I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

Chapter 158 Media Day (12K long chapter, please vote and recommend)

Isabella propped her long legs up on the desk, flipping through the stack of documents O'Connor had brought her.

Roderick's life story was broken down into more than a dozen A4 pages.

From birth certificate to death certificate, all the milestones in between are complete: going to school, joining the military, joining the NYPD, promotion, marriage, divorce, and remarriage.

Every node is recorded, and every entry is as clean as if it had been washed with water.

O'Connor, one hand in his pocket, said, "I checked all of Roderick's family relationships—ex-wife, current wife, children, parents, siblings—nothing unusual. He doesn't drive luxury cars, and his bank statements don't show any obvious large sums of money coming in. It's so clean that you can't find any loopholes."

Isabella closed the file, slammed it back onto the table, and scoffed, "Cleanliness is the biggest problem! I don't believe a police superintendent can be that clean."

O'Connor shrugged. "We couldn't find anything. The only suspicious thing was a house on Long Island, far exceeding the price a police inspector's salary could afford. That's probably what he meant by some financial dealings between Samuel and him. But there's no evidence for that now; they're both dead."

Isabella protested, "Then let's investigate even deeper! Let's look into Roderick's circle of friends!"

O'Connor paused, then asked疑惑地, "Isabella, why do you insist on investigating a dead man? This case is closed; we got what we wanted. Further investigation might yield nothing, and might even... uncover things we shouldn't."

O'Connor had no intention of investigating any further.

Is the NYPD investigating cases in order to uphold justice?

of course not!

It's to secure their position.

Now, we've secured our position.

Why continue investigating when you know there's danger involved?

Isabella immediately replied, "I have my reasons."

O'Connor looked at her for a few seconds, as if to say something more, but in the end just shrugged: "OK, you're the chief. I'll have my people continue."

He walked to the door, paused, and turned his head: "Isabella, I won't stop you if you want to investigate, but I advise you to know when to stop."

There are no simple cases when it comes to prohibited weapons.

If the military leader gets angry and actually kills you, the director of the NYPD, what can anyone do about it?

Even the mighty president was helpless, wasn't he?

The door closed.

The office fell silent.

Isabella leaned back in her chair, picked up the stack of documents, and flipped through them for a long time, page by page, trying to glean something from between the lines.

Her eyes ached from looking at it, but she gained nothing; every page was spotless.

There were no missing bills, no obscure notes, and no records that warranted a second glance.

Roderick tidied everything up so well that he left no loose ends even after his death.

This is not normal.

For a normal person, I don't care about the deluge after I die.

He seemed afraid of something, and cleaned up the place thoroughly.

There's definitely something wrong! Isabella threw the file back on the table and rubbed her temples with her fingers.

She stared at the red encrypted satellite phone on the table, having remained silent for the past few days.

Perhaps the Lightning Thorns organization thinks I haven't done a good enough job?

Perhaps they only give us one chance?

Isabella unconsciously rubbed the lightning bolt and thorns symbol on the table.

In the end, all I could do was sigh.

Things that have no outcome shouldn't be dragged on indefinitely.

She needs to focus her energy on areas where progress can be made.

The NYPD must be kept in our own hands.

Brian's political legacy must also be secured, provided that Brian still has a political legacy to inherit.

Recently, Brian has been embroiled in trouble: Anna's sex scandal, delays in the federally pushed NYPD subsidy bill, and obstruction of the city council's push for unlimited powers and Hart Island bills. He also faces a public debate with Marty soon.

High-ranking and powerful people are always like this; they always have endless troubles to solve.

Isabella picked up the landline and dialed Brian's number.

After three rings, Brian answered, "What is it?"

"When are you going to officially start your election campaign? I'm ready and I'm always on your side!" Isabella couldn't wait to get involved in politics.

Brian's tone became clearly displeased: "Don't worry, I have my own plans."

Isabella didn't argue, but instead said, "I can help you win over female voters, and those who distrust you will change their minds because of my identity, Brian. I want to remind you, I'm the first female director of the NYPD! That's a great campaign slogan!"

Brian paused for a moment, silently calculating the risks and rewards.

Isabella is an ambitious bitch, and letting her get involved in her political circle too early will inevitably bring uncontrollable risks.

