Chapter Text
March 2012-
“Alright sweetheart, follow me. Press holding area is this way.”
Karen tried desperately to keep from rolling her eyes as she trailed after the man with “Barclays Center Manager” written on the back of his shirt. If he called her “sweetheart” or “baby” one more time, she was going to lose her shit. She was going to grab the very heavy, very expensive camera from Foggy’s hand and just bash Mr. Manager’s fucking head in. Or maybe forgo the weapon altogether and claw his eyes out with her perfectly-manicured nails.
But no—she wasn’t. She couldn’t. Because aside from the fact that assault is generally frowned upon in a well-ordered society, freaking out over something like being called “sweetheart” would ruin her image. The image she had worked all year to cultivate: Karen Page, sports reporter for CBS NY; cool girl who could hang with the boys and throw back shots. Hot chick who was into wings, beer, and locker room talk. Who didn’t mind being patronized to, because (again) she was a cool girl. Not like other girls—no. Better than other girls.
She felt a bit of bile rising up in her throat at that thought. The things she did in the name of getting ahead in her fucking job. To occupy her hands—the ones itching to strangle someone—she reached up to throw her hair into a ponytail.
“Y’know, I’m a little offended that he doesn’t call me sweetheart.” Foggy leaned over as they followed Mr. Manager through the pulsating crowd of boxing fans, each of whom seemed to have a drink in their hand. “Am I not—I mean, do I not look sweet to him?” He gestured to himself with the arm not gripping his camera: khaki cargo shorts, D&D t-shirt, flip-flops, and messy blonde hair tangled around his shoulders. “Look, I know I’m not traditionally beautiful, sure. But I could pass as some kind of…stuffed éclair, maybe?”
Karen snorted, cracking a smile and smacking him in the arm. “Don’t make me laugh when I’m trying to be angry here.”
“I thought that was my job. To wait until I see that little tick in your jaw and then say something to make it go away. Defuse the tension and all that.” He pointed to Karen’s still visibly-clenched jaw, eyebrows raised.
“Your job is to point and shoot, my friend.” Karen reached out and tapped his camera. “My job is to not fuck things up.”
And that job was extra important on this particular day: the 2012 World Boxing Association Convention.
Karen had been working as a sports reporter for CBS NY for a little over a year, and this was the first time she’d been sent to an event as important as the WBA convention. And the first time she’d been assigned to cover boxing. No matter what happened, she was not going to fuck it up; she’d worked too hard for this chance to let anything sour it.
When she’d graduated a little over a year ago from Columbia University, earning her M.S. in Broadcast Journalism, Karen had immediately set out looking for jobs as a sports reporter. While the rest of her colleagues from the program were still hemming and hawing about what field they wanted to enter, there was never any question in Karen’s mind about what she was meant to be. She was a pure sports fanatic—basketball, baseball, hockey, soccer, tennis, boxing—you name it, and Karen was probably into it; could talk about it for hours, ad nauseum. It was a by-product both of growing up in a rural town which, like most rural towns, worshipped their athletic teams, and spending all of her time with an older brother and a father who were very into the ideal of the strong, male athlete. Her entire childhood, when she looked back at it now, felt like one long string of Saturdays spent sitting in front of the TV, wedged between Kevin and her dad, watching sports. (The memories were bittersweet—though more bitter than sweet these days—for a number of reasons).
And yet, despite the fact that she was practically a walking encyclopedia of statistics and sports history, finding a job in her chosen field had proven very, very difficult. For months after graduating, she’d lived on the paltry wages of a bartender while searching for work. But none of the respectable newsrooms wanted a female sports reporter—especially one with an actual brain in their head. She’d received so many rejection letters, that she could have wallpapered her bedroom with them. Of course, she’d also received numerous offers from sites like Barstool Sports, who were looking for a blonde willing to wear skimpy clothes and interview athletes about their love lives. She’d turned them down—hard.
It had been a rough few months, as friends and family alike had begged her to look for any other kind of job. To take a post as an anchor for a local channel, or work as an administrative assistant in one of the big newsrooms—anything to get her foot in the door. But Karen had said no—it was either a position as a sports reporter, or nothing.
Her only saving grace had been her friendship with Trish Walker, her old roommate from the undergrad years at Columbia, who was currently working as a head anchor at CBS NY Nightly News. When a position in the sports department had popped up, Trish had gone straight to Mitchell Ellison, the sports news director, and had lobbied hard for Karen. Luckily, Trish was enough of a big name at the station to have some pull.
And when Karen got that call from Ellison—the one she’d been waiting and hoping for—she’d been ecstatic. Overwhelmed; the way people are wont to feel when their dreams seem to be coming true. She’d gone out that night and bought Trish the most expensive bottle of champagne she could reasonably afford. Her enthusiasm, however, was incredibly short-lived, because working for CBS NY sports news was nothing like she’d imagined it would be.
