The Journalist: Exposure (TJOURN 00)

The Journalist: Exposure

"So, what do you say to the rumors circulating that you're dating again?"

Tom lets out a half laugh, "Nobody wants to know about that." As distraction techniques go, this sort of banter must be expected. Either he'll let something slip about his personal life, or he'll lose a point or two in the game. Hard to say which is the ultimate goal for his opponent right now.

"Yes. Yes they do. Very much."

"They don't. Not really. They think maybe they do, but they don't." Tom spins the table tennis paddle between his palms, enjoying the feel of the resulting puff of air on his skin. This is his game. One he hates losing – but one he loves playing. If only a certain someone would serve the ball. "Why? Guarding your time with me? Jealous?"

That draws a snort of laughter from across the table. "Just doing my job. Gotta ask."

No. Well, maybe yes. Friends do tend to inquire such things. They've had this conversation before, in spurts. Soon they'll get back to enjoying the night, enjoying the game. Tom nods lightly, "Uh-huh. No comment."

"Off the record?"

Ah the tenacity of journalists. Being evasive never works. They scent the story and refuse to yield until you give them something. Tom grins, settling the paddle into one hand before miming a short swing to indicate – PLAY, "Sure. No comment."

"You're no fun, Tom."

"I'm buckets on fun. Play, Dylan, or I'll protest a delay of game!"

Dylan rotates the lightweight ball between his fingers, an air of determination settling over him. "Not asking for intimate details, not even her name – if you want to keep her hidden. Course that fuels everything, but if you want to settle for admitting to type. Blonde? Brunette? Redhead?"

"Play Dylan."

"Tall? Short? In comparison to you, of course. She'd have to be a giantess to be taller."

Tom feels a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead. He half turns away from the table to snag his bottleneck beer from one of the nearby end-tables. There's still the slightest bit of humor in his friend's manner, but it is quickly fading into something else. This late in the day, this tired from working and pouring himself into a role, all he wants is to enjoy the company of a friend. Recently the only friend that seems to be available is Dylan – and usually they find a decent way to unwind... Dylan from his job at the entertainment rag, and Tom from the day's work.

They'd bonded over strange work hours, and the strangeness of the industry in general, settled into a familiar pattern over a selection of brews. On nights they didn't want to brave the crowds they even started avoiding the smaller pubs, settling on Tom's house, which is incidentally how the table tennis competition arose. One simply does not make boasts about being an excellent player without a demonstration to back up their words.

Tom takes a swig of his brew, the bitter taste suddenly not as appealing as it had been earlier. "No comment, Dylan. Come on mate, just play the game." He hears the pop of the ball hitting the paddle and turns to watch it barely make contact with the far corner of his side of the table before bouncing off into the room beyond.

"Point for me." Dylan is just a point down now, though if they were holding to any sort of rules that point would have been deemed unfair. Both parties weren't ready for play. "So you won't give me details about her. Protective. Most will enjoy that."

"Dylan..." Tom stands at the ready now that he's made it back to the table, ready and waiting for the other ball that he knows Dylan to have possession of to come hurtling in his direction. Instead he just gets words.