Chapter Text
Nancy is incensed at the morning paper.
"Fuck the fucking sports section," are her exact words to Robin. She had gone out to the newsstand by her apartment excited to find her name underneath Sunday morning's biggest headline, but now she's just in her pajamas and pissed. The paper is crumpled in one hand, her coffee mug in the other, and her phone held in place by her shoulder raising to reach her ear.
"It was a last minute change." Robin sighs on the other end of the line. "I know you're pissed, trust me, I would be too—"
"Who made this decision?" Nancy asks.
"Joyce," Robin says. "It was Joyce. The game ended late, the story got finished right before everything got sent to print, and that loss was an upset. Trust me, if I heard about it all the way in my little critic corner…"
"An upset," Nancy repeats. "I agree. I'm upset."
It's not that Nancy hates the Sports section and its writers. It is, as her boss likes to remind her, one of the most read sections of the paper. It's the reason that so many Chicago residents even bother to glance at the headlines. The status of the Bears, the Cubs, the Bulls tend to pique people's interests more than the governor's indictment, strikes on Iraq, a balcony collapsing in Lincoln Park. When the Cubs failed to make the World Series, that was more widely known and felt by the people of Chicago than the capture of Saddam Hussein.
It's a shame, if Nancy is being honest. It's a newspaper, they were meant to report on the news — the relevant, topical issues that affected everyone. A corrupt governor, a declaration of war, a building fire were all things that had more impact on people's daily lives than a scoreboard ever could. Each detail has to be meticulously researched, each fact checked, each sentence crafted carefully. The sports writers just had to talk to a handful of people and recap what everyone already saw on the field or on their televisions if they cared enough to watch it.
But they work in different parts of Tribune Tower, the hard newsroom a distance from the softer news of sports and lifestyle and the rest of the newspaper's padding (Nancy's terminology, decidedly not Joyce's). It doesn't have to affect her; she doesn't need to have feelings about it. The sections don't compete with one another, or at least they shouldn't.
After her third story is bumped to the secondary lead because Steve Harrington had to have a headline as important as "The Mitt Hits the Fan," she gets less and less understanding.
"In what world," Nancy continues, "is a Cubs game more important than a breakthrough in a corruption case?"
"Chicago," is Robin's direct answer.
Nancy scowls, even if her expression can't be seen over the phone. She sets her coffee down on the kitchen counter, and tosses the paper as far away from her as she can manage. "I know you're friends with Harrington—"
"I know you never believe me when I say it, but Steve is a nice guy. You should take us up on the drinks offer, sometime."
"I'm sure he is…" Nancy inhales, trying to be careful with her words, "a nice guy. But I'm a journalist — do you know how stupid it feels to work on cutting edge reporting only to get second billing to sports puns?"
"Thank God my section is never competitive with yours." Robin snorts. "Let's hope for the sake of our friendship that it never does."
"It's not a competition," Nancy corrects. "It shouldn't be a competition."
Robin makes a noise of either patient agreement or a hum of amusement. It doesn't matter. Nancy's assessment of the situation has already been made, her heels dug in. The conversation ends shortly after. If she wants to throw a temper tantrum, Robin is not her audience. Ripley, the cat weaving around her legs, may be the best opportunity she has to vent her frustrations.
Nancy groans. She picks the paper up off the floor, its sections in disarray. She looks at the front page again, frowning at the headline in the largest print and the photo of a Cubs player looking defeated in his white, striped uniform. Steve Harrington is the largest byline on the page, and she hasn't even brought herself to read the article. Her story, the product of months of reporting, of follow-ups, of anonymous quotes painstakingly verified — all smushed to the right-hand column because the Cubs lost a game.
She skims Harrington's article, the apparent headline news. It's what she always finds in his writing: nothing complex, an overuse of exclamation points and italics, short sentences. She can nearly hear his voice when she reads it, the rise and fall of enthusiasm that he expresses with volume and hand gestures in person. Nancy has only met him on a handful of occasions — visiting Robin's desk, holiday parties, paper-wide meetings. She avoided him as much as she could.
He hadn't been a journalism major in college, hadn't doggedly worked on his craft the way Nancy did. No, Harrington was a high school sports coach from the suburbs who just so happened to keep meeting people, who happened to be in the right place at the right time, who happened to charm his way into the rooms she clawed and climbed her way into.
Today's Sunday paper is yet another example of that.
On Monday morning, Nancy is alone in the elevator when a hand abruptly stops the door from closing.
It's the last person she wants to see, of course. Steve Harrington gives her a grin and a wave, nearly spinning on his feet as he occupies the space next to her.
"Good morning, Wheeler!" he greets, voice cheerful as he presses the button for his floor. He adjusts the fit of his tie and runs his hand over his too-long hair.
"Morning," she returns, curt. She eyes the progress of the floors. They feel painstakingly slow. Nancy wonders if there's any way to make them go faster. Maybe she could get off at four, find an excuse to why she'd need to be on one of the building's lower levels. But she's already selected her floor, and reaching over to press the fourth floor's button would mean reaching over Steve and his sport coat. On the nose, as ever.
"What a weekend, huh?" he offers, either oblivious to her hostility or willfully ignoring it. Knowing him, either is a possibility.
"It's been a weekend."
It is mercifully silent for a few moments, the only sound the elevator dinging as it ascends. Steve arches forward with his weight on his toes, and Nancy's grip on her bag tightens.
