The Thrill of Victory Read online

  The Thrill of Victory

  Sandra Brown

  Sandra Brown

  The Thrill of Victory

  "Ramsey is out for your butt, Mackie."

  The gopher, who had met the star sportswriter of the Dallas Tribune at the elevator, fell into step behind him as he walked toward the city room of Dallas' largest newspaper. Judd Mackie was unfazed by the threat of being out of favor with the Tribune's managing editor. He made a beeline for the coffee machine. Its brew was so viscous, so black, he'd often joked that they used the leftovers to fill in the cracks on North Central Expressway.

  "Mackie, did you hear me?"

  "I heard you, I heard you, Addison. Got a quarter?"

  The pockets of his slacks-expensive, but hopelessly wrinkled-hadn't produced the cor rect amount of change for the vending machine.

  He was notorious for never carrying money. It was ludicrous that he was bumming from a guy whose age and income were a fraction of his.

  "Ramsey's fit to be tied," the gopher said in an ominous undertone as he passed his idol a handful of coins.

  "He usually is." Mackie watched a Styrofoam cup fill with coffee whose only virtue was that it was scalding and as darkly opaque as the sunglasses he still had on, though he'd been inside the building a full five minutes.

  As he sipped barely diluted caffeine from the disposable cup, the lenses of his glasses fogged over, reminding him they were there. He took them off and dropped them into the breast pocket of his jacket, which wasn't any more dapper than his slacks. His eyelids were puffy; the whites of his eyes were rivered with red.

  "He told me to catch you at the elevator and personally escort you to his office."

  "He must really be steamed. What'd I do this time?" Judd asked with disinterest. Michael Ramsey was perpetually steamed at him. From one day to the next the extent of his wrath was only a matter of degree.

  'I'll let him tell you. You coming peaceably?" the gopher asked worriedly.

  Judd took pity on him. "Lead on."

  Addison Something or other was an intern who worked part-time between his journalism classes at Southern Methodist University. During the boy's first day on the job, Judd had passed him a rumpled handkerchief he'd fished from an even more rumpled pocket and jokingly suggested that the eager student use it to dry behind his ears.

  But when Addison had looked wounded, Judd had slapped him on the back, said he'd meant no offense, and offered the best advice he could give someone who aspired to a journalistic career, which was to reconsider.

  "The hours are long, the pay lousy, the working conditions abysmal and the best you can hope for is that whatever you've written gets read before the dog chews it up or the bird craps on it or the housewife wraps chicken guts in it."

  Addison was still around, so apparently he hadn't taken the jaded sports reporter's words to heart. Judd would have continued to rebuke Addison's idealism if he hadn't remembered a time when he himself had had stars in his eyes about a career.

  The stars had gone out long ago, but on occasion, usually when he was deep into his cups, he remembered what it felt like to have a burning ambition for greatness. So he let the cub go on dreaming his dreams. He'd find out for himself that life played dirty tricks.

  It was midmorning and the city room was a beehive of activity. Reporters at word-processing terminals clicked away on their keyboards. Some had telephone receivers tucked beneath their chins. Messengers hustled among the desks, which were already stacked with packages and mail as yet unopened.

  Then there were those individuals simply hanging out, smoking, sipping canned drinks or coffee, waiting for something newsworthy to happen or, short of that, divine inspiration.

  "…the Arabs. But then Israel-hi, Judd- wouldn't do…"

  "So I said to her, 'Look I want my keys back!

  Hi, Judd. To which she said…"

  "…mea quote. Hi, Judd. Somebody's got to stick his neck out and go on the record about this thing."

  Popular with his cohorts, he nodded greetings as he followed Addison through the maze of

  The Thrill of Victory 11 desks, then down a carpeted hallway toward the managing editor's office.

  "There you are," his secretary said in exasperation.

  "Since we don't have a militia, he was about to send me in search of you. Thanks, Addison.

  You can get back to whatever you were doing before Mr. Ramsey summoned you."