First of all, Ellison only seemed to trust her with the most boring, pointless stories. Fluff pieces about semi-famous golfers donating a bunch of clubs to a children’s center; interviews with no-longer-relevant baseball players reminiscing about their days in Yankee stadium; coverage of events like the Rangers’ Family Day, in which she interviewed hockey WAGs about what it was like being married to a famous athlete. It was obvious discrimination—only giving her human interest stories that he clearly felt were within the “female” scope of reporting. (Despite Karen begging—begging—to cover sports like boxing; to let her unleash some of her considerable know-how on an assignment actually worth a damn).
And secondly, when she was allowed to interview real, honest-to-god athletes, they treated her like she had the plague. It was like pulling teeth, getting the short stop for the Mets to talk to her, or convincing the coach of the Knicks to look her way. Eventually, the only other female sports reporter that Karen knew—Danica Stewart from NBC—pulled her aside with a little advice. Apparently, Karen’s elegant chignon and pressed, silk blouses weren’t doing her any favors. The athletes wouldn’t talk to her as long as she looked like an outsider—like some strict schoolmarm there to scold them. All her high heels and red lipstick were doing was reminding them that she was a woman, which, apparently, was not conducive to getting good interview material. It had rankled at her—the idea that her appearance was the only thing keeping athletes from talking to her—but the advice had rung true. Sports, no matter what sport you were talking about, was a boy’s club. And that meant that she had to fashion herself in such a way as to appeal to the boys.
And thus began the era of the “Cool Girl.” Of wearing jerseys and jeans and sneakers; backwards baseball caps and war paint on her face. Of pretending to like Adam Sandler movies and laughing whenever an athlete made a crude joke. It felt a bit like selling her damn soul, sure, but as soon as Karen adopted the stance of the cool girl—who could hang and throw back beers—athletes started actually talking to her. Not treating her any better, or with any measure of respect, mind you, but at least talking to her. In a way that Jess back at the station could edit together to create a cohesive interview for air. Her stock began to rise—marginally.
Which was how she ended up finally getting the opportunity to cover the WBA convention. Well, that and the fact that the Anderson Fray, the guy to usually cover these events, was out with mono.
“Don’t worry, Kare.” Foggy bumped into her as he swerved to avoid a large, brawny man walking around with what looked like his girlfriend on his shoulders. “You won’t fuck it up. And even if you do, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll just go back to covering golf!”
“Wow. Great pep talk, Fog.” Karen ducked to evade the blows of a very drunk boxing fan, who was swinging his arms around in an imitation of a jab.
“I try.” Foggy shrugged. He’d been her assigned camera man since day one, and it had been the only good thing about the job. No matter how shitty things got, at least Karen always had a friend at her back. Or, in this case, smooshed against her side.
They were shoulder-to-shoulder, squeezing through the crowds of the over-packed convention center, which was filled with booths selling boxing gear and merch, or else little pop-up stands with energy drinks and various kinds of no-doubt horrible alcohol (Mountain Dew Smirnoff? Yikes.). Foggy hated conventions—of any kind—as they always seemed to bring out the most overzealous of the sports fans. But a boxing convention was his nightmare. So much Ed Hardy—everywhere he looked, more Ed Hardy. Of course, he should have known what the crowd was going to be like the second he stepped into the parking lot; he’d counted twelve window stickers of Calvin peeing on the backs of souped-up trucks. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why Karen loved the sport so much.
“Okay, so here’s how it’s going to go.” Mr. Manager, whose name tag read ‘Antoni,’ led Karen and Foggy down a side hallway, drawing them away from the mass of bodies gathered in the main lobby of the stadium. “We’ve got some of the boxers in the press room, sitting behind a table—panel style. Reporters lined up outside. You’ll have a few minutes to prep them for your questions before you start rolling, then as soon as the camera’s on, you got five minutes to interview. Okay, dollface?” He turned to look at Karen over his shoulder. She bit her lip so hard she was sure it was going to bleed.
“Perfect. Thanks.” The sugary coating on her voice was beginning to wear thin. Foggy shot her a glance, somewhere between sympathetic and warning.
“Alright. Well, this is where I leave you.” Antoni led them down one more hallway, turning to deposit them in front of the press room, where a line of reporters and camera men were already waiting.
“Uh thanks,” Karen nodded to Antoni’s back, as he was already walking away. She took a deep breath before facing the gathered reporters, many of whom she recognized. And did not particularly like. Just a row of inoffensive, Chad-looking assholes with their perfect, white teeth and spray tans.
“Woah, hey guys! Look at little Karen, finally covering some real action!” Brad Whittington, of Fox News, was the first to spot her, jabbing his elbow into the guy next to him and pointing her direction with a jerk of his chin.
Karen’s hands flexed at her sides.