But Isabella does indeed garner support from female voters.

Faced with a fully buffed Mattie-Haith, Isabella's female identity is still very valuable.

Isabella wasn't in a hurry and waited for Brian to think it over.

Two minutes later, Brian spoke up: "OK, I'll call you for the next event. But you'd better dress presentably, don't look too flashy."

"I know how to be seductive in front of men," Isabella said, a slight smile playing on her lips, her voice regaining its characteristic languid tone. "And of course, I know how to present myself as a reliable female bureau chief to the voters!"

Brian's response returned to its usual cold and restrained tone: "I acknowledge your ability to perform in front of men. But this is your first time facing voters, so don't disappoint me. Isabella, you know how much pressure I'm under; if you mess this up, I won't give you a second chance."

The phone hangs up.

Isabella put down the microphone with satisfaction.

Brian's political legacy?

Let's get through the election first.

Therefore, she is used to eating everything edible first.

Isabella glanced again at the stack of clean, depressing documents, and shoved it sluggishly into the bottom of the drawer.

David Hart stubbed out his last cigar in the ashtray, stood up, and straightened his suit collar.

There was a knock on the office door, and he went to open it himself.

A man in a dark gray suit stood at the door. He was of average height and build, just like any ordinary person you would see on the street.

He wasn't carrying a briefcase or wearing any jewelry. The only thing that made him memorable was his face—completely expressionless, as if it had been molded.

"Mr. Marshall! Welcome! Welcome!" David Hart extended his hand warmly.

Marshall remained expressionless.

David Hart didn't care. Even if Marshall was cold-blooded, $1.8 million was enough to make him fawn over him.

Even if he excretes, he'll still praise it as having a pure taste.

Marshall shook his hand, a firm but not too strong grip: "Mr. Hart, time is limited. Let's get straight to business."

"Of course! Of course!" David stepped aside to make way for Marshall and led him into the office.

He poured two glasses of whiskey himself and handed one to Marshall.

Marshall took it and placed it beside him, without drinking: "I am a believer and cannot drink alcohol."

"Oh, my bad!" David put down his glass as well, without drinking it; he wasn't in the mood for alcohol at the moment.

He poured two more glasses of purified water for the two of them.

Marshall sat down on the sofa, back straight, hands on his knees, looking directly at David Hart, and said coldly, "Mr. Hart, the Lutheran Church has invested $1.8 million. This money isn't for buying a few huge GG billboards, nor for hanging a few pictures of the Virgin Mary in the dressing room. What we want is Her Majesty's image. Her first public appearance absolutely cannot be ruined."

David leaned against the edge of the desk, his arms crossed over his chest: "I understand. The situation with St. Debbie's rehearsals—"

“I’m not asking about her rehearsal progress,” Marshall interrupted him. “I need to know how she performed. Tell me clearly, at Her Highness’s current level, how well can she perform on media day? Will she embarrass herself?”

David crossed his fingers, then loosened them.

He tried to gloss over the question, but Marshall's eyes were fixed on him.

David Hart knew that the other party was a smart man, and that his vague words meant that the situation was very bad.

It's better to just say it directly.

David took a deep breath: "This isn't good."

Marshall nodded: "That's very bad."

"I'm not saying she'll mess things up, I'm saying her current state—there's still room for improvement. She's only been in the team for a short time, her training time is too short, what if something unexpected happens on media day—" David's words became increasingly rambling, and he couldn't even listen to himself anymore halfway through. He cleared his throat: "I'll have a contingency plan."

"What contingency plan? Her Highness cannot appear in public with any blemishes."

David paced back and forth in his office. "Tomorrow, no one else will be allowed to broadcast live from the venue; only our staff will be permitted. Also, there will be a 20-second delay. If—and I mean if—the broadcast signal becomes unstable in any way, right? The director will immediately cut to GG, and the audience will understand. GG time is enough to cover up a landing error. If not, we'll show two! I'll also be keeping an eye on the reporters on site. If they find any problems, I'll... handle it cleanly, and won't let them take anything inappropriate."

After listening, Marshall lowered the beam slightly, as if assessing the reliability of the plan.

After about three seconds, he looked up again: "Let me confirm, you mean that even if she fails, those scenes won't appear in the live stream?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Can you guarantee that from the reporters' perspective?"