  The gopher seemed reluctant to leave just when the fireworks were about to start. But Ramsey's secretary was almost as indomitable as the boss himself. He ambled away.

  "Hi, doll. What's up?" Judd tossed his empty cup into the nearest wastepaper basket. "Pour me a cup of the real stuff, will you?"

  Propping her fists on her hips, the secretary asked, "Do I look like a waitress?"

  Judd winked and gave her the leisurely, miss-nothing once-over that rarely failed to make points toward a big score. "You look like a million bucks." He sauntered through the connecting door before she could retaliate against either his blatant sexism or ingratiating compliment.

  Inside the door, Judd was greeted by the noxious fumes left by the first two of the four packs of cigarettes Michael Ramsey would smoke that day. He had one cigarette smoldering in an ash tray and another in his mouth when Judd strolled in.

  "It's about time." His face was florid with rage.

  Judd flopped into a leather chair and crossed his ankles in front of him. "For what?"

  "Don't get cute with me, Mackie. You've really blown it this time."

  Ramsey's secretary came in bearing the requested cup of coffee, brewed in her personal coffee maker. Judd thanked her with a smile and another suggestive glance that she knew, and regretted, was meaningless.

  After she withdrew, Ramsey exhaled a veritable thundercloud of acrid smoke. "You missed the biggest tennis story of the year."

  Judd burned his tongue on the coffee and choked on a laugh. "Tennis! You're all red in the face over a tennis story? Geez, as high as your blood pressure is, I thought the Cowboys must've declared bankruptcy. What happened, did McEnroe call the line judge a naughty name?"

  "Stevie Corbett collapsed during her morning match at Lobo Blanco."

  Judd's grin fell. His attention and his mirth were instantly arrested. He held the coffee cup, real china, against his lips and gazed at Ramsey over the patterned rim. Ramsey ground out the cigarette in the ashtray, took a final drag on the one presently in his mouth, then haphazardly flicked the ashes toward the overflowing ceramic bowl on his desk.

  "What do you mean collapsed?"

  "Well, now that's what we don't know because we didn't have anybody out there covering the story," Ramsey replied sweetly. "Our overpaid, star reporter was sleeping in this morning."

  "Cut the sarcasm, alright? So I overslept. Big deal. What'd Miss Corbett do, trip and fall over her braid?"

  "No, she didn't trip. Thankfully the photographer showed up even if you didn't. He said she 'collapsed.'"

  "Like fainted?"

  "Like dropped down and folded up into a little heap on the court."

  "Terrible phraseology."

  Ramsey's face went darker red. "If you'd been there, you could have phrased it yourself."

  'It wasn't necessary for me to be there," Judd said in his own defense. "Corbett was a cinch to beat that Italian girl."

  "Well, she didn't. She had to forfeit the match. She's out of the tournament." ' 'On the heels of her winning the French Open, this one was a shoo-in. She was playing more as a courtesy than anything. I was going to catch some of the more interesting matches this afternoon."

  "When you came to terms with your hangover,"

  Ramsey said balefully. "As it is, you missed reporting o
n Stevie Corbett's collapse in front of a huge hometown crowd that got up early and fought rush-hour traffic to watch her play while you were still tucked in."

  "What's the word on the street?"

  "Nothing. Her manager read a statement to the press. It amounted to three sentences that don't tell us a damn thing."

  "Which hospital is she in?" Judd was already mentally compiling a list of reliable sources in the medical community who would squeal on their own mothers if the money was green enough.

  "She isn't."

  "Isn't in the hospital?" The adrenaline rushing through his system ebbed. His quick brain applied the brakes and threw everything into reverse.

  He coughed another rough laugh and took another drink of the coffee he'd set aside and forgotten. "Leave it to you to blow this all out of proportion, Mike. Cute little Stevie probably had a rough night. As I did."

