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news lately, but there’s a huge late winter storm sweeping through the Southeast this week, and I doubt we’ll be able to make it back by Sunday.”

“Really? A big late winter snowstorm is going to hit the Southeast? I think the last one predicted to hit there when we lived back east generated a whopping half inch of snow.”

“They’re projecting eight to ten inches for Saturday night,” she said. “And as you know, that’s going to cripple this entire state, not to mention city and airport.”

“So, how much longer do you think you’ll be there?”

“I don’t know—a few more days. Not that Maddie minds. She’s being spoiled rotten by my mother.”

“Okay. Stay warm and keep me updated.”

“I will—and you better cut out the shenanigans, Cal. I’ll be home soon enough.”

Cal hung up and opened his laptop. While he had been pulled off the Sid Westin story and banished from the Seattle FC practice grounds for the time being, he still had one more story to write on the team—and it was due tomorrow.

Buckman still wanted the piece on Seattle’s new young star, Shawn Lynch. And Cal was going to give it to him.

He spent the rest of his morning pounding out the feature story on Lynch, but he felt it was missing something. There were a few quotes from Lynch, but most of them were from other people, including his father. Cal needed one or two more solid comments to solidify his lead paragraph.

I know just the guy.

He dialed Javier Martinez’s number and prayed he would answer so he could spend the rest of his day doing something he’d been warned by both his editor and wife against doing.

I could have a worse vice and drink myself into oblivion like most of my colleagues.

Cal knew it was a lame excuse in an attempt to justify his rogue behavior, but he’d been covering these types of stories long enough to learn that everyone justifies what they do, for better or worse. Over the years, he’d learned from the masters at how to fabricate a reasonably sounding justification. If forced to look at it objectively, he knew it was full of more holes than the Cleveland Browns defensive front. But at least for the moment, nobody outside of his wife or Ramsey knew what he was doing. And neither of them would be questioning him about his methods for a few days at least.

Martinez’s phone rang a few times, but he didn’t pick up. After the sixth ring, his voicemail came on.

“I’m out playing the beautiful game or enjoying this beautiful world. You know what to do.” Beep.

Cal hung up. He’d try again later.

He pushed back from the desk in his home office and propped his feet up. He put his hands behind his head and stared out the window at the cedar waxwing birds hopping on a tree branch in his backyard. Cedar waxwings were incredibly social birds and appeared to enjoy grooming one another. Cal watched with delight as the two birds traded duties of picking loose objects like dirt and twigs off one another with their beaks. They didn’t just survive but thrived because they worked together.

It’s a lost art among humans. At least some species on earth understands the concept of cooperation.

The sound of his phone buzzing on his desk jolted him out of his philosophical trance.

He glanced at his phone but didn’t recognize the number. It was a text message with an attachment icon in the upper corner.

What’s this? More spam?

He opened the email attachment that began with a brief message.

Guess when this photo was taken? While Sid Westin was playing his final away game.

Cal pulled his phone closer to his face and struggled to see the significance of the photo. It was a picture of Rebecca Westin standing in front of a sports car, making a sultry pose, including the puckered lips that Cal detested so much. He told Kelly more times than he could count that if he ever saw her puckering out her lips like a demented duck that he’d take her phone away. It was all in good fun as he knew she was in lockstep with him over their disdain for such ridiculous poses. “This is why the aliens will never land here,” Kelly once told him. And he wholeheartedly agreed.

He stared at the picture of Rebecca for a few more moments but didn’t see anything that would warrant a mysterious text. Cal loathed Instagram and other forms of social media, even if he had to join the various social networks per Buckman’s order, though he was certain this picture must’ve appeared on one of the social network sites. But despite his best efforts, he couldn’t make out anything scandalous. He decided to write the mystery texter back.

Who is this?

He waited a moment until he received a response.

Look more closely in the window of the car.

Before Cal could blow the picture up, the image vanished from his screen as Javier Martinez’s name and face popped up for an incoming call.

Nice timing, Martinez.

Cal answered the call. “Javy! How are you?”

“Did you call me, Cal?”

“I need a couple more comments from Seattle FC’s quote machine.”

Martinez laughed. “I do what I can. What do you need, brother?”

“I’m finishing up my story on Lynch, and I wanted to get a couple of comments from you regarding his maturation as a player. What has he done, in your opinion, to grow up so fast?”

“On the record or off the record?”

“Is there something about Lynch I should know?”

“For your story—and on the record—Lynch is one of the most dedicated players we’ve got. He arrives earlier and stays later than any other player on the team. He’s always trying to improve personally, and it’s paid big dividends for our team.”

“This is great. Just a sec.” Cal typed furiously as he transcribed Martinez’s comments in real time. It helped that he talked more slowly than some of his other Latino brethren. “Okay,” Cal said as he finished. “What