“I’ll try.”
Marge grinned. “I love confidence in a woman.” She smacked Elizabeth on the back so hard she stumbled sideways. “Are you still here? You ought to be home painting. Now, git.”
In the past five days, Jack had been in six cities, and every moment in each of those cities had been a blitz. He’d interviewed Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr., Randy Johnson, Shawn Kemp, and Brian Bosworth.
When the interviews were finished, he spent another three days in the editing room, working the narration and music into the one-hour special he’d titled: Breakable Gods.
He’d loved every minute of it.
“You and Sally did a hell of a job,” Tom Jinaro said, leaning back in his chair. “You were right to hire her. She’s a pistol.”
“Thanks.” Jack had been confident coming into this meeting. He knew his special was a virtuoso blend of news and entertainment. He’d dared to expose himself emotionally on camera, just enough to humanize the story. He’d admitted how difficult it had been to be forgotten by a city that had once adored him. Alex and Ken had been honest, too, admitting how much it had hurt to be vilified by their former fans. Brian talked convincingly about being forgotten.
Tom leaned forward again. “I’ve been in this business a long time. I’ve seen people come and go—mostly go. But you’re the real deal. I’ve never seen anyone shoot up the ladder quicker. I had Mark produce your special because he’s the best we have. Honestly, I didn’t think you were ready for this sort of thing, but he tells me you were as good as anyone he’s ever worked with.”
“Thanks,” Jack said again.
“So, what do you want?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question. What do you want? The Fox NFL Sunday show? Your own interview hour? A book deal? What?”
“You know what I was doing three months ago, Tom? Begging for a job on a low-rent regional sports show—and I didn’t get it.” He let that image sink in. “You hired me when I was in the gutter, professionally. You took a chance on me; believe me, I won’t forget that.”
Tom smiled tiredly. “You’ll mean to remember it, but after a while, you’ll start racking up offers, and then you’ll think about your age, and your agent will tell you to make hay while the sun shines. It’s how the game is played.” He leaned forward. “What I’m going to tell you now can’t leave this room. If it does, I’ll know it was you.”
“What is it?”
“One of the guys is quitting NFL Sunday. One of the big four. I can’t tell you which one. But we’re looking at you to fill that slot for next year.”
The only show bigger was Monday Night Football.
Jack drew in a sharp breath, savoring the moment.
“Thanks.” It was all he could say. Any more and he might start laughing.
“It’s not for sure.” Tom grinned. “But it’s damn close to that. So, let me give you some advice, man to man. You had a bad-boy image in the NFL and it doesn’t look to me like you’ve changed. I hear you practically live at Kel’s pub.”
Jack started to disagree, but Tom stopped him with a laugh.
“Save the denials for your curiously absent wife. I don’t care what you do offscreen as long as it doesn’t hurt our ratings. But you know what it’s like when the tabloids turn on you. Opportunities can vanish in an instant. Stay away from drugs and DUIs and underage women.”
“Don’t worry. Nothing is going to derail me this time. I’m older and wiser.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, get going. Talk to Steve in postproduction. I want you and Mark to redub the music. The opening score sounds like the music they played at my aunt Rose’s funeral. And there’s a bad cut on the Randy Johnson segment.”
“Thanks. When do you think we can air it?”
“Sweeps week. I’ll set up with Marion to run a series of promo spots. We’ll want to shoot them ASAP.”
Jack left the office and went straight to the editing room, where he and Mark Lackoft spent the next ten hours examining and refining every split second of footage. By the time he was finished, Breakable Gods was worthy of a damned award.
Although he was exhausted and starving, he couldn’t remember when he’d felt so good. He left the office and walked home, strutting like Tony Manero. He could practically hear “Stayin’ Alive” playing in his head.
“Hey, Billy!” he called out to the doorman as he strode through the lobby and rode the elevator to his floor.
He opened his door and walked into the apartment. He almost yelled, Birdie, I’m home, but stopped himself just in time.
The apartment was as quiet as a tomb. No candle scented the air, no music had been turned on, no aromatic dinner pulled him toward the kitchen.
Disappointment poked a hole in his good mood. He hadn’t realized how lonely success could be if you had no one to share it with.