"I read your piece on the Ryan indictment, by the way. Really, really good work. I mean, it kind of sucks given he was so great about all the death penalty stuff, but—"
The elevator doors open. Nancy takes the savior for what it is, and marches right through them. Harrington doesn't finish his sentence, his words hanging in the air as the elevator doors close behind her.
She wouldn't want him to, anyway. It's probably some measly attempt at an olive branch, a courtesy to the reporter whose headline you knocked out of top billing. Sportsmanlike or goading, who knows.
When Joyce calls Nancy into her office, she expects an explanation of her article's demotion paired with a gentle reminder of the paper's priorities (readers, first and foremost). She's received enough of them in the past that she knows bringing righteous indignation to Joyce is more likely to get her admonished than vindicated. Nancy has gotten better at biting her tongue, at experiencing and expressing gratitude, at playing the game with the hand she's been dealt.
"I have an idea," Joyce tells her, leg bouncing behind her desk. There are three mugs of coffee surrounding her. It is barely nine in the morning.
"Okay," Nancy says slowly. She sits in the chair opposite Joyce's desk, folding her hands in her lap.
"Rumor has it," Joyce begins, "emphasis being rumor, that there's players on the Sox suspected of doping and their coach is covering it up. Since the MLB passed the new drug policy, they've started to get creative, but a little birdy tipped me off this morning that there might be anabolic steroids floating around that locker room."
Nancy pauses. "Sounds like a story for the Sports section."
"Or a very skilled investigative journalist," Joyce counters. "Or an investigative journalist and a sports writer, the best of both worlds, which leads me to…"
There's a knock at the door. Nancy stiffens, bracing herself.
"Come in!" Joyce calls, and Steve Harrington walks through the door. He's taken off the jacket, and now he's simply clad in a white button-down with his tie and suspenders. Nancy resists the urge to slump in her seat or to stand up and walk right out of the room.
"You wanted to see me, boss?" Harrington asks, hands settling on his hips.
"I don't know if this is a good idea," Nancy says, unable to hold her tongue any longer. "It's not really my area of expertise, so—"
"Steve, sit," Joyce greets, gesturing to the chair beside Nancy. He obeys. "And Nancy, hear me out. I think this might be one of my best ideas yet, so if you two," she clicks her pen, then uses it to point at both of them, "can work together on this, I think we have a great story on our hands. The paper's best investigative journalist and our favorite sports writer. It works."
"What works?" Steve asks, still lost.
"The Sox are doping," Nancy says.
"No, they're not," is his instant reply. "There's no way."
"There might be a way," Joyce says, her tone apologetic. "Actually, a good chunk of the league is probably on steroids at this point, but we'll start where there's smoke."
"They've been testing for steroids for a year now," Steve says. He frowns. "And amphetamines before that—"
"Without penalties," Joyce points out. "There was a bunch of anonymous testing — anonymous, ish — last year, and penalties were supposed to start this year. I'm going to connect you both with the source, he's a weird guy and it's a long story, but I wouldn't be doing all of this if I didn't think there was something to it. And Nancy, I know you know nothing about baseball. Steve, you're not an investigative journalist. But together," Joyce continues, joining her hands over her desk to illustrate her point, "I think you can figure it out."
"I have other stories I'm working on," Nancy says, shaking her head. "I have enough on my plate, and sports reporting isn't a priority—"
"It is to Chicago," Joyce retorts. "And I know what else you're working on, and I know that you've hit dead ends. So consider this an assignment."
Her tone leaves no room for argument.
Nancy presses her lips together, trying to conceal her irritation. She could try to argue, but Joyce's mind is made up. She's lost this argument before, and she'll definitely lose it if she tries to have it in front of Harrington.
Steve, still beside her, speaks. "I feel like this might be a wild goose chase, Joyce, I'll be honest with you. But I can ask some guys at the American League if they have any leads, then maybe connect them with Wheeler," he offers, turning to her. "I know some of the Sox players, nice dudes. I don't think they'd rat out one of their own, but they might just have some good context."
"Be open minded," Joyce encourages. "Both of you."
Nancy narrows her eyes. Steve salutes Joyce with two fingers waved from his forehead.
"I'll connect you both to my contact," Joyce says. "And I expect you both to meet up with him. Nancy, come prepared with questions. Steve, prepare to lay the charm on him."
"The charm," Steve repeats, and Nancy has to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Okay. Understood, boss."
This must be why he's deemed so easy to work with. Genial and deferential, big brown eyes and a winning smile — all enough to paper over what Nancy had to spend years of her life working toward. She considers this, gnawing at her lower lip, while Steve takes his leave and Joyce just stares at her.
"You'll like him," Joyce says in a way that's meant to be reassuring once Steve closes the door behind him. "Once you get to know him."
"I don't have to like him," Nancy replies immediately. "I just have to do my job."
"Yeah," Joyce says, her eyes lingering on Nancy before going back to the stack of papers on her desk. "But you'll like him."
Nancy holds back her derisive scoff.
Steve offers to drive them to the restaurant. They're meant to meet with Murray, a former MLB higher-up ready to blow the whistle, and the spot he chooses is on the other side of town near Garfield Park. It's a forty-five minute transit ride or just over fifteen minutes in the car. Nancy doesn't have a car, has never seen the point of owning one in Chicago, so this makes the decision for her.
It's early afternoon when she climbs into the passenger side of Steve's BMW. She prepares notes on her Steno rather than trying to make conversation. Steve's stereo blares when he turns the key in the ignition, until he cringes and turns down the volume until it's barely audible. The only sound between them is the hum of the engine, the ambient noise outside, the scribbling of her pen, and the barely audible crooning of Hoobastank.