"I promise!" David Hart said decisively, but he knew it was hardly a promise.

Whether he can stop the reporters depends on how much he's willing to pay: "If anything goes wrong, I'll just pay them off!"

"OK! That's all." Marshall stood up, straightened his cuffs, shook hands with David Hart, and then left.

David Hart grabbed the phone on the table and dialed the media department's number: "Listen up. Tomorrow is the cheerleaders' media day. During the live broadcast, add a 20-second delay to the signal. Yes, a 20-second delay. If there are any problems with the performance, immediately switch to the director saying the sponsor is done, the faster the better! Remember that!"

"Okay, boss!"

Sawyer leaned back in the archbishop's office chair, his small eyes squeezed into his flesh as he strained to see the tablet in Seth's hand.

On the screen was a collective letter signed by more than 300 devout believers from the New York diocese. The first sentence read: "It is the most serious blasphemy for a saint to dance in a short skirt in front of tens of millions of viewers."

Seth whispered, "Tomorrow is the Giants' cheerleading day. Her Highness will be appearing in front of a nationwide audience, and it's supposedly being broadcast live..."

""

Sawyer said with a headache, "I know, I know. Short skirts, high knees, exposed thighs. I've read 1000 letters like this."

Seth didn't reply immediately, waiting two seconds before saying, "Then tomorrow's event—"

"Proceed as planned." Sawyer sighed. "The Pope hasn't called for a halt, and Cardinal Sebastian Hale has publicly expressed his support. If I were to call for a halt now, it would be tantamount to saying I know God better than they do!"

No one understands God better than the Pope!

At least he, a mere archbishop, could not.

Seth hesitated for a moment, then lowered his voice by half an octave: "Her Highness is just a high school student. The NFL cheerleading team is far too difficult for her. Normally, it takes about a year of training and preparation. For Her Highness to go on stage directly as the center is extremely risky. What if—something goes wrong with Her Highness's performance?"

Sawyer was silent for a moment, then his gaze fell on the photograph on the desk.

That's the image of Sebastian Hale crowning Debbie with the Golden Thorn Crown.

Debbie stood before the cardinal, bowing her head to receive the crown, the light of the entire St. Patrick's Cathedral falling upon her shoulders.

Sawyer did not answer, but sighed softly, "God loves the world, but loves the saint even more. God will protect her."

It sounds grand and noble, but it's really just about leaving things to fate.

What else could he do?

The cardinal was crowned on the spot, an empty cross was smashed, and even bullets and stones dared not be fired at Saint-Debbie. Would he dare to stop tomorrow's performance?

dare not.

Does he deserve it?

Of course not.

Madeline sat cross-legged on the sofa in Miranda's living room, a pizza box spread out on her knees.

She took a bite, and the cheese stretched out in long strands, hanging in mid-air. She tilted her head and rolled it into her mouth.

For cheerleaders who are on a strict diet year-round, this is already a top-notch delicacy.

The Super Bowl is just around the corner, and after the Super Bowl comes the offseason, so the team isn't as strict about managing the players' physiques.

Miranda leaned back on the sofa, scrolling through her phone.

Suddenly, I came across a post from the Giants' official account, a teaser poster for tomorrow's media day.

The accompanying photo is a picture of Debbie from behind wearing a cheerleader uniform, with the caption "Countdown to Saint-Debbie's debut in the spotlight".

Ha. A center position that doesn't do stunts! Miranda scoffed.

Madeline swallowed the pizza. "What are you looking at?"

Miranda turned her phone to show her: "The performance is tomorrow. The coach gave us two center positions. Sounds fair, haha."

Debbie, that newbie, how dare she compare herself to me!

Madeline picked up another slice of pizza, took a bite, and mumbled, "Miranda, don't worry, anyone can see you're the star. She's just standing there posing; you do the most complicated moves. The audience isn't blind; once the performance starts, everyone will know who's the real center of attention!"

Miranda placed her phone on the coffee table and said coldly, "Not enough."

"What's not enough?" Madeline stopped chewing.

"Just having her stand there as a backdrop isn't enough," Miranda said, looking up. "We can't prevent the Saintess from playing, can we?"

