my hometown teams. But what if Charlie decides to hang on for another year, or ten? God knows what hellacious crap I might have to put up with then.

Once I'm out on the street, I hail a passing taxi and take it back to my apartment in Wrigleyville—a neighborhood so named for its proximity to Wrigley Field. Talk about serendipity. I knew the minute I found it that my move home was meant to be. Now I'm not so sure.

By the time the cab turns onto West Addison Street, I've reluctantly accepted my fate. And while I'm about to spend two weeks in snowy Wisconsin, that doesn't mean I have to like it. It also doesn't mean I'm going to write the kind of articles Gillian expects me to.

I'm not overly hopeful a miracle will occur that will help make this trip bearable, but I'm not opposed to a little divine intervention. If such a thing exists.