The Slot: A Rochester Riot Sports Romance Read Free

the TV station, but it was too late now. The construction zone where Sheehan’s whiskey bar was going up alongside Rochester Arena had traffic jammed up both in front and behind her with no escape route. As the line of cars inched ahead, she could see the holdup. A group of people were on the street, waving and shouting, some carrying placards as though they were on strike.
    She didn’t want to be late for her interview with local sportscaster Michelle Batiste, but as she drew closer and saw the crowd harassing the construction workers, she maneuvered her car to the curb and got out. The sidewalk had already been cordoned off for safety, and she strode underneath the canopy of scaffolding toward the main site with all the commotion. She spotted the foreman’s white hardhat amid the crew, who were taking down the forms from the freshly cured concrete.
    “Excuse me,” she caught the man’s attention. “I’m Eloise Robertson, I work for the Riot. What’s going on here?”
    The foreman turned to her, the name WALTERS stenciled on the front of his hardhat.
    “Stan Walters,” he said, shaking her hand. “Say, if you’ve got any pull with the front office, can you get these locals to back off? They’re disrupting my workers, and we can’t afford to get off schedule. If Murphy starts losing money, it’s my ass.”
    Eloise looked past him at the angry crowd. A man waved a cardboard sign that read unfair to small biz. “What do they want?”
    Stan shook his head. “Something about the re-zoning law and restricted access. They think Murphy’s new bar will hurt their businesses because of more noise and impeded traffic. Right now, they’re the ones causing noise and traffic jams.”
    Eloise frowned. “They have a right to express themselves, it’s a free country. And they do have some valid concerns. Their livelihoods might be affected by this project.”
    “That’s their problem, not mine,” Stan said. “I have to answer to Murphy, so I need these people to clear out.”
    He moved off in the direction of his crew and started shouting orders. Eloise glanced around at the scene, doubting there was much she could do to help. Plus, she had to be at the station in half an hour. With a sigh, she turned and walked back to her car.
    ***
    Michelle Batiste exuded the same spirited, amiable persona off-camera as well as on. She laughed and joked with Eloise about the insatiable media machine, the smug, egotistical men in the sports world, and the pitfalls of being an attractive woman in a man’s industry.
    “But I’m just one of the guys around here,” she guffawed, gesturing at the cameramen and other technicians buzzing around the set, getting ready to shoot their interview. A reedy five foot eleven with cocoa-colored skin and a blazing retro afro atop her head, Eloise thought Michelle would have looked just as comfortable on a basketball court as she did behind a sports desk. The woman oozed poise and resilience.
    “What did you do before you went into broadcasting?” Eloise asked.
    “Not a hell of a lot,” Michelle laughed as the two of them settled into the interview chairs. “Other than scare the bejeezus out of my mother who thought she’d raised a giraffe on crack. I was big into track and field in high school but gave it up once I discovered a microphone and started doing improv and stand-up. I kinda fell into broadcasting from there. What about you?”
    Eloise cocked her head side to side. “I always knew I’d be in business. I have a masters in business admin from Carlson. I didn’t necessarily know I’d work in community relations for a pro hockey team, it wasn’t my favorite sport growing up. Too caveman. But I’ve been with them ever since I graduated, and I love it. I guess I’ve developed a taste for it.”
    “Just like McDonalds, eh?” Michelle quipped, then looked up as the sound tech cued her. She nodded and turned to Eloise. “Everyone digs a Big Mac now and again. We’re on in