Madeline put down her pizza and complained, "Yeah, the boss wants her to play, the coach wants her to play, so of course she'll play. Haven't you seen that bootlicker Andre? He's been fawning over Debbie all the time, like she's his own mother!"

"She can't not play, but..." Miranda smiled, the corners of her mouth just beginning to curve upwards before fading back to normal: "I can choose not to play!"

Madeline froze, her mouth still full of half a pizza: "Wh-what?"

"I'm injured. My old ankle injury has flared up again," Miranda said casually, as if discussing whether she should change her jacket tomorrow. "I sprained my ankle, and I can't do anything for a week."

Madeline stared at her for several seconds, those words swirling in her mind before she finally understood.

Miranda is injured and can't play, so the coach has no reason to force her to continue. No one can force an injured player to play.

Should Debbie go or not?

If she doesn't play, the Giants' center position will be vacant, and the media day will be a disaster.

If Debbie goes ahead despite her reservations, she'll be the only one in the center position, and she'll have to do all the actions alone, including those she might not be able to do well at all.

She might fall, twist her ankle, or embarrass herself on live television in the United States.

Madeline grinned and said, "You're ruthless."

Miranda smiled smugly, picked up her phone, and called Edmund.

It rang twice, and then the other end answered.

Miranda's voice changed in that instant, softening and becoming slightly rapid, as if she were in pain: "Coach, I twisted my ankle while doing yoga at home just now—I tried to stand up, but I couldn't quite keep my balance."

"I probably won't be able to perform tomorrow."

Madeline sat quietly beside her, watching her performance.

Miranda's voice, speaking speed, and breathing rhythm all changed; she was like a completely different person.

Edmon paused for a moment, then asked, "How badly is the injury?"

"It's not serious," Miranda said immediately, speaking a little faster, afraid of being misunderstood as having a serious injury, which would affect her future position in the team: "I haven't broken any bones or tendons. I'll probably need about a week of rest, which means I won't be able to play tomorrow, media day. What should I do?"

Miranda seemed very nervous.

In fact, she had even planned out the time she would take leave.

A week is neither too long nor too short; it's just enough to miss the media day without affecting subsequent training.

Edmund was already worried about what to do for tomorrow's performance, and the double center position was a last resort.

According to the boss's requirements, if Debbie has the ability, she will be in the center position.

However, he himself said before that whoever can complete that action will be the center.

He couldn't go back on his word.

Now that Miranda is injured, a huge problem has been solved!

Edmund breathed a sigh of relief: "Alright, you get some rest and don't worry about it. I'll take care of tomorrow's arrangements."

Miranda added, "What about tomorrow's stunt? What if I can't play—"

Edmund's voice was a little colder than before: "Enough, Miranda. Fight each other however you want, don't put on an act in front of me!"

He had seen plenty of the ridiculous and messy things that happened among cheerleaders, but he never expected Miranda to dare to fake an injury.

Miranda shrank her neck slightly, but her voice remained unchanged: "OK, Coach, I'm just concerned about her."

After saying that, he quickly hung up the phone, and the expression on his face returned to normal in an instant.

Madeline chimed in, "That old man Edmund, wearing high heels and eyeliner, is disgusting! I don't know how the rest of the team can stand him."

Miranda glanced at her: "It's fine to talk about it at home. But don't go around saying it outside."

"I know," Madeline pouted. "I wouldn't dare say that in public."

This is New York, and nobody dares mess with LGBT people.

Miranda stood up, took the bottled water, and walked to the window.

Outside the window is the Manhattan skyline, and lights are coming on one by one.

She looked down at the street below, where the traffic seemed to have stopped.

She recalled the year she first joined the youth team. She was sixteen years old, as thin as a bamboo pole, and her ankles ached every day, but she never complained of being tired.

Seven years!

She trained here for a full seven years!

Debbie only stayed for a week and was already asked to give up the center position?

snort!

She'll stay home and rest tomorrow, making everyone think she really sprained her ankle, and then watch on TV how Debbie embarrasses herself.

On media day, the lights in the Giants' training facility came on two hours earlier than usual.

Richard sat in the family quarters, looking around.

In just a few days, the entire venue has been completely transformed.

