My heart is palpitating at an alarming rate. “You know how the Roosevelt Island tram got stuck last night?”

“Yes, the story is on page three.”

I nod. “I was on one of those stalled cars with them. It was close quarters.” At a loss for how to explain, I shrug my shoulders all the way to my ears. “I lost my mind.”

For the first time in the month I’ve worked here, Karina is momentarily stunned into silence. “You played hide the eggplant—excuse me, eggplants, plural—with those three slabs of beef right there?”

“It didn’t get that far. No eggplants were hidden.” I bury my face in my hands. “Oh God, you’re never going to take me seriously as a reporter.”

“I didn’t take you seriously as a reporter before, Elise.”

“I was wearing you down,” I say weakly.

She ignores that statement. “Hold on. A couple of witnesses claim Deputy Mayor Alexander was on the tram, but he hasn’t confirmed or denied. You were on Roosevelt Island following him, weren’t you?”

I hum in affirmation.

“Then you deserved to get stuck. That was reckless and stupid and it will not happen again. Do you understand me?” She jabs the air with a finger. “Drop the story or I’ll fire you.”

“Technically, you can’t fire me, I work for the deli.”

She snatches up her phone and begins punching the screen with both thumbs.

“What are you doing?”

“Scheduling a third therapy session.”

“Oh.” I wince, warmth spreading across my shoulder blades. A tingle that tells me I’m being watched—and not just by Banks. “They’re still standing by the entrance, aren’t they?”

“Oh yeah.” She whistles under her breath. “Forget the tuna. Bring me one of them on your sandwich cart on Monday. Any of them will do. I’m not picky.” Suddenly she grabs up her glasses from their resting spot on her desk and puts them on. “Is that…?”

“Tobias Atwater, the adult film star with over one hundred and eighty films in his catalogue at the age of thirty-three. Yes. That’s him.” I might have browsed his Wikipedia page on the train this morning. Just out of curiosity. Gabe’s name turned up nothing, no social media presence whatsoever. When I slapped “Banks Pearson, rugby, coach” into the Google search bar, I gave a cursory scan of his biography which was located on the team website. Very cursory. Hardly remember any of it.

Liar.

Banks, also known as the Duke, is quite a big deal in his own right. With collegiate national titles under his belt as a team captain at Penn State, he’s now the first Black coach in the United States Rugby Union, not to mention the youngest. He rules the sideline for the New York Flare—and he’s undefeated this season.

Not that I memorized any of those details.

“I better go get rid of them,” I mutter, pushing to my feet. There is no way I’m going to make any headway today with Karina, especially with these three clowns posted up by the elevators. How dare they show up to my place of work? What could they possibly want?