“So they bumped you up from baby puff pieces, huh?” Another reporter, whose name Karen had purposely forgotten, raised his brow at her.
“I don’t know if you’re ready to handle the real shit, darling. Some of these boxers can be tough cases. Not your usual beat.” A crew cut with a smirk spoke up. “I know you’re used to interviewing your little tennis players and soccer stars.” The derision in his voice was maddening.
But Karen ignored them all, gesturing for Foggy to follow her as she stood at the back of the line, avoiding eye contact as she went. She’d learned, very early on, that the best way to deal with these assholes was to pretend they didn’t exist. Now, it wasn’t her preferred way—her preferred way involved a little bit of verbal carnage. But she knew the second she opened her mouth, it would be over. Her reputation would be ruined. So it was better to just go on, head-down and mouth closed, as much as it hurt her to do.
“Ah, leave her alone.” Drew Wash, Brad’s camera man at Fox, shook his head. “Poor thing’s probably intimidated enough as it is. Don’t need to pile on to her, huh?” He shot Karen a pitying smile, giving her a thumb’s up. Somehow, it was more infuriating than the shit talk from the other guys.
“See, this never happens to us when we cover golf.” Foggy leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I love golf. Everyone is so nice when we do golf.”
“For the last time, Fog,” Karen nudged him in the side, a little sharply, “I am not going to start asking for more golf assignments.”
“Your loss.” He grumbled, shifting his camera from one shoulder to the other.
Karen opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by the door to the press room swinging open; a man dressed in a navy suit and sporting a Prime Time haircut stepped out, trailed by a camera guy.
“Hey, Alex!” Brad pushed off the wall to get Navy Suit’s attention. “What’s the atmosphere like in there, huh?”
“Uh, well it’s Marshall Lee, Grant Hass, and Frank Castle. So you can probably guess what that’s like.” Navy Suit—Alex—shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. Karen squinted at him for a moment, trying to place him. He was from one of the smaller, local channels, she knew that much. But she wasn’t sure which one.
“Let me guess—Marshall and Grant cracking jokes the whole time and Castle sitting there stone-faced, as per usual?”
“Yep. Think I got one syllable out of Castle the whole time.”
“Jesus. Why do they keep picking him for these panels?” Brad sighed, slumping back against the wall.
“Because he’s well on his way to the number one spot, Whittington. He may be a surly asshole, but the guy can box.” Alex rocked back on his heels, looking over his shoulder at his camera man, who was turning down the hallway. “Well good luck.”
“Yeah. Gonna need it with Castle for sure.”
Karen’s heart rate ticked up as she followed the conversation, spiking when she heard Frank Castle’s name mentioned. She’d thought—hoped—that she’d get a chance to meet him, but she hadn’t banked on it.
Frank Castle was the hot-ticket boxer on everyone’s lips. He’d shown up on the circuit about a year ago—out of absolutely nowhere—and had taken the WBA by storm. Part of his appeal was the fact that he was so damn versatile; nobody could agree on the style of boxer he was. Some matches, he was pure counterpuncher: stunning footwork, ring smarts, playing defensively. And other times he was all slugger—relentless power, damn the finesse and damn the strategy, he was out for blood. But no matter how he chose to box, his style was explosive. Raw voltage the likes of which the WBA hadn’t seen in years.
With a trainer that nobody had ever heard of, and managed by the most obscure company in the game, his rapid ascent to stardom had been the intrigue of the hour. There were rumors, as there always were with the upstarts, that he’d come up through the underground circuit. Or that he’d been in prison, and had learned how to box from the inmates. Or, alternatively, that he was an ex-Marine, who’d taken up fighting overseas. None of the rumors could be confirmed, though, because Castle was notoriously private. Nobody even knew if the guy had a family. But that didn’t stop the rumor mill from buzzing like crazy.
Karen had followed his career obsessively, watching his matches in between rounds at the PGA Tour and looking up his stats when she should have been doing research on whichever retired tennis player Ellison wanted her to interview. To say she was a fan would be an understatement—the man was a god in the ring. Had earned the name “The Punisher” due to how many of his opponents got carried out on a stretcher.
And now she’d have the opportunity to interview him. It was all a little overwhelming. Glancing over at Foggy, who had been fiddling with the settings on his camera, she took a deep breath. She could do this.
Frank was tired. Not physically tired, as he tended to be after a day of Curtis training him into the ground, but mentally tired. The way he felt after sitting through endless, draining interviews. One after the other—all the same—fussy looking guys with perfectly-coiffed hair and pressed suits, asking him about what he thinks his chances are in his upcoming match against who the fuck ever.
It was exhausting. Press was the worst part of his job—trying not to lose his mind at getting the same “hard hitting” questions over and over again, as if anyone really cared about his answers. Nobody wanted to hear him speak—to hear what he had to say. They just wanted to watch him box; to see his fists fly. And that was just the goddamn truth.