Besides the huge logo proving that this is the Giants, it has become like a Catholic stadium, with religious symbols such as crucifixes and statues of the Virgin Mary everywhere.

Even the signs on the sidelines and on the field have been replaced with signs from religious businesses.

Seeing Richard's curiosity, Catherine whispered, "The Lutheran Church, the stronghold of the extreme conservatives, provides Debbie with tremendous support."

Richard nodded. The Lutheran Church had also contributed to Debbie's admission to Princeton, and they might have to deal with them in the future.

Today is the perfect opportunity to fully demonstrate Debbie's abilities.

All three enhancements have been completed.

After a few more days, Debbie had fully adapted to the changes in her body and her condition had basically returned to its best.

Her performance today will allow Richard to have a more direct understanding of the enhancement effect of [Fresh Flesh and Blood].

Edmund, wearing his signature tight-fitting workout outfit and high heels, stood in the center of the court and clapped his hands: "Ladies, warm-up is over, you're almost ready."

"The media will be here soon, so let's go over the procedures a few more times to make sure everyone knows where to stand and what to do!"

"Okay, coach!" The girls gathered in twos and threes from the sidelines.

Some people were still stretching, some were bending down to tie their shoelaces, and some were taking a final sip of water from their bottles.

Madeline stood at the edge of the crowd, glanced around, and deliberately asked, "Coach, Miranda hasn't arrived yet. I wonder what happened. Should we wait a while?"

The girls next to her were also a little puzzled, as Miranda was never late.

Edmund glanced at Madeline and said in a flat tone, "Miranda injured her ankle and will be out for a week. There's only one person in the spotlight today, Debbie."

The training hall was silent for two seconds.

"Miranda is injured?"

"Debbie is all in the center position?"

"Can she handle it?"

All the girls looked at Debbie in surprise, their eyes filled with doubt.

Debbie had been doing basic training for the past few days, and they had seen it all; the movements were just too basic.

They stopped training much after they turned fourteen or fifteen.

Amanda stood at the back of the crowd, glanced at Debbie, her lips twitched, but she didn't say anything.

She didn't know whether today was a good thing or a bad thing for Debbie.

The women whispered among themselves, "Is she going to be in the center all by herself? Is that even possible?"

"Who knows?"

"I feel like I'm in serious trouble."

The group's voices were not loud, but just loud enough for the people nearby to hear.

Debbie glanced at the group of women with her head held high, and sneered inwardly, "A bunch of bitches!"

Every cheerleading squad is like that.

Edmund ignored him, rolled up the list, and tapped his hands: "Alright, stop standing there. Begin."

Andrei walked over to Debbie and said in a low voice, "Don't worry about what they think."

"I watched you practice the whole time, so you know what you're capable of."

"Once you're on the field, just do what you're supposed to do, and don't let the people around you lead you astray."

Debbie nodded and stretched her ankles. "Don't worry."

Training began, and the positioning was not complicated.

Debbie was new to the team and not familiar with her teammates, so Edmond deliberately simplified the dance moves he designed to prepare for media day.

There wasn't much teamwork between the players; they mostly performed their own actions, using their positioning to make them appear as a cohesive unit.

The truly difficult part, those tumbling, twisting, and high-difficulty moves, which were originally Miranda's, are now all done by Debbie herself.

Other team members just need to keep their positions so as not to block the camera when she is making a move.

In Edmund's words, what we want today is "good-looking," not "thrilling."

In the first rehearsal, Debbie stood in the positions she had rehearsed, jumped, and landed.

The movement was simple, just a basic turn, but when she landed, her knees bent a little less than expected, and she barely wobbled after landing.

The team members who were maintaining their positions nearby hadn't really been paying attention to her.

When someone glanced over out of the corner of their eye, their movements involuntarily paused.

Madeline stood at the farthest point, her gaze passing over a teammate's shoulder, and saw Debbie's landing posture.

His ankles were straight, his knees were not wobbling, and his whole body felt like it was nailed to the floor.

She was somewhat puzzled; when had Debbie become capable of this?

Several rounds of positioning training were conducted.

Edmund neither stopped them nor praised them; he simply made them walk repeatedly and adjust their movements over and over again.

Debbie gradually found her rhythm in cooperating with the others, and her positioning became much more accurate than before.