Steve clears his throat, evidently uncomfortable with the silence.
"It wasn't my idea," he offers.
Nancy sets down her pen, startled. "I know that."
"Okay." He nods. "Good. That's good."
"Why would it be your idea?" Nancy asks, her brow furrowing. "I imagine you'd probably want to work on a story like this alone."
"Not really my area," he says, "the investigation thing. More of a calling it as I see it guy. Pitches in broad daylight, what fans are thinking, what the coaches are saying. That's usually it for me."
"I know," she says. It comes out flat, maybe a little mean. She's not trying to be cruel. "I mean — yeah, I know."
"Yeah." Steve fiddles with the center console, pulls out a pair of sunglasses as the glare of the sun hits the windshield. "How do you want to approach the conversation with this Murray guy? Want to lead and I can take some notes, ask follow up questions if they feel right?"
Nancy blinks. She'd half-expected to have the opposite argument. How many times in her career was she assigned to note taking whenever she worked with a man? How many times was she encouraged to let a man lead the investigation while she sat still and looked pretty? Maybe he was just nervous, scared to screw up and have it reported back to Joyce.
"Didn't Joyce tell you to turn on the charm?" Nancy asks, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
Steve snorts. "Okay, sure, I can lead with that. But you're the hard hitter, I know my place here. I'm just the guy that knows people."
Nancy fiddles with the air vents, unsure of what else to do or say. Steve must notice, because he cranks the air conditioning up seconds later.
"Too warm?' he asks.
"It's a little humid. But it's August, so…"
"You from Chicago?"
"The Midwest," Nancy answers, fidgeting now with her pen. She hadn't meant to be on the receiving end of questions, but she's been easily disarmed today. Hopefully, this pattern will not continue. "Indiana."
"Huh."
She very nearly takes offense before he keeps speaking.
"My parents almost moved to Indiana," he says, looking over at her briefly as his fingers tap on the steering wheel. "My dad got a job offer there when I was fourteen. Turned it down, I don't think my mom could ever tolerate living somewhere smaller than Chicago."
"Huh," Nancy says, turning her head to look out the window. "Me neither, now. I didn't like it when I was living in Hawkins. I don't think small town Indiana is for much of anyone—"
"Hawkins," he repeats.
"You know it?" she asks, looking over to him in surprise.
"Yeah." Steve grins, pushing up the sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. "It's crazy. That's exactly where my dad got the offer. What are the chances of that?"
Nancy's eyebrows raise. "Out of everywhere in Indiana…"
"Lucky thing we didn't meet then. I was a real douchebag. You would've hated me in high school," he says, shaking his head. "More than you do now, I bet."
Nancy balks. "I don't… I don't hate you. I barely know you."
"You could get to know me," he says, eyes darting to look at her once more. "That invitation for drinks — it's not just from Robin, you know. You could join us, we don't bite."
"I'm usually too busy."
"Yeah, that's what Robin says."
Another beat of silence passes between them.
"I think your story should have been the headline, for what it's worth," he says. "In case that's why you don't like me."
"That's not — I know you're not making the editorial decisions."
"I know it must suck to work on a story that's actually groundbreaking and have some idiot with a game recap get most of the front page."
Nancy wasn't expecting Steve to be so self-depreciating. She bites her lip, feeling a little guilty. "I don't think that."
She's lying. She did. Maybe it's the present tense that can save her.
"Uh huh," he says. It doesn't sound like he believes her.
She shouldn't care if he does or not. "Besides, I doubt you care what I think. You're plenty popular at the paper."
"Popular," he repeats, eyebrows shooting upwards. "Is it that high school?"
"You know what I mean." Nancy crosses her arms. "I'm a buzzkill. Who cares what I think?"
She can't hear his response, though she sees his lips move. It's either 'I do' or 'I don't.' She probably deserves the latter. Nancy remembers her phone conversation from the day before and can't help but cringe at herself. Was she that petty and transparent? Was her jealousy so immediately apparent?
Nancy can't form a response to words she doesn't process, so the rest of the car ride passes in silence.
Murray is a strange character.
The balding, bearded man looks around the diner he's selected as if paranoid the MLB's attorneys will appear inches away. Nancy picks up on this instantly, tucking her notes into her bag to be less conspicuous and keeping her head down as they walk over. Steve holds out his hand breezily and tries to address him by name, only for Murray to nearly hiss in response.
"No names," he says. "I want this to be a quiet conversation."
"Quiet conversation," Steve says, his voice an exaggerated whisper. "Got it."
"Thank you for meeting us," Nancy says instead, her voice low but above whatever exaggerated whisper Steve is doing. He scoots into the booth until he's flush with the window, and Nancy follows. "Really appreciate it. You can trust our discretion, as I'm sure you've been told already."
"Yeah, we'll see about that," Murray says, eyes narrowing as he looks at Steve.
Steve looks like he has a rebuttal on his lips, but a sharp look from Nancy silences it.
"Can you tell us what you told Joyc—"
"Joy," Murray finishes immediately. "My old friend Joy. You're not recording this, are you?"
Nancy pauses. There's a tape recorder in her bag, but she hasn't started it yet. "I was going to ask you if it'd be alright—"
"No, no. I'd prefer if you didn't, thank you."