“You know, we haven’t had one chick reporter all day.” Grant, who was sitting to Frank’s left, grumbled.
“I bet if we were fucking baseball players or some shit, we’d have lady reporters around here all the time.” Marshall, lounging carelessly in his chair at Frank’s right, piped up.
“Yeah. But nobody wants to send in the babes to talk to our ugly mugs. We’d just scare them off. Especially Castle over there.” Grant folded a paper football out of the interview schedule that had been sitting on the table in front of him all day, flicking it off of the raised dias where they sat. It fell limply to the middle of the floor.
Jesus Christ. Frank clenched his fists under the table. The other terrible part about sitting for press was dealing with the assholes he called his colleagues. Trying to tamp down his natural instinct to start some shit every time they opened their mouths and something unbearably idiotic popped out. He had a reputation for being laconic and unsociable—for keeping to himself—but who could blame him when Grant Hass and Marshall Lee were the only people he had to talk to? He’d rather cut his tongue out than go with them to whatever douchey bar they were sure to frequent after their matches. (He’d seen the pictures they posted on Instagram, of shot girls pouring liquor down their throats as they tore their shirts off on top of a table. Not his scene.)
The door to the press room opened, and both Marshall and Grant shifted forward in their seats, expectantly. It was the final interview of the day, and they were eager to get it over with.
“Fuck. Spoke too soon.” Marshall whispered under his breath.
Frank looked up, and almost did a double take. Blonde hair, blue eyes, legs for miles; dressed in jeans and a WBA t-shirt, the woman looked less like a reporter and more like a boxing fan’s fantasy come to life. Her eyes scanned the table, flitting over Grant and Marshall quickly, then settling on him for a moment. Her smile ticked upward, then she looked away. Frank instantly felt a spike of something unfamiliar in his gut—something that felt a little bit like dread—Marshall and Grant were going to eat this one alive. Following behind her in that dutiful way camera men had was a stocky blonde with a nervous look on his face.
“Well, well, well.” By the tone of his voice, Frank could tell that Hass was about the say something terrible. But then again, when wasn’t Hass saying something terrible? “It ain’t my birthday, so who ordered the stripper?” Grant leaned forward, placing his chin into his palm and leering at the woman, who glanced up sharply. She smiled, but Frank noticed it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the smile of someone hiding another reaction—desperately.
“Sorry, boys, but I’m just here to ask questions.” Her voice was saccharine, but curt. Something sharp underneath. She climbed up onto the dias where the table was set up, panel-style, and took a seat in the interviewer’s chair. He saw her about to cross one leg over the other, but she seemed to rethink the move, instead planting both feet on the ground, steadying. Her back was ramrod straight—uncomfortable. “Karen Page, from CBS NY.” She pointed to her press pass.
“Well, pretty Karen, I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time after the questions to get to know each other, huh?” Marshall shifted forward as well, his eyes glued to the reporter.
“We’ll see. Who knows?” Karen brushed him off with a wink, but it seemed forced. Her grin cracking at the edges. Frank—always a keen eye—caught it all. “Now we just have a few minutes for me to prep you for your questions, so let’s—”
She was cut off by Marshall.
“I only have one question for you. And it’s very important, so I’m going to need an answer,” he put on his smarmiest grin. “You seeing anyone right now? A boyfriend? Husband? Fuck buddy?”
Karen paused, taking a deep breath, then pasted a smile on her face. “You know, that sounds like a discussion for after the interview, huh? Right now I want to focus on asking some questions about your style against—”
“Oooh, she evades the question.” Grant leaned around Frank to raise a brow at Marshall. “I think that means no.”
“Which means I’ve got a shot, huh?” Marshall nodded to himself. And Frank fought the urge to smack him across the head. But it wasn’t worth it, he reminded himself. Engaging in any kind of physical altercation outside of the ring was grounds for disqualification. No matter how badly he wanted to knock the smirk off of Lee’s fucking face.
Karen shifted in her seat, feeling her jaw begin to tick in that way that always prefaced a blow up. She shot a glance at Foggy, who had paused in setting up his tripod to level her with a sympathetic look.
Frank watched the exchange, and noted with interest the spark of rage he could see seething behind her eyes. But when she turned back to look at Grant and Marshall, it was with a plastic grin. Eyes almost glazed. Interesting.
“I’m curious, Mr. Hass, about the way that your style seemed to shift from a focus on footwork to an attempt at slugging in the past few—”
“Oh, come on, why are we talking about boxing when Marshall here is clearly trying to see if you’re single or not? You’re no fun.” Grant waved off her attempts to prep him for her questions, sitting back with a huff.
Frank observed the play of emotions on the reporter’s face—nostrils flaring, tips of her ears turning red, corners of her mouth flicking down. Then she seemed to force herself to visibly relax—one muscle at a time. And the plastic smile was back.