Her movements weren't complicated, but every jump and landing was clean and crisp.

Clayton stood behind the row of glass windows on the second floor, demonstrating the Debbie promotional video he had prepared to Langdon.

It was a short film that was one and a half minutes long.

The film opens with Debbie walking into the training gym on her first day, wearing a brand new uniform, looking awkwardly nervous, and saying to the camera, "Hi, I'm Debbie."

Then the camera cuts to a series of mistakes during training: landing crookedly, not turning enough, not jumping high enough and falling on the mat, hitting his knee, gritting his teeth and getting up to walk back.

Then came the second, the third, and the fourth time.

The screen then dimmed briefly, and subtitles appeared.

After that, she was alone in the empty training hall practicing basic movements: vertical jumps, single-leg jumps, and arm-swing jumps, over and over again. (This part was actually filmed later.)

Then, she completed her first triple jump, but all that was captured was a still image of her landing, not the takeoff, because Clayton forgot to press the shutter button.

Then came that three-times-after-closed-eyes-falling-around-the-fall scene.

A complete triple rotation, eyes closed, landing with one foot planted firmly on the ground, completely still.

The scene was cut in slow motion, with a close-up shot of Debbie's closed eyes. The background music was also turned down, and the sound rose again the instant she landed, precisely at the climax of the music.

Finally, the camera stops at the frame where her feet touch the ground.

As Debbie proudly raised her head, the screen immediately went black, and a line of text slowly appeared: "Saint-Debbie".

Clayton was very satisfied; the results were much better than he had imagined.

The main reason was that Debbie's last three weeks of blindness were too shocking.

Ordinary people can't even jump with their eyes closed, yet she can maintain her balance while spinning three times in the air.

Great!

Langdon was a little dissatisfied: "Wasn't that part about the three weeks of blind falls cut too short? It should be played on repeat three times!"

"Perfect," Clayton said anxiously. "Too long would seem contrived. We're not a movie; this pacing is crisp, clean, and impactful. The audience won't even have time to process it before it ends, and they'll just rewind and watch it again!"

"Hmm..." Langdon pondered for a moment and felt that Clayton's words made sense.

His gaze fell on the list of alternative titles on the screen, ten slogans that Clayton had prepared in advance. He went through them and tapped one of them: "Use this one: From Zero to Three Weeks."

From zero to three weeks? Clayton glanced at it: "Isn't that a bit too bland?"

"The contrast is made by simplicity," Langdon mused. "We've built up enough groundwork. The simpler the title, the stronger the impact of her landing with her eyes closed. That's settled then. I'll go see the boss later and have him take a look."

David Hart doesn't watch typical promotional videos.

The saintess's identity was too special, and she was very popular, so Langdon felt that he should have his boss confirm it before releasing her.

The director sat in front of the control panel in the broadcast van, nervously staring at the row of screens in front of him.

The video signal is normal, the audio is normal, and the backup materials are normal.

"Is GG ready?" he asked without looking up.

The technician sitting next to me nodded: "The backup footage has been pre-loaded. It's exactly twenty seconds; we can switch at any time."

He pointed to a small window in the corner of the screen, which contained a compressed video clip with cheerful background music, bright colors, and no religious elements—a standard corporate image video.

The director shifted his attention back to the main screen and instructed, "Remember, if Debbie lands unsteadily or falls to the ground, don't hesitate. Cut to the camera immediately!"

"clear."

Inside the training hall.

David Hart stood on the sidelines, squinting as he watched Dai move around repeatedly.

He performed the action well, but his heart was still beating much faster than usual.

His gaze swept across the team members on the field, and his brow suddenly furrowed: "Wasn't the center of the cheerleading squad named Miranda? Where's Miranda?"

Edmund said softly, "I injured my ankle last night, so I can't come today."

Injured? David Hart's expression immediately changed.

Was he injured at this particular time?

What a coincidence!

He knows these girls' tricks all too well.

He could almost picture Miranda gloating at home in front of the TV screen.

"After today, Miranda doesn't need to come anymore." After David finished speaking, he turned around and walked back to the boss's seat without waiting for Edmund's response.

If Debbie falls today, and there's no reliable center to support her?

To shut up the reporters on the scene, you'd need at least $200,000!

