The Wrong Mr. Darcy - Evelyn Lozada Page 0,23

her to come out and give a once-in-a-lifetime interview. An even deeper, more painful struggle was with the demon who breathed life into her deeply rooted insecurities: Who was she to write an important story? She was a nobody. A crappy writer who worked for a small-town rag.

She’d stared at the ceiling and asked herself, over and over, Who am I?

However, each time she asked, she circled back to the fact that the universe had brought her, Hara Isari, to this place and this time and had pointed out, not so subtly, there was something more going on. Now it was up to her to take that opportunity and make something of it. To pull up her big-girl panties and take a leap of faith. I can do this. Who am I? I’m Hara Isari. I don’t back down from the scary things. I can do anything.

But where did she start? She scanned the front page nervously, the thin paper gritty between her fingertips. If another reporter had already picked up the ball she’d dropped last night by not chasing down Charles or Derek … well, maybe she deserved that.

The front page announced the city’s excitement at the Fishers’ game one, as Chicago invaded the Bostonians’ stomping grounds. But there was nothing scandalous about Charles Butler, only hype and hyperbole and Boston pride—Butler was one of their own, a local boy made good. They loved him.

Flipping back to the sports section, she found it was also free of negative stories about Charles, and anyone involved with the team. The wrinkle in Hara’s forehead finally released. The articles in this section tended to be more factual and analytical than the front-page feature. Beat writers reported on the current roster of players, their stats, past performances, and current status. It was clear the town expected big things from Charles, as well as other players, but Derek Darcy was not one of them. The few times the second-year rookie came up, the writers hedged, saying, “We’ll see.”

An article at the bottom of one of the pages caught her eye: “Darcy Family Foundation Opens New Children’s Wing at Mass Gen.” There, below the headline, was a picture of Derek in a fitted tuxedo, alluring even with his brooding countenance. An older woman in a fur coat, who had to be Derek’s mother, was at his side holding an oversize pair of scissors, ready to cut a ribbon. Hara had known Charles was from Boston, but she’d had no idea Derek was as well.

And not just any local. One of the elite. A rich kid on the court. No wonder he acted so sullen—he was used to everything being handed to him. Hara clucked. You had to earn your success at that level of play, no matter where you came from.

She jogged back to the residence, mentally preparing for the game that night, where she’d be working alongside peers. Older, male peers. She had some experience with the misogyny inherent with her job, but this was going to be on a whole new level. But Hara knew she had to earn her own success, and she was ready to put in the hard work. She ran faster, burning off nervous energy.

* * *

Derek threw up ball after ball.

“Dude. Enough. You’re going to wear yourself out.” Charles rebounded the ball, tucked it under his arm.

Hands on his hips, breathing hard, Derek said, “What you’re trying to say, weak sauce, is you tired.”

Charles shot the ball at Derek, a chest pass from five feet away.

“Ow. Dammit. That hurt, motherfucker.”

“Who’s the weak sauce, weak sauce?”

“All right, fine. Just trying to stay focused.” Derek swung his eyes around the stadium; hundreds of early-arrival fans were filing into the tiers of seats.

His friend picked up a ball rolling past and bounced it to Derek, gently this time. “I know. First game since you went out last year. Big night. But you got this.”

I do, Derek thought grimly, dribbling the basketball hard and tight by his foot. I do have this. Now he just needed to prove it to everyone else, but especially his father. “By the way, where’d you go last night? You disappeared. I looked for you to make sure you didn’t need a ride home. And we have a conversation that we need to revisit.”

“Don’t you worry about me, boy-o. I always gotta ride.” His teammate waggled his eyebrows. “And she was fine.”

“Classy.” Derek held the ball. If Charles didn’t want to get into it right then, fine.