“Aww, I’m sorry, boys. You know how it is. Gotta get the business out of the way first.” There was something flirty in her voice—but synthetic. Like a waitress trying to get a big tip out of a dirty old man. It sent an unpleasant sensation crawling across Frank’s skin.
He crossed his arms, puzzled by the woman, who was clearly fighting down a not insignificant amount of violence. Glancing at Grant, then at Marshall, he noticed they both seemed pleased by her response, oblivious to any tension under her surface.
“Now, if we could just—” Karen opened her mouth again, but was cut off by someone sticking their head in through the press door. It was Grant and Marshall’s manager—a slimy little man with a penchant for Bolero ties.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he spoke up. “But Mr. Hass and Mr. Lee have a five minute break written in to the contract when they’ve been interviewing for more than two hours. So they’re going to go ahead and take that now.”
Karen looked like she was ready to explode—or implode, Frank couldn’t decide—as she nodded pleasantly.
“Of course, of course.” Her smile was mild as she turned back at Grant and Marshall. “You go ahead and take your break. We’ll start the interview afterwards.”
She didn’t wait for a response before she was out of her seat and rushing to the side door—the one that led to the alleyway outside. She needed some fresh fucking air.
Frank watched as the cameraman followed her.
There was a pause, then:
“Well, this certainly is going to be fun.” Grant leaned back, smirking, arms behind his head.
“Did you see that ass? Like you could bounce a quarter off of it.” Marshall threw in his clearly-valuable two cents.
“God, what I wouldn’t give to—”
Frank stood up, his chair screeching across the floor, before Grant could finish his sentence. If he sat there for a moment longer, he was sure he wouldn’t be able to control his actions. Lee and Hass were in-fucking-sufferable. Without turning to look at either of his colleagues, he made his way to the side door the reporter had disappeared through. He pressed a hand to the knob, opening it a crack, and could hear her angry voice from down the alley a ways.
“I swear to fucking God, Fog. The next asshole to call me ‘baby’ is getting his ass kicked. I won’t be responsible for my actions. Patronizing pieces of shit, treating me like human meat. Did you know I have a fucking Master’s degree in sports journalism? A Master’s degree! All so some assholes who can take a punch can ask me about my personal life and leer at me as if I’m some fucking object for sale?!”
Frank glanced over his shoulder, and saw Hass and Lee disappearing through an opposite door—the one that led to the bathroom.
“Karen, calm down. Please.” The camera man’s voice was pleading. “You were the one who was so adamant about taking this job. We just have to get through five minutes with those douchebags, then we’re home free.”
“I know, I know!” Karen’s voice was a huff. Then she let out a muffled screeching noise, as though screaming with her hands over her mouth. There was a pause; heavy breathing, then: “I’m okay, I’ve got this. I’ve got this.” She didn’t sound at all convinced of her own mantra.
Frank hesitated a moment. As a rule, he tried not to go out of his way to speak to reporters. But he felt bad for the woman—Lee and Hass had been out of line talking to her that way. And, to be quite honest, he was fucking tired of listening to them jerk around like teenagers. Somebody needed to put them in their place.
He looked over his shoulder again, double-checking that the room was clear, then pushed the door open completely. Two heads whipped his way instantly, and he saw Karen’s eyes grow wide, face blanching when she realized who he was. He stepped into the alley, hands in his pockets, and just stared at her for a moment. She looked horrified, no doubt embarrassed that he’d overheard her little meltdown.
Nobody said a word. In fact, the camera man—Foggy—looked almost frozen in place.
“Can I, uh…offer some advice?” His voice sounded a little rusty in his ears. He’d been actively avoiding speaking all day, just to piss off the smarmy interviewers with their Invisalign grins.
Karen and Foggy exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke, so Frank continued.
“Uh, look, Miss Page.” He tilted his head toward her. “You don’t have to sit there and take that shit from ‘em, huh? Clearly you got some fire in ya. You can let ‘em have it.”
He watched as Karen’s eyes shaded with something dark—something raw—a glimpse at what appeared to be years of suppressed fire leaking through. It was a look that had Frank’s pulse spiking; the look of a dangerous woman.
But she didn’t speak. Just continued to hold his gaze. Foggy’s eyes darted back and forth between the two, confused.
“All I’m sayin’ is…” Frank trailed off, shrugging noncommittally. “You don’t have to be this…thing that you think you gotta be. With the smiles and the flirting. Fuck that.” He glanced away with a frown. “Anyway, that’s all I had to say.”
He waited for a moment, but nobody spoke. They just continued to stare at him like he was some strange creature. So he shuffled on his feet before turning and walking back into the press room.
Karen waited until the door had clanged to a close behind him before wheeling on Foggy, the look on her face somewhere between pleased and horrified.