"Are you going to ask if we're wearing a wire next?" Steve asks, his voice dry as he takes out a notebook from his jacket pocket. It looks like it's seen better days. With it, he pulls out a Bic ballpoint pen that Nancy would gag before reaching for. He doesn't seem to have the same standards, mindlessly putting the end of it in his mouth as he flips open his notebook.
Nancy swallows, and looks back at Murray. It feels very warm in this diner.
"Very funny." Murray's tone indicates he finds Steve's comment anything but. "Remind me why you two are the ones Joy sent, again?"
"In code names or in plain English?" Steve asks.
"Joy trusts us," is Nancy's more diplomatic answer. "We're hoping if you trust Joy, you can also trust her judgment here. Fair enough?"
Murray seems to accept this a little begrudgingly. "Fine. You want to order anything to drink? Coffee, tea, juice," he draws out the last word, and it takes Nancy a second to get it.
"Juice," Nancy repeats. "Okay, let's say I wanted to order juice…"
"Pretty sure the waiter is on the other side of the—"
Nancy shoots Steve another look, and he raises his eyebrows.
"Right. Okay. Juice."
"Some people estimate that if you want to be real professional and play ball, maybe thirty to forty percent of guys are ordering juice."
"Uh huh," Nancy says, reaching for her own, slightly larger notebook. She scribbles the numbers. "Like, is this one te— table?"
Steve mutters something under his breath about metaphors.
"It's every single goddamn table in the place," Murray says, shaking his head. "And it's a lowball. Try eighty."
"Eighty," Steve interjects, his mouth falling open. "Eighty? You don't think it would have been caught, if eighty percent of play—"
"Patrons," Nancy interrupts.
"In the entire le—"
"Restaurant," she tries, then makes a face Murray soon mirrors.
"Were do—"
"Ordering juice," Nancy finishes, already tired of this game of word association.
Steve is too busy looking at Murray with disbelief to be offended by these interruptions.
"What if I told you," Murray says, leaning over the table. "That they have been caught? And we have order histories that show—"
"Wait, you're dealing?"
"Jesus fucking Christ man, please stop being so literal for a minute."
"Order histories," Nancy repeats, connecting the dots. The MLB isn't a dealer, but they have been testing. That must be order history in this context. "They regularly take… order histories, right?"
"They just started last year,” Murray explains. "They have a record of the order history of every single patron. They say it's anonymous, but they're full of shit. I've seen it, they have all of the orders in spreadsheets."
"Spreadsheets?" Nancy asks, her eyebrows raising. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," Murray says. "It was supposed to be to see if testing was necessary. And well, it's lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree."
"False positives?" Steve asks, clearly still not sold. "Also, pretty sure our boss told us it was just the one table. Now you're saying it's every—"
"I only had access to part of it, but I've since checked in with some other guys and they all say the same thing. It's everywhere."
"Well, if the other guys say it, it must definitely be—"
Nancy clears her throat. Steve sighs, then backs off.
"Nice job training him," Murray says, amused.
Nancy frowns. She's not touching that. "Okay, so there's a few different spreadsheets. Is there anyone that has access to all of them?"
"Top secret," Murray says under his breath. "That's why I don't want to broadcast this information. I just have a copy of mine."
"You do?" Nancy asks, interest piqued.
"Settle down, Nancy Drew. I'm not handing it over first thing," Murray replies, and she notices Steve has started scowling beside her. Maybe he's still miffed over the training comment. "I'm still working on a complete picture. There's a lot of tables, two restaurants' worth."
Nancy doesn't quite get the two restaurants comment, but maybe this goes beyond the major leagues.
"30 of 'em," Steve surmises. "You really think you can get all 30?"
"No," Murray says, folding his hands on the table. He looks a little too satisfied with himself. "But you can."
Nancy blinks. "How?"
"You're an investigator, right? Investigate."
These are the parting words Murray leaves them with. Nancy watches him go, still confused as to what their instructions are meant to be — track down spreadsheets? — and Steve seems even less thrilled at the prospect. There's salt in the wound: Murray has also left them with his bill.
Steve takes out his wallet to pay it, grumbling about reimbursements and then moving on to express his Murray-related complaints.
"How are we even supposed to know what teams — sorry, tables — he thinks he has info on already?" he asks, seeming to briefly try to calculate a tip amount before giving up and over-tipping. "Feels like a wild goose chase to me."
Nancy is about to agree with him when she notices a map peeking out from underneath the napkin holder. She leans over Steve to grab it. He sits very still for a moment before relaxing again once the map is unfolded in front of her.
"W.S. and C in Chicago," she reads off the cities marked. "Atlanta, Boston, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, Houston."
Steve sighs. "White Sox, Cubs, Braves, Red Sox, Brewers, Pirates, Twins, Astros."
"Wait." Nancy cocks her head to the side. "Is that supposed to be Toronto?"
There's a mark above the United States on the map, just above where she's pretty sure Niagara Falls sits. She squints.
"Blue Jays," Steve says it like he's stating the obvious.
"Canada?"
"Since '76. You don't know the Blue Jays?"
Nancy redirects rather than answering the question. "So, I think that must be what they have so far. If this has both Chicago teams, that would line up."
"If he's telling the truth."
"I don't think Joyce would introduce us to a conspiracy theorist for fun. Although it wouldn't surprise me if that guy had a tin hat."
"Eighty percent," Steve emphasizes again, shaking his head. "I mean, I'm sure it does happen sometimes, but there's just no way it's eighty percent. And c'mon, do you really think it'd be sitting on a spreadsheet somewhere?"
"Apparently 30 spreadsheets."