Cheerleaders' salaries are only around twenty to thirty thousand US dollars.

Two hundred thousand is enough to buy these cheerleaders for ten years!

FXXK!

It's all my money!

When the roller shutter door of the training hall was pulled up, there were already about a dozen reporters standing at the door.

The crowd was much larger than usual for NFL cheerleading media days, with people carrying cameras, holding cell phones, and carrying handheld cameras.

Normally, there would be only three or four local tabloid reporters at most on this occasion, who would take a few photos and leave. Today, there were more than twenty people queuing to enter, and more people were coming in later, including short video bloggers, self-media personalities, and a few familiar faces wearing ESPN badges.

These reporters were all screened, and none of them were Protestant, in order to avoid causing conflict.

The public relations manager stood at the entrance and shouted, "Attention everyone! No shouting, no rushing onto the field to disrupt the cheerleaders' performance, no live streaming, only photos and videos!"

Miranda sat leisurely on the sofa in the living room, legs crossed, holding a steaming cup of coffee in her hand.

She sank into the sofa, ready to watch a farce unfold.

The television screen showed a live broadcast of the training hall's interior. Reporters had already set up their equipment, and the red indicator lights on the cameras were lit up one by one.

She took a sip of coffee, looked at the blonde girl in the center of the screen doing stretches, and curled her lips in disdain.

Marshall also came and sat next to David Hart.

He sat upright with his knees together, the folder resting on his lap, and his gaze fixed on the center of the room.

But he wasn't looking at any specific point; instead, he was observing everyone around him: the lights on the broadcast van, the reporters' camera positions, and the photographers adjusting their lenses.

The public relations staff are communicating with each person individually, asking them to turn off their phones.

Without mobile phones, there would be no online live streaming.

So if Debbie gets injured during a performance, whether it's a sprained ankle or a broken knee, the negative news can be suppressed in time.

But the saintess's injury itself is a big problem.

Since the Holy Maiden is favored by God, she cannot be harmed.

Being injured means that God is not as favored by Debbie as everyone imagines.

That will bring new twists and turns to the canonization case...

The reporters gradually made their way to their positions.

Some people had set up their telephoto lenses, some were testing the light in front of the lens, and some were talking to their colleagues with their heads down, their voices just loud enough for the people next to them to hear.

A male reporter wearing a baseball cap turned to the person next to him and said, "A high school student, only been on the NFL cheerleading team for a week, and already in the center position?"

The person next to him chuckled, "Just wait and see, we've got plenty of material."

"Putting a high school cheerleader in the center position? I have reservations."

"Keep your voice down, don't let the Giants hear us. Debbie is their lifeline! Look how many reporters are here today. This is just a new cheerleader's media day, it's like an NFL superstar transfer!"

"Superstar transfers don't have this much media coverage."

Reporters continued to stream in.

Debbie is incredibly popular.

Debbie stood on the sidelines doing her final warm-up.

Her ankles had warmed up, and she had bent her knees a few times.

The large number of reporters present made her a little nervous, as this was her first time performing in front of so many reporters.

Debbie glanced up at the sidelines. Catherine was standing in the first row of the family section, wearing a plain trench coat and holding a bottle of water. When she saw Debbie looking over, she waved the water bottle happily and shouted, "Go for it!"

Richard nodded and waved to Debbie.

Debbie's heartbeat immediately calmed down.

Soon, the host appeared, the audience quieted down, he quickly introduced the changes to the cheerleading squad, and then Debbie's first NFL public performance began.

Cheerleading media events in Japan are very small events with a very simple process: a brief introduction of the newcomers, a performance, and then the organizers give reporters a small bribe to say good things about them through various channels.

At the same time, some promotional activities are being carried out in order to increase the team's popularity and buzz.

After all, they are a group of beautiful girls, and no matter how simple the ceremony is, there will always be a group of perverts watching.

The number of media personnel today far exceeded everyone's expectations, making the process seem a bit too simplistic.

The music started.

The opening is a light drumbeat, followed by the introduction of strings, creating a brisk rhythm.

The cheerleaders quickly entered the field.

Debbie jumped from the middle of the first row; the move wasn't complicated, just a basic spin.

