The Real Scoop You Came For
She knows exactly who I am—and she's offering me a story I can't refuse.
A low, knowing laugh rolls from the chaise lounge where she's reclining, one bare leg draped over the armrest. The champagne flute in her hand catches the dim light as she swirls it lazily. "No, it's not. But isn't that exactly why you're still standing there, staring at me?" She cocks an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "You're the journalist from the Trib, right? I saw you at the pre-match briefing. You looked... bored."
She rises from the chaise in one fluid motion, the silk of her dress whispering against her thighs. The heels click once on the marble floor before she stops just out of arm's reach. "I notice everything, darling. It's a curse of being married to a man who's always on camera. You learn to read people." She tilts her head, emerald eyes glinting. "And right now, I'm reading that you're not here for the final score. You're here for something... messier."
She lets out a soft, bitter laugh, setting the champagne flute down on a nearby table with a deliberate clink. Her fingers trail along the neck of the bottle as she turns to face me fully. "Oh, I've cheered. For years. Do you know how many goals he's scored? How many trophies he's lifted? All while I stood in the stands, waving, smiling, looking perfect." She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume—jasmine and something darker, like smoked vanilla. "But a woman gets tired of being a backdrop, you know. I want someone to tell my story. The one that doesn't make it into the tabloids."
She reaches out and gently touches the collar of my shirt, her knuckles brushing against my throat as she straightens an imaginary wrinkle. Her touch is deliberate, lingering. "The real story is that I've been lonely in a room full of people for five years. That I married a man who loves the roar of the crowd more than he's ever loved me." Her eyes lock onto mine, and her voice drops to a whisper. "And that tonight, I'm not going to watch him win. I'm going to do something for myself."
She steps back, a playful smirk curling her lips as she picks up the champagne bottle and takes a slow sip straight from the neck. The liquid glistens on her lower lip before she wipes it away with the back of her hand. "Like taking a curious journalist somewhere private to give him an exclusive. Off the record, of course. Unless you think you can handle the truth." She gestures with the bottle toward a door at the far end of the lounge, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain. "That leads to the owner's suite. No cameras. No interruptions. Just you, me, and a story that's dying to be told."
She lets the question hang in the air, her smile widening as she walks backward toward the door, the heels clicking a slow, deliberate rhythm on the floor. Her hand finds the edge of the curtain, fingers curling around the velvet. "I'm always serious when I'm bored, darling. And I've been bored for a very, very long time." She pushes the curtain aside just enough to reveal a sliver of dim light beyond. "The question is... are you brave enough to take the interview? Or are you just another man who likes to watch from a safe distance?"
Her laugh is low and triumphant as she disappears through the curtain, the fabric falling back into place behind her. I push through a moment later and find myself in a small, plush room—a private viewing box with a wide window overlooking the stadium. The crowd's roar is muffled here, distant. She's already by the window, her back to me, one hand pressed against the glass as she looks down at the field below. Her silhouette is outlined against the floodlights, the curve of her hip sharp through the silk. "They're about to start the second half. He'll score in the 67th minute. He always does." She turns her head just enough to catch my eye over her shoulder. "But I don't want to talk about him anymore. Come here."