"Okay, thirty spreadsheets. Eight out of ten. Does that seem realistic to you?"
"I don't know," Nancy answers honestly. "Maybe."
Steve sighs. He runs his hand through his hair, and she doesn't know him well enough to be able to tell if this is a frustrated habit or a nervous one. Nancy scoots out of the booth, and he follows.
"Sorry if I was…" Steve trails off, waving his hand near the dashboard as he drives.
He has nice hands.
They're large, a little calloused, even if she's not sure how he manages that at a desk job. She files this thought away. Locks it in the glove compartment, or something. This isn't useful information.
"It's not that I don't believe you," he says, as if this is an important distinction. "Just that guy felt really squirrelly, you know? And those numbers — well, they're big numbers."
"Eighty percent," Nancy says, the number now etched in her brain. At this rate they won't need either of their notes. "I think it might be bigger than who is winning between the White Sox and the Cubs if he's right. What I don't know is how he expects us to get information he can't. It's not like you can waltz into the MLB offices and just steal some flash-drives."
"Right," Steve agrees. "Like, if he has all of the information and he wants to go to the press, then go to the press. Don't do it halfway."
"It is weird," Nancy acknowledges. "Tit for tat. He has, what? Nine teams' worth of information? And he wants us to get the other twenty-one? There's no way."
"No way," Steve agrees. "I mean, it's a thing, that's for sure. BALCO scandal, we named that doctor who found 'The Clear' Sportsman of the Year—"
"BALCO — that's the lab out of California that was distributing designer steroids, right?"
"Yeah, but that was a handful of players. I don't know where the hell Murray would get eighty percent from."
"Maybe they aren't the only manufacturer," Nancy suggests, frowning. "What did they say they were? A blood test lab? I should find issues of the Chronicle from last year."
"I thought Nancy Wheeler didn't read the Sports section," Steve says, his voice teasing.
"I read investigative journalism," Nancy emphasizes. "And sometimes that happens to include sports. Like right now, I guess."
"Wait," Steve says, turning the radio down. "Sorry, I just realized something you said earlier. Did you think that the Cubs and the Sox play each other?"
Nancy balks. She feels her embarrassment blooming on her cheeks. "No. I didn't say that."
"But you did," Steve counters, a grin forming on his lips like the cat that caught the canary. "You thought that the Cubs and the Sox were in the same league."
"They're all in the MLB." Nancy scowls. "It's not like college or professional…"
"American League and National League," Steve says, barely suppressing his laughter. "God, Wheeler, you are such a transplant."
"A transplant?" Nancy repeats the accusation, offended. "I've lived here for almost a decade, thanks. I just don't follow sports, okay? There are plenty of people who have lived their whole lives in Chicago and don't know—"
"Why the Sox and the Cubs don't play each other outside of the Crosstown Classic? Do you know what the Crosstown Classic is?"
"I'm not sitting here quizzing you on geopolitical questions, okay—"
"I read the whole paper," Steve replies, his voice more than a little defensive. "I read your articles, Fred's editorials, I get movie recommendations from Robin's columns and music recommendations from Eddie's, I try to be a well-rounded guy because I know—"
"Because I don't know sports teams, I'm not well-rounded?"
"No," Steve says immediately. "No, you don't have to read the Sports section or try to keep up with the Lifestyle crew because you belong here, Wheeler. I'm just the guy that lucked into the job, you're a serious writer and journalist, and I'm the, the charmer, okay? So I'm just trying to keep up and hope no one notices that I'm just the dumb jock that landed here."
"I don't think you're dumb," Nancy says.
"I know it's not as serious, y'know, my writing, if you can ever call it that—"
"You're not stupid," Nancy emphasizes again. "I don't think that. And I'm being stupid, because I'm not too good to learn the basics of my assignment."
"I know Joyce just kinda… threw you into it."
"She's my boss. Throwing me into things is her job. It's my job to learn, it's my job to keep up. And I'm sorry that I'm being weird and defensive, I'm just not used to—"
"Not knowing everything?" he finishes, not unkindly. "This is like, my one area of expertise to your seven billion, Wheeler. I think you can be forgiven."
"Seven billion is…"
"I'm also bad at math, what can I say?" He's too good-natured. It pulls her guard down, makes her laugh when she's not expecting it, makes her want to reassure a guy she cursed not even twenty-four hours ago. "So, I bet you can catch up. And I think," his eyes are bright, his mouth curling upwards as he says, "I know how to fix this."
That's how Nancy ends up spending her evening in one of the last places she'd ever expect to: U.S. Cellular Field. She can count the amount of sporting events she's attended on one hand, outside of high school, and each time she was never really a willing participant.
She had an ex-boyfriend who invited her to a handful of Bulls games with the rest of his friends, and she was so determined to seem cool and relaxed she agreed without ever asking for context or explaining it was hardly an environment she was used to. She spent the duration bored out of her mind, debating how uncool she'd look sneaking glances at the book she'd brought. He was far more concerned about catching up with his buddies, so Nancy became comfortable wallpaper. She'd finished her book.
Nancy doesn't think she can get away with this next to Steve Harrington, sports writer. She's supposed to be here to learn. She's not optimistic; baseball always seemed infinitely more boring to her than basketball. But Steve is likely to get wrapped up in his usual routine, the crowd he must be at home in. She's just along for the ride, an observer who can hopefully learn through osmosis without getting a headache from the bright lights and the odor of hot dogs and funnel cake.
"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat? Paper's dime," he offers.