  Ramsey shook his head adamantly. "She had to be carried off the court. This was more than a rough night." He pinned Judd to the chair with a hard stare. ' 'You're going to find out what it was… before anyone else does. And you're going to be playing catch-up ball because the story has already been reported on the radio. Didn't you hear it while you were driving in?"

  Judd shook his head. "I didn't turn on the radio.

  Headache."

  "Figures. Here." Ramsey took a tin of aspirin out of the lap drawer of his desk and tossed it to his most intuitive, incisive reporter, who also happened to be the most exasperating. He kept the stock of aspirin for Judd alone.

  "Take three of them, all of them, whatever it takes to get yourself in shape and on the phone or out beating the bushes, but find out what brought on Stevie Corbett's collapse." He jabbed the space between them with his current cigarette.

  "I want your story in time for the evening edition."

  Judd glanced at his watch. "I kinda had this lunch, uh, thing, set up."

  "Cancel."

  "No," Judd drawled as he lazily rolled out of the chair, "that won't be necessary. I'll just call the young lady and move our date to mid afternoon.

  By then I'll have this Corbett story sewn up and ready to go to press."

  At the door, he gave Ramsey a mocking salute.

  "You know, Mike, if you don't calm down, you're going to die young."

  He left the door standing open. Everyone in the city room heard Mike Ramsey call Judd a name that flattered neither him nor his mother.

  Oh, my Lord, you."

  Stevie Corbett slumped against her front door, which she had just pulled open. She was wearing a short kimono-style robe that overlapped across her chest and was tied with a self-belt at her waist. The light green silk looked as cool and fresh as a ripe honeydew melon.

  The details of her attire were noticed by the sportswriter, her nemesis, and the last person on earth she wanted to talk to at that moment.

  "I thought you were somebody else," she said.

  "Obviously. Who's the lucky dog you were expecting?" His voice was heavily spiced with insinuation.

  "My doctor is sending over some medication.

  I thought you were the delivery boy."

  "That's what peepholes are for," Judd reminded her, tapping the small round hole in the door.

  "I didn't think to look."

  "Got your mind on other things, huh?"

  She glanced beyond his wide shoulders, hoping for a glimpse of the expected pharmaceutical delivery. "Yes."

  "Like making a fool of yourself at Lobo

  Blanco Tennis Center this morning."

  Her eyes snapped back to his. "As usual, Mr.

  Mackie, your choice of words is inflammatory and incorrect."

  "Not from the way I hear it."

  "The way you hear it? You weren't there?"

  She drew a sad face. "What a pity. You would have tremendously enjoyed my humiliation."

  He smiled and the lines in his tanned face deepened. "I'm graciously volunteering my shoulder for you to cry on. Why don't you invite me in and tell me all about it?"

  "Why don't you go straight to hell?" In contrast to her words, her smile was positively angelic.

  "You can read about my ignominious fall in your competitor's column."

  "I don't have a competitor."

  "Nor do you have any modesty, or scruples, or talent, or taste/'

  He whistled. "That tumble you took this morning did nothing to improve your rotten disposition."

  "I have a lovely disposition around everybody except you. And why should I? I'm not a hypocrite. Why should I be pleasant to the columnist who writes scathing articles about me?"

  "My readership expects me to be acerbic," he said blandly. "My acid wit is my trademark just like this single long, blond braid is yours." He reached out and ran his fingers over the plaited strands, starting at her shoulder and following it down to the curve of her breast.

  Stevie slapped his hand away and tossed the heavy, thick braid over her shoulder. "I ducked the press today. How did you slip past?"

  "I know who to bribe for home addresses and such. Why are you ducking the press?"

  "I don't feel well, Mr. Mackie. I certainly don't feel like swapping insults with you. If I'd known you were on the other side of my door, I Ј| certainly would never have opened it. Please leave."

  One question?"

  "Why did you faint?'

  "Goodbye."