“What the fuck?” She whisper-yelled. “Did Frank Castle just tell me to grow a pair and put those dicks in their place?”
“Uh,” Foggy ran a hand through his hair. “I think he did. So…what are you gonna do?”
“Well,” Karen paused, as though considering. “I think I’m going to grow a pair and put those dicks in their place.”
When Karen walked back into the press room, followed by her cameraman, Frank noticed immediately the change in her stance. Shoulders thrown back; eyes blazing. Oh, this was going to be good.
Marshall attempted to greet her with a smirk as she took her seat, but she ignored him, instead turning to the camera and adjusting the clipped-on mic at her chest.
“Foggy. Give me the signal when you’re ready.” She nodded curtly, her mouth just this side of grim.
Marshall and Grant exchanged a confused look—what had happened to the smiling, flirty reporter from before? She hadn’t even spared a glance their way.
“Alright, we’re going in 5, 4, 3...” Foggy trailed off, mouthing the last few numbers.
“I’m Karen Page with CBS NY, here at the Barclays convention center with Grant Hass, Marshall Lee, and Frank Castle, who are all here to—”
“To kick ass and take names,” Grant interrupted, winking into Foggy’s camera. There was a moment’s pause, in which Karen’s head swiveled slowly toward Grant, her eyes heated.
“I don’t believe I was done speaking. I would appreciate it if you would let me finish a thought before jumping in. Thank you.”
Frank bit back a grin. He could have heard a pin drop in the ensuing silence. Grant darted a perplexed look to Marshall, who shook his head in confusion.
“As I was saying,” Karen continued, “all three are here promoting the upcoming WBA championship, in which they will compete. Now Mr. Lee—” Karen turned sharply to Marshall, who almost flinched under her gaze. “I’ve been watching your matches recently, and am wondering if you’re at all concerned about going up against such a powerful box puncher like Michael Henton in the first championship round?”
“Well, sweetheart,” Marshall slipped into a smirk, drawing out the syllables on the pet name. “I’m not worried about anything. I’m a tough guy, y’know, I can take whatever is sent my way.” He threw in a wink, because his answer hadn’t been significantly douchey enough. “I handle myself, darlin’, don’t you worry about that.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Karen tilted her head in faux-innocence. “Very interesting answer. Because I was looking through the tapes of your match against Andre Vic a few weeks ago, and I noticed you throwing up a lot of overhand punches—a hit which requires perfect timing and a strong defensive back. And every blow Vic managed to land was due to poor timing on those overhands. Now Vic, as you know, is more of an out-boxer, so his jabs weren’t hitting you as hard as I imagine Henton’s will if you insist on tossing in those overhands.”
This time Frank couldn’t bite back his smile, and felt it split his face. Damn, but she got his number.
There was a beat of silence, in which he could practically see Marshall’s brain recalibrating. The asshole hadn’t been expecting that.
“Well, you see, I don’t think—” Marshall stuttered to reply. “You know those overhand punches pack a lot of power, and—”
“Well sure they do.” Karen cut him off. “If you can time them perfectly so as not to leave yourself exposed to a fighter with a mean cross, like Henton.”
“But, see, you—” Marshall continued to grasp for words, and Grant started laughing.
“Damn, Marshall. She got you there.” He snickered, sliding down in his seat, shoulders shaking.
Karen’s eyes swung to Grant, harshly, and Frank knew something good was coming.
“I don’t know that I’d be laughing at Mr. Lee, Mr. Hass,” she spoke, her voice sounding almost prim. “You were doing a whole of clinching in your last match with Henton, if I recall. Trying to save yourself some recovery time after all those solid hooks he landed on you.” Her eyes were ice. “Ref spent more time pulling you out of a hold than he did anything else.”
Grant’s jaw dropped, and he was instantly sitting up in his seat, stiffening defensively, eyes wide.
“Woah, woah, woah,” he balked. “Did you see that uppercut in the second round? I had him with that—he was reeling for a good three seconds after that blow.”
“Sure, yeah,” Karen conceded, dipping her head. “But the way it glanced off of him sent you off balance as well. A solid few seconds of stumbling to regain your ground, if I recall. Now that’s fine when you’re working with Henton, who isn’t the best at footwork. But if you’re going to pull that move on Jeffries in the championship, I guarantee you he’s going to be planted much more solidly into the canvas.”
Frank was snickering—he couldn’t help it. God, it was beautiful, watching Grant and Marshall caught so off-guard.
“What about Castle?!” Grant jabbed a finger in his direction. “You got anything smart to say about Castle?”
Karen’s buttery smile was back, as she turned to look at Frank. They locked eyes for a moment, and the corner of his mouth ticked upwards.
“Mr. Castle,” Karen’s voice gentled. “I noticed that, while earlier in your career you focused a lot on blocking and parrying punches, recently you’ve been defaulting to slipping in your matches. Have you been training with a greater focus on dexterity in the past few months?”
