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Jolene sighs. “Fine. Sam, I’m sorry for what I said. I don’t like fighting with you.”
“I don’t, either,” Sam says. “I’m sorry, too.”
“See? That was easy,” I say. “Now that we’re all on the same page, why don’t you show us what this place has to offer?” I suggest to Jolene.
We explore the menu, and Dave takes off shortly after he films our reactions to the first few bites of food. While we waited, we discussed what we like about this place, and the conversation moved to football for a bit, too. Sam whined a bit about how I’ve been working so much lately and commented that it’s nice to have a night out with me even if it is work related.
It’s good enough footage to send to Rivera so he can start producing our first show.
I’m ready to see where it goes.
I drop Sam off without going inside again—mostly because Jolene goes from the restaurant to her parents’ place to pick up her son, so there’s no real reason for me to head in. I wonder if she’s told them about the podcast.
I haven’t told my parents about it yet, but I have a feeling I should before the first episode hits the air.
To that end, I call my father on my way home.
“Hello,” he answers gruffly, as usual.
“Hey Pops. What’s going on?” It’s the same line I use every time.
“You called me,” he says, giving the usual line back to me. “What’s going on with you?”
“I wanted to let you know I’m going to be hosting a podcast. A local news channel had this idea and my publicist signed me up before I approved my co-host.”
“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters. “Please don’t tell me—”
“Yeah. Jolene Bailey. The station thought it would be great press to get their female sports reporter on the pod with me.”
“Sure, great for them. But what are you getting out of it?”
“It’s a chance for me to connect with the community, according to my publicist.” I say it a little flippantly, but the truth is I’m excited for the types of connections I can make through the podcast, and helping charities is just a huge added benefit.
“Might be time for new publicity, kid. In my day, we didn’t worry about dumb shit like connecting with the community.”
Yeah. That sounds pretty accurate for his day. But we’re in my day now, and I want this.
“Times have changed, old man.” I go for a light tone.
“I suppose so. Well, good luck with it. Anything else?”
“No. I just wanted you to hear it from me first,” I admit.
“Okay. I’ve heard it. Thanks.” An awkward moment of quiet passes between us, and just when I’m about to say my goodbyes, he adds, “Be careful there. I’ve said it a million times, Lincoln. But she’s bad news. Starting up a podcast, you’re opening yourself up to a lot more criticism.”
“That’s not how I see it,” I protest. “I see it as a way to connect.”
“Yeah, until you say something controversial or stick your foot in your mouth. Until someone paints you in a negative light. Did you think this through at all? Or did you just blindly agree to it?”
I guess maybe I didn’t. But it’s too late now. I’ve green-lighted the project, and I’m not backing out. Especially not when it could be my ticket to solidifying my public relationship with her.
“I thought it through. Thanks for the advice, but I’m all set. I just wanted you to hear it from me first. I need to go.” I cut the call there. I don’t need his shit. I’m old enough to handle my own actions.
Still, his words play in my mind. What if I fuck all this up?
Because now we’re working together, and it’s not just me. It’s her career on the line, too.
And while a romance between us would certainly boost ratings, neither of us will be ready to admit to one anytime soon. We need to plant the seeds first. We need to show the world the types of things we can accomplish together.