  She slammed the door in his face, almost catching the hem of his jacket in the crack. For a moment, she rested her forehead against the wood. Judd Mackie of all people! Only yesterday his column had made snide mention of her playing in the tournament at Lobo Blanco.

  "This writer can only wonder what the fashion-conscious Ms. Corbett, who recently got lucky at the French Open, will wear to dazzle her adoring hometown fans," he had written. "If only her backhand had as much swing as her cute little skirts."

  For years, since she'd become a top-seeded player, Mackie had taken potshots like that at her. If she won, he credited luck for the victory.

  If she lost, he cruelly elaborated on the reasons why.

  Sometimes he was painfully correct in his observations.

  Those were the times she resented his columns most. He never had a charitable word to say about her either as a person or as an athlete.

  Lately, however, she hadn't given his poison pen much room to maneuver. She'd been win ning-most recently The French Open, which had put her halfway to getting the Grand Slam.

  Next, Wimbledon. Wimbledon?

  Where the very word usually generated expectation and excitement, it now evoked foreboding.

  Right now, Judd Mackie was the least of her problems.

  Absently she laid her hand over her abdomen and headed toward the kitchen to brew herself a cup of tea. Sometimes drinking something warm made her feel better.

  No sooner had she filled the kettle again and set it on the heating burner than her doorbell rang again. This time she wisely used the peephole, but saw through it only the distorted, fisheye view of a prescription bottle. She opened the door.

  Judd Mackie was still lounging against the doorjamb, idly shaking the brown plastic bottle of pills in front of the peephole.

  Stevie uttered an exclamation of outrage and surprise. "How did you manage that?"

  "With a five-dollar bill and my sincere promise to hand-deliver the prescription. I passed myself off as your concerned brother."

  "And he believed you?"

  "I have no idea. He took the money and ran.

  Smart fellow. Now are you going to ask me in?"

  Sighing with resignation, she stepped aside.

  For several moments after the door closed behind him, they stood regarding each other closely. For all the name-calling and backbiting that had gone on between them over the years, this was the first time they'd ever been alone together.

  Well, there had been that one time years ago in Stockholm, but they hadn't exactly been alone and Stevie doubted that he even remembered.

  He was t
aller than he looked from a distance, she realized. Their paths often crossed at local sporting or social or charity events. Sometimes he even waved at her from afar, cheerfully waggling his fingers in a smart-alecky manner that never failed to set her teeth on edge.

  Perhaps it was his clothing, which could be described as "casual" at best, that made him appear shorter. With him standing this close, however, she was surprised to discover that her eyes were on a level with his collarbone. She hadn't remembered until he removed his sunglasses that his eyes were hazel-heavy on the gray.

  She reached for the bottle of pills. He held them above his head of unruly chestnut hair and out of her reach. "Mr. Mackie!"

  "Ms. Corbett!"

  The teakettle suddenly whistled shrilly as though ending a round on an impasse. She turned on her bare heel and marched toward the kitchen. He followed her through the wide, airy rooms of her condominium.

  "Nice place."

  "For a writer that's extremely trite," she said, pouring boiling water over the tea bag in the mug. "Would you like some herbal tea and honey?"

  He winced with disgust. "How about a Bloody Mary?"

  "I'm fresh out of Bloody Marys."

  "A Coke?"

  "Diet?"

  "Fine. Thanks."

  She spooned honey into her tea and took a couple of sips before fixing his cold drink. When she passed it to him, he asked, "Tummy ache?"

  "No, why?"

  'My mother used to make me drink tea whenever I was recovering from a pukey bout with a stomach virus."

  "You have a mother?"

  He sternly lowered one eyebrow. "That had as much sting as that serve that aced Martina last month."

  "As I recall you failed to mention that ace in your column, which said that Martina just had an off day."

  "You read my column?"

  "You watch my matches?"

  Smiling with enjoyment over their verbal sparring, he took a drink from his glass and lowered himself onto a bar stool with a bent-wood back. Stevie thrust out her hand. "May I have my pills now, please?"