“What?!” Marshall exploded. “You’re not going to call him out on something, too?”
Karen ignored Lee’s outburst, eyes trained on Frank.
“Well,” Frank cleared his throat, leaning in toward the microphone on the table. “You got a real keen eye, Miss Page. My trainer, Curtis, has actually been focusing on getting me to play defensive for the last few matches. Tone down the power—work on reading the ring.”
“Hmm, interesting.” Karen nodded, still ignoring the slack-jawed looks from Grant and Marshall. “So moving away from the slugging style a bit? Probably a good strategy if you’re going to be fighting Spence in the future.”
“Exactly,” Frank nodded. “Especially since he’ll be the first Southpaw I’m going up against.”
“Oh, that’s right. Because you haven’t fought McClane yet, either.” Karen bobbed her head. “It’ll certainly be an interesting match, then.”
“Counting on it.” Frank leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
Foggy gave a signal which meant they had ten seconds left on their segment. Karen acknowledged him with a dip of the head.
“Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have here. It certainly is looking like it will be an interesting championship this year. Can’t wait to cover it for you. I’m Karen Page with CBS NY sports, signing off.”
The room was silent—dead silent—with the flavor of the crypt in the air. Then all of the sudden Frank was laughing; really, truly laughing. A deep, gut-clenching kind of noise.
Grant and Marshall both shot him purely toxic looks, glaring.
“Shut the fuck up, Castle.” Grant muttered, shoving back from his chair and running a hand through his hair in a huff. “Just because she didn’t roast your ass.”
Frank shook his head, still chuckling to himself. Damn it, but he really couldn’t stop. The angrier they looked, the funnier it was.
“She had a point, though, Grant. About your uppercut.” Marshall stood up as well, shrugging. “It was a risky move, and you didn’t land it right.” Grant wheeled on him in an instant.
“Oh, well don’t get me started about all those damned overhands you been throwing.” He jabbed Marshall in the chest. “You’re out there showing off like you’re some fresh fighter. You should know better.”
Karen ignored the fracas on the stage, and proceeded to gather up all of her materials quietly, a tiny smile pulling the corners of her mouth. She motioned for Foggy that it was time to make a subtle exit, and thanked her lucky stars that they were the last interviewers of the day. She didn’t want to pick up any heat for riling up the talent before the others could get to them.
Marshall and Grant continued to argue with one another, voices gaining in volume, as Karen and Foggy made to slip away quietly out the side door. Right before she disappeared into the alley way, Karen glanced over her shoulder and caught Frank’s eye. He was watching her, arms crossed, a grin on his face. And something that looked a whole lot like admiration in his eyes.
“Oh my god, Karen. What the hell did you do to those guys?” Jess removed the headphones from her ears, looking up from the monitor where she had been playing and replaying Karen’s WBA interview for the last ten minutes.
“Eh, nothing that they didn’t deserve.” Karen leaned back in her wheelie chair, propping her feet up on the switch board of the editing room. Jess glared at her, knocking her feet away. “I just put them in their places is all.”
“This is going to be such a pain to edit.” Jess groaned, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know how to make this look good, Kare, especially for you.”
“Then don’t.” Karen shrugged, picking up a stress ball and tossing it from hand to hand.
“I’m sorry, what?!” Jess turned to her sharply, eyebrow raised. “Did little miss perfect-smile, always-happy, see-how-likable-I-am just say that I don’t need to make her look good on TV?”
Karen bobbed her head in a nod. “Yep.”
“Jesus. I think I’m hallucinating. Or losing my mind.” Jess faux-gasped. “Or both!”
“Wouldn’t hallucinating mean you’re already losing your mind, or…?”
“Shut up! Not the point!” Jess jabbed the re-wind button on the control panel, rolling back to the beginning of the interview. “The point is—if I let this interview go, as is, it’s totally not going to play with your image. You come out of this looking like a real ballbuster. Not the chill, guy’s girl you are in all your other pieces.”
“Fine. Then that’s what it is. Let it play.” Karen’s voice was hard; adamant. And it had Jess glancing at her in confusion. “I’m so fucking tired of trying to be this—this—this thing that I’m not, Jess. I am a ballbuster. So fuck it.” She was beginning to work herself up. “And speaking of—why is it that a woman who demands a little respect is a ballbuster? If Anderson shut down an athlete for interrupting him during an interview, he’d be a boss!”
“Yeah, Karen. You discovered sexism exists. Congratulations.” Jess deadpanned. “It’s not like you didn’t know this job was ground zero for male chauvinists.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’m just tired of it!” Karen stood up, filled with vim. Then, realizing she had nowhere to go, sat down again. “I’m tired of playing the game like they want me to play it. Pretending that I don’t mind being called ‘honey,’ or that jokes about a woman’s ass are funny. I’m not doing that shit anymore.”
