I find her near the Jet’s quarterback, Ryan Fitzpatrick, who is throwing warm-up balls with Geno Smith. She’s doing a laughably bad job of looking inconspicuous as she twirls her golden hair, leaning forward over a divider so that her cleavage is scandalously visible. She sees me coming and her cheeks flush. She straightens and clears her throat, moving to give me a tight hug.
“Aubs!” she says when her head is nestled in my neck. When anyone else tries to call me that, it boils my blood, but I’ve known Aria for so long that it doesn’t bother me. She’s been calling me Aubs since we were kids.
Her hair smells like the vanilla sugar scent she loves so much. I give her a knowing smile. “Getting any inspiration?” I ask.
She pulls back from the hug, cheeks getting even more red. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m just trying to stay out of the way and enjoy the on-field experience my best friend in the world got for me.”
I smile wider, looking over my shoulder at the quarterbacks. “He does have a nice ass.”
“Don’t you have reporting to do?” she asks.
I’m about to answer when something catches my eye.
Two men in suits emerge from one of the VIP access doors, strolling across the field, looking incredibly out of place, not because of their clothing necessarily, there are plenty of business types on the field who are executives working for the stadium or the team owners. They are out of place because of the way they carry themselves. There’s no false bravado to them like I see in so many wealthy businessmen, the sort of manufactured stride that is wide and attention-seeking. These men strut across the field, looking at ease in their expensive suits and backhanding each other’s chests as they exchange jokes. They make me think of mobsters I’ve seen in movies.
I watch closely as they get the attention of one of the Jets players on the sideline. After exchanging a few words, they all walk back toward the VIP entrance together.
The investigative journalist in me can sense a story from a mile away. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s big, and I know it’s dirty, maybe even the kind of story that launches careers. Aria sees the look in my eye and follows my gaze. She gives me a level look, shaking her head slowly.
“Aubs, no. You can’t always go chasing people around and snooping. Especially not now. You may not think so, but you have a really fucking good job. Besides, those guys look like criminals or something.”
I put my hands on her shoulders and meet her eyes. “I’ll be like...two minutes. No more. I just want to check it out.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Two minutes?”
“Two minutes,” I promise.
“If I have to come after you, I’m not going to be happy,” she says, casting a glance toward the quarterbacks again.
I move as fast as I can in my heels to where the men in suits and the player just went. I think that was Ronnie White, the star wide receiver, but I was too caught up to notice his numbers. Once I’m sure no one is looking, I let myself in the door.
There’s a long hallway inside lined with air-conditioned rooms. I move slowly, trying not to look suspicious and probably doing a terrible job. The place seems deserted though, so I keep moving down the hallway, listening hard for any sign of them.
Then I hear voices, to my surprise, one of the doors is ajar. I creep closer, looking through the crack. I can see a Jets uniform and someone’s back. He’s wearing a suit and talking in low, threatening tones.
“...made a fuckin’ deal. You do not want to piss him off.” It’s one of the men in suits talking. He has a slight italian accent and a cocky lilt to his voice.
I can see the football player’s numbers now. Number seven. Holy shit. That’s Ronnie White, one of the top ten players in the entire NFL. If he’s involved with something, the story could be huge. Gigantic.
Ronnie rubs the back of his neck, pacing around the small but well-furnished room. “I just don’t know. Coach has been like a father to me lately. I don’t know, man.”
“You know what I fuckin’ know? You don’t follow through with the promise you made us, and you’ll fuckin’ regret it.”
Ronnie’s eyes harden and he looks toward the man in the suit. “I can find the money. Just let me play out the next few games and I’ll get the money.”
The man in the suit wags a finger. “That wasn’t the deal. Two hundred large if you help your team lose. Simple as fuckin’ pie, Ronnie.”
“I just can’t do it. I can’t let my team down. I thought I could, but…”
A new voice speaks this time and I realize there must have been a third man waiting in the room. I see him pass into my view through the crack and I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep from gasping out loud.