When she landed, her feet made almost no sound as they touched the floor, her knees bent very shallowly, and once she was standing, it was as if she was being supported by some gentle force.

In the past, when she jumped, she was agile and joyful, with a childlike lightness. Occasionally, her body movements would falter uncontrollably, like a little animal that had just learned to jump.

But now it's different.

Her jump height was higher, and her hang time was significantly longer. Her powerful leaps and core strength allowed her body to move very smoothly in the air, even giving her a feeling of floating.

That lightness was very special, even creating a more transparent and clean feeling.

When her body unfolded in mid-air, she seemed to float in the air, and when she landed, she seemed to be gently caught by the floor. There was no extra shock or swaying, and the transitions between her movements were as smooth as flowing water.

She leaped into the air, clearly towering above the others, as if the women were surrounding her. She possessed an indescribable aura, like an ethereal fairy.

One reporter muttered, "Debbie's jump height seems off. I feel like a lot of guys in the NBA can't jump as high as her."

The person next to him didn't say anything, just stared.

Previously, some reporters had already written down keywords such as "high school girl embarrassed in the center position" and "Saint-Debbie's home ground is in the church" in their notebooks, ready to write news articles to submit when they got back.

But when they saw Debbie's actions, those keywords suddenly seemed a bit ridiculous, so they simply closed the notebook.

All eyes turned to Debbie, somewhat surprised.

Debbie's performance exceeded everyone's expectations.

The director's finger had moved away from the cut button, but it was still hovering there.

He stared at Debbie on the screen; she stood out from the crowd.

The other cheerleaders' movements were more enthusiastic and unrestrained, their smiles more exaggerated, and their body language seemed to leap out of the screen.

But Debbie is different; her ethereal quality makes her seem like she's on a separate layer.

As the music progressed, Debbie completed all the previous movements.

The reporters didn't get what they wanted to see.

Debbie didn't fall, stumble, or lose her balance and land.

The music for the final movement started.

That melody was noticeably faster and the drumbeats were more frequent than the previous ones.

All team members dispersed to both sides according to their rehearsed positions, creating a semi-circular space.

Debbie stepped back to the edge of the court, glanced down at the ground, and then took a deep breath.

She began her run-up, her feet landing on the floor, her speed gradually increasing, and then she pushed off the ground sharply at the designated position, lifting her body upwards.

Take off!

Just before she jumped, all the team members made a wave-like motion, raising their arms in sequence, like waves lifting her up.

All the team members' arms stretched out to the sides the instant Debbie reached her highest point, with the entire frame focused on the spinning figure in mid-air.

one two three.

Her body spun three times in mid-air, rotating at a steady and uniform speed.

When Debbie landed, her knees were slightly bent, her feet touched the ground steadily, and she stood still on one foot without any swaying.

perfect!

Amanda stood closest to her, looking up with her mouth slightly open, and watched as Debbie completed three full rotations high in the air, landing with her ankles straight.

Even Miranda couldn't do that!

Edmund crossed his arms over his chest. He saw his eyes twitch when he saw her jump, and then relaxed his shoulders when he saw her land.

"Great! Beautiful!" Andrei exclaimed excitedly, squeezing the recorder so hard it made a creaking sound.

I really am a training genius!

Look at Debbie, I trained her!

Langdon stood behind the second-floor glass window, his hands bracing against the windowsill, his center of gravity slightly forward, holding his breath until Debbie landed before exhaling.

"Phew~ It worked!"

Langdon smiled.

This video can be shown to the boss!

"That's amazing!" Clayton exclaimed.

He knew Debbie second only to Andrei.

He still remembered Debbie's first day with the Giants, how innocent and naive she looked.

She actually accomplished this in just one week.

"The Holy Maiden truly lives up to her name!"

Catherine gripped the water bottle tightly in both hands, holding her breath. Seeing Debbie land, she placed the bottle on the chair, stood up, clapped, and exclaimed happily, "Well done, Debbie!"

Debbie looked over, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Richard smiled and nodded, then clapped lightly twice.

Debbie immediately raised her chin, as proud as a hen that had just laid an egg.

A commotion broke out in the press area.

The shutter clicked rapidly, and the flash went off wildly.

The Giants' staff began to applaud.

Someone even whistled.

The audience erupted in good-natured