Nancy loiters next to him in line, her arms crossed. She's a fish out of water. Her blazer sticks out like a sore thumb, and she's so sweaty taking it off would just reveal how saturated her blouse has become underneath it. She feels sticky, a little gross.
Steve looks right at home.
"I'll pass."
He raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure? A Coke, maybe?"
"A Diet Coke," she acquiesces. The heat alone makes the thought of ice tempting. "Thanks."
"Anytime," he replies breezily. "So, questions so far?"
"The game hasn't even started yet."
"You're in the belly of the beast with the expert, Wheeler. Fire your questions away."
"I thought the White Sox just played the Royals?" she asks. She knows it's a stupid question, but that ship probably sailed long ago.
"Baseball is played in a series. 162 games a season," Steve answers. "It's a whole lot easier to take care of it all at once, play in the same spot and reduce travel for everyone. Get a feel for how a team really plays, beyond just the odds of one game."
"That's… a lot of games."
"Sure is," Steve returns cheerfully. "This is the second of three, if it helps. One tonight, one tomorrow. Sometimes it's four."
"So, best out of three? How does that work with four, do they just tie?"
"To win the league, you win the most games over the entire season. It's a numbers game, really."
"Why are there 162 games? That seems…" Nancy pauses. "Excessive."
"High variance in baseball, low scores," Steve explains.
"Isn't it all at least a little luck?"
"The idea is with a high enough sample size, you help curb how much is luck and how much is skill," he offers. "So you're left with something a little more merit-based, a little less coin toss."
"Oh my God, this is a game for statistic nerds." Nancy snorts, unable to stop a smile from creeping up on her face. "And you said you were bad at math."
"Thankfully, it's not rocket science," he says, tapping a finger against his temple. "Anyone can learn how it works, that's the beauty of it. When I was…"
He stops himself, shaking his head and cramming his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
"When you were?" Nancy prompts, curious.
"It's not important, not for how baseball works."
"Well now I have to know. You should know better than to bait an investigative journalist with information."
"You got me there," he grins. "When I was a coach, out in the burbs, I wasn't a baseball guy. Did basketball, swimming, that kind of thing in high school and college. Went to school to teach 'cause I liked kids, even though I wasn't the greatest student — surprise, surprise, I know — and they just kind of went 'alright, jock of a health teacher, let's put him wherever there's a free spot.' First of a long line of ending up places I probably wasn't qualified to be…"
"I'm betting you knew a lot more about baseball than I do."
"Well." He presses his lips together. "I'm not gonna say it."
"Won't say what?"
"Oh, you're going to do that investigative reporter head tilt again—"
"What head tilt?"
"That — you're doing it right now."
Nancy tries to straighten, which only makes him laugh. She flushes, from the heat, from the scrutiny, from being so out of her element; she's sweating at a baseball game with Steve Harrington.
"I don't have a head tilt," she attempts.
"You do," he says, but his voice is fond. "And the reporter pause, just waiting for someone to put their foot in their mouth."
"I'll concede the pause," she says. "But, you were saying — baseball coach who didn't play baseball. I've heard of harder sells."
"Yeah, like high school baseball coaches who go on to write for the Tribune."
Nancy bites her lip. "I didn't say that."
"I know. You're trying to be polite. It was guest articles for a while. I guess a few people I knew in college thought I was funny. Then I was just at the right place at the right time, so, y'know."
She doesn't.
"Joyce hired you for a reason," she says instead. "And I know nothing about sports, as we're establishing here, so I'm not exactly in a place to judge."
He looks ready to call bullshit, even if just in that light-hearted, self-depreciating, Steve Harrington kind of way. But then he's up for his spot in line and she's saved by Chicago hot dogs and a man working concessions that knows Steve by name. He's relaxed, genial, and Nancy wonders how all of these interactions come so effortlessly to him.
"How many blood and urine test labs do you think there are?" Nancy asks suddenly.
"Uh," is Steve's answer. He holds his hot dog in one hand, and hands Nancy her drink with the other. "I dunno. A lot?"
"They probably have to get licenses, right?" At this point she might just be thinking out loud. "Don't think it'd be hospitals, but maybe small outfits with lab certifications. They wouldn't have to be nearby, so that really doesn't narrow anything down, but maybe…"
"So every lab in the country?" Steve asks, eyebrows raising. "That's gotta be…a list."
"I could start with Illinois."
"Jesus Christ, Wheeler," he exhales, then starts directing her to the press box. "Alright, no giant list of labs for you tonight. Let's start with the basics. Have you watched a baseball game before?"
"I'm not going to be able to tell if they're doping from sight alone—"
"Yeah, you're not. But it might help you get Murray's metaphors if nothing else. Or mine."
"You use a lot of metaphors?"
"Not if I can help it. Have you watched a game before?"
"My dad might've had it on in the background."
"So not really," he surmises. "Okay, so you get the concept of bases, right?"
"Yes, I get the concept of bases."
"Great, you're already a lot of the way there."
Steve is surprisingly patient.
This shouldn't surprise her. He was a high school teacher and coach once, that's practically a job requirement. But maybe she expected a little more condescension, Steve to be a little more smug about knowing something she doesn't. But he just answers her questions, waits for her to ask them before narrating the scene in front of her.
It's still a little boring, if she's being honest.
But Steve is locked in, moreso than anyone else in the press box. He only takes his eyes off the game when Nancy asks a question, but he never cuts her off from his attention until the conversation has concluded. As he watches, he tenses up, lets out a sigh of relief, taps his pen anxiously against his notepad. He doesn't cheer, shout, or even politely clap — and this is what tips her off.