Jess sighed. “Are you sure about this, Kare? This isn’t something you can take back. If I send this interview to air the way it is, you’re not coming out of it looking like the cool girl anymore.”
“Fuck the cool girl.” Karen spat. “Send it as it is.”
Jess eyed her for a moment, unsure. But Karen’s look brokered no argument.
“Okay.” Jess sighed, shaking her head. “Ballsy move, Page.”
“Yeah, well I’m a ballsy girl, Jones.”
As soon as the interview aired on the 6 o’clock news that Friday night, the reaction was explosive. Unprecedented. Sitting at home, going over her schedule for the next week, Karen’s phone had begun blowing up instantly—calls and texts from coworkers and friends, all freaking out about her WBA segment. She’d turned her phone off, not wanting to deal with the repercussions that she was certain were coming her way for just a few more days.
Almost overnight, clips of her snapping at Hass and Lee had been picked up by alternative news sources, like Buzzfeed and Jezebel. Being retweeted with titles like “Sports Reporter Destroys Boxers With Expert Opinion” and “Watch This Woman Put A Man in His Place After He Interrupts Her Interview.” She was being made into memes—screenshots of her glaring at Hass with sassy phrases written over them circulating Facebook, Reddit, and Tumblr. (A subset of boxing fans with keen eyes had started cutting together segments from the interview titled “Frank Castle Actually Smiles” and passing it around on boxing forums).
By the time she walked into work the following Monday, she was a certified internet celebrity (not that it really meant much, in a world where memes lost their potency within weeks).
“Oh my god,” Trish grabbed her arm as soon as she stepped into the newsroom, dragging her into her office and closing the door. “What the fuck, Karen? Why didn’t you warn me about the interview before hand? I had watch it on air for the first time in the middle of the broadcast. Do you know how hard it was to keep from losing my shit when they rolled that footage?”
“Sorry,” Karen shrugged, grinning, as she plopped down on the couch Trish had pushed to the side wall of her office.
“Sorry?! Come on—that was brilliant!” Trish threw her hands up. “Seeing you rip into those guys; it gave me life, Kare.”
“Yeah, well…” Karen sighed. “Let’s just hope it didn’t ruin my entire career in the process.”
As if on cue, there was a knock at Trish’s door.
“Uh, is Miss Page in there? Ellison is asking for her in his office?” It was the intern, sounding mousier than ever.
Trish and Karen glanced at each other.
“Oh shit.” Karen stood up slowly. “Time to face the music, I guess.”
“Good luck.” Trish grimaced, and it was not at all comforting.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Ellison was sitting behind his desk, fingers steepled together, a grim look on his face. As soon as Karen walked in, she knew she was not going to like what he had to say.
“Sit.” He gestured at the empty chair opposite his desk. Dropping her purse on the floor, Karen lowered herself into the seat, reticent, eyes glued to Ellison. He was avoiding her gaze, frowning in the middle distance.
There was a beat of silence.
“So…” Ellison sighed, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head.
“So…” Karen repeated, biting her lip.
“That stunt you pulled with the WBA interview? Wildly unprofessional.”
Karen’s heart dropped into her stomach. She wanted to argue—to say that the way she had been treated by Hass and Lee was beyond unprofessional, but she didn’t. Instead, she held her tongue—bitterly.
“I’m sorry, I—”
Ellison cut her off with a raised hand, and Karen decided that she needed to keep a tally of how many times she found herself interrupted by men in a day.
“You know that if you personally burn bridges with any of the athletes you are sent to interview, it is as good as burning those bridges for the entire network.” He was in lecture mode. “Which is why the number one rule we have is to cater to the talent, Karen. You don’t have Trish Walker’s job, where you’re there to bully and prod and ask the hard-hitting questions. You are a sports reporter—you’re there to get sound bites and give the athletes a warm, happy feeling every time they hear the name CBS NY.”
Karen’s fingers flexed on her lap, and it took an inhuman amount of strength to keep them from balling into fists.
“Now, I want you to know that I was ready to fire you on the spot the moment that clip played last Friday.”
Fuck. Karen’s heart picked up a stuttering beat in her chest. This was not sounding good—not at all.
“But, luckily for you, one of the producers stepped in and said that I couldn’t.” His voice was just slightly hostile. “Apparently, your little interview tripled the number of hits our website has had over the past few days. God help me, but people really liked it.”
She released a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.
“Again, I want to reiterate that, had it been my choice, you would be clearing out your desk. I do not appreciate my reporters going rogue behind my back.” The look he leveled her way was severe. “But ultimately it’s not up to me. And the fact that your interview went viral is the only thing saving your hide. Are we clear?”
“Yes sir.” She dipped her head in acknowledgement.
“Good. Now get out of my office. You’ve got a new assignment on your desk.”