"You're holding back," she accuses him.
Steve balks. "Holding back what?"
"Your reactions," she says. "What, are you going to hurt my delicate sensibilities at a baseball game?"
"No," he says immediately. "But you probably don't want me shouting in your ear, do you?"
"What if it's part of my education in baseball?" she asks, amused.
"Then the next time I take you to a game, we'll go to the stands," he says, gesturing outside of the press box. "That's the correct way to watch a game. I thought you might like it a little more…"
"A little more?"
Steve shrugs. "Buttoned up."
"Are you calling me too uptight for a baseball game?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"Okay, that feels like a trap. Are you telling me the stands of a baseball game is Nancy Wheeler's scene?"
"Anything could be my scene!"
"Could it?"
"Yes! Name something that's not my scene!"
Steve raises an eyebrow, looking as if he's biting back a laugh. It makes her more determined to prove him wrong, to die on this ridiculous hill.
"Okay. Friday night at Rossi's, for one."
"Done," she says. "I've been telling Robin I'd go, anyway."
"I should be careful with the reverse psychology. It might start giving me too much power, and I'll say something like skinny dipping in the Chicago River."
"The Chicago River is disgusting."
"See, that really isn't the part I expected you to take issue with."
Nancy laughs. Steve doesn't take long at all before he's laughing with her. She looks around the press box, and any other writers and journalists are too distracted by the game to pay them any mind. She expects Steve to be the same by the time she looks back at him, but when she turns her head he's still looking at her.
It's not the worst night she's had.
That might be the next night, though. Nancy had assumed there would be a lot of medical labs with federal certifications. She was correct. Illinois' list alone is a hundreds of pages long, though, and what she'd anticipated as a painful task soon becomes a nearly Sisyphean one.
"Hi there, is this GMHI? Hi, you're listed as a laboratory that offers urine and blood testing, and I was wondering if your services also included supplements?"
Something that was not regulated. But couching things in these terms usually helped loosen lips, not that this strategy had brought her much success yet.
"Um, yeah. Any kind of supplement, really, including dietary supplements. This is Nancy Wheeler with the Tribune, and we're just doing a story on wellness—"
She gets a dial tone in response. Nancy sighs and hangs up the phone.
There's a knock on the edge of her desk, and Nancy expects it to be Fred chastising her for taking phone calls too loudly again. Instead, it's Steve. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he's holding a small stack of papers in his hand.
"You trying every lab in Illinois?" he asks.
Nancy presses her lips together. "Not every."
"I talked to the guys from the Chronicle," Steve offers, pulling up a chair to sit at the edge of her desk. "They said the whole thing with BALCO is they started with getting the athletes to trust them. It wasn't straight to steroids, they usually offered testing first. And I know some of the coaches, and I don't think they're the type of guys that would let this slide, but I asked them for a list of labs they'd recommend, y'know, maybe for college players. And one of them was nice enough to fax this list," he says, dropping the papers between them, "over to me."
"Oh," is all Nancy can say at first. She wasn't expecting this.
"How'd I do?" Steve asks. "I'm no investigative reporter, but—"
"This is great," Nancy says, her voice sincere. "This is going to take me way less time to call through than…"
Steve looks over at the giant stack in front of her, the highlighter that's already been abandoned next to it. "I thought that might take a while."
She can't disagree.
"Want help?" Steve offers, peering over her desk to eye Fred's. He must have already left for the day. Nancy doesn't want to think about how long she's been making calls fixed in this spot.
"It should go by quicker with this," Nancy says, lifting the papers. She'd expected to do this part alone. It's the unglamorous legwork that has sustained her career for this long. "Thanks."
Steve nods. "Should be even faster with two people. You take the first two pages, I take the back half? I hear your pitch right? Supplements?"
"Supplements," Nancy confirms after a beat of hesitation. "Sounds generic enough, but it might help narrow it down to the likely culprits. See how long you can get away with not mentioning the words 'reporter' or 'Tribune'?"
"Got it," Steve says, already switching over to Fred's adjoining desk with his self-assigned list. He dials the first number on it and presses the phone against his ear.
Nancy should be doing the same, but she can't help but observe him first.
"Hi there, is this HNL? Hope you're having a great night, Trisha, this is Steve Harrington. Coach Brenner mentioned that you might be a good fit to help with tests for my team, and I was wondering if you offered any supplements? Oh, you do? Oh, you know, fatigue, muscle stiffness, the works. You do? Oh, that's super helpful — Trisha, right? Thanks so much Trisha, you have a great night, I'll be in touch!"
He hangs up the phone and circles the name of the lab in front of him. Nancy stares at him like he's grown a second head.
"That one is maybe a little suspicious," he says.
That feels like a significant understatement.
"Did they offer you steroids right then and there?"
"Anti-inflammatory supplements," he says. "Didn't think they'd go any further than that over the phone."
"At this rate, you could ask them for an injection and I'm pretty sure they'd offer you one. The charm. Jesus Christ."
"I hate to say I told you so."
Nancy blinks up from her drink to Robin, who looks far too smug. Even in the dim lighting, Nancy is fairly certain Robin's self-satisfaction could be detected from across the bar.
"I told you I would come eventually—"
"Yeah, right after you suddenly become BFFs with Steve—"
"That's…" Nancy swallows. "That's not accurate."
"He took you to a baseball game. I couldn't even convince you to go with me to watch roller derby. My girlfriend was playing!"
"He didn't take me to a baseball game for the fun of it, we were assigned to a story. And I had a deadline during that roller derby thing, otherwise I would have definitely gone. You said it gets violent?"
"It's a full contact sport," Robin acknowledges. "But you're too late, that was six months ago and she's an ex-girlfriend now. You bailed because I said Steve was also going, and I got stuck in the weirdest platonic love triangle possible until this very week when you were forced to spend enough time with him to see you actually like him."
"Like is a strong word," Nancy says, straw in the corner of her mouth. Her vodka cranberry is now half-finished. "He's… not completely who I expected he might be."
"Nancy Wheeler admits she was wrong," Robin says, a wide grin on her lips. "Please mark the date in the calendar."
"I admit when I'm wrong," Nancy replies, defending herself. "Speaking of, where's your BFF?"
"At this rate, probably buying you flo— hey, Steve!" Robin waves from their spot at the bar. Nancy fidgets with her straw, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically shy.
"Sorry I'm late," Steve says. She shouldn't recognize the scent of his cologne, cedar and citrus, and she definitely should not down the rest of her drink. Both occur. "Kid I used to coach got a flat on the Ike. Luckily, he realized he had AAA right when I was about ready to face hell trying to get over there, but it took us a little long to even get there."
Steve Harrington, the guy that would brave the most congested highway in the city because a kid he once coached got a flat tire. Is this part of the signature Harrington charm? Is she falling for it as badly as oblivious lab receptionists?
(She is falling for nothing.)
Nancy turns around to face him, to give a small wave and try to act more casual than bashful. His face lights up.
"Wheeler," he says, straightening. "You made it."
"I told you so," Nancy counters.
Robin bites her tongue.
Later, Nancy realizes she’s had what may have been one too many vodka cranberries. She should probably get a new drink of choice that doesn't turn her into such a lightweight, but she's fairly certain the dive bar will judge her for trying to order anything resembling a spritz and she still can't stand the taste of beer. Robin is in the middle of recapping a story involving the paper's holiday party, something involving Joyce's boyfriend and the mice their office hadn't exterminated yet, when she announces that she needs to pee and leaves the two of them alone at the bar.
"I remember that holiday party," Nancy says, still laughing as she watches Robin waddle to the bathroom. "I don't remember Hopper and the mice, though. Think I left early."
"I think you did," Steve agrees. "It was my first holiday party at the paper. That's when we met."
Nancy pauses. "We did?"
"Yep," Steve says, dragging out the vowel. "2002. I was new, you'd been there for years, and the second you heard 'sports writer' you did that polite nod you do and then turned around."
"Not instantly," Nancy protests. "I didn't instantly turn around, you can't make me out to be that big of a jerk."
"Not instantly," Steve acknowledges. "But I just heard all night about what a badass Nancy Wheeler was, how Chicago's most corrupt politicians feared her, and then I see you and my first thought is—"
"There's no way some twenty-eight year old woman is doing all of that."
"No," Steve says, shaking his head. "You had that red dress on. Your hair was shorter then. My first thought was, 'Oh no, she's hot.'"
Nancy's face turns roughly the color of the dress she wore to the Tribune's 2002 holiday party. "Shut up."
"It was!" he insists.
"Please." Nancy shakes her head, regaining her composure. "From what I heard, you had plenty of girls lined up — I don't think you got too big of a bruise from the investigative reporter on the other floor."
"Nancy Wheeler," he exclaims, hand pressed to his chest in exaggerated offense. "Are you calling me a slut?"
"I didn't use that word!"
"You and your implications," he tsks, taking a drink from the beer bottle beside him. She stares at the motion for a little too long. She'll blame the alcohol for it. "I'll have you know, I'm in the business of settling down these days."
"Settling down," Nancy repeats, rolling her eyes.
"Don't sound so skeptical!" he says. "Y'know, steady job, not getting any younger, maybe have some kids…"
Nancy hums. "I guess that makes sense, you and kids. Surprised you didn't get enough of that while you were teaching and coaching and all of that."
Steve shrugs. "I dunno. My parents weren't around much. Feels good to be around, be the opposite, for whatever that's worth."
She softens. She hadn't expected that answer. Steve has been full of the unexpected, that must be why she constantly feels so out of her element around him. "That's a nice thought."
Nancy thinks of her father and takes a bigger sip of her drink.
"What about you?" he asks.
"I should probably learn how to take care of myself before I start thinking about kids," she admits. "Pretty sure my cat is the best I can do at the moment."
"You have a cat?"
"I'm a living, breathing stereotype."
"Having a cat doesn't make you a stereotype — who said that?"
More than one ex-boyfriend. "The cliched career woman. The job is the biggest part of life."
"But not the only part, right?"
Nancy is saved from having to answer that question by Robin finally returning from what must have been the world's longest bathroom line. She hops right back into her seat. Nancy realizes just how close she let herself tilt in Steve's direction. She rights herself, leaning back against the bar and in the opposite direction.
Robin continues her story of the holiday party incident of ‘02 right where she left off, with Steve chiming in to describe Hopper’s shaky climb on top of a table and the exact bizarre sound he made while doing so. Nancy has to wonder how she missed this. Not just the holiday party, not just Steve and Robin’s weekly tradition of drinks at a dive bar, but a life that exists outside of deadlines and assignments. Even this – drinks with her coworkers – is more than the occasional phone calls back to Indiana and the dates of mixed quality that make up her social existence.
But not the only part, right?
The words ring in her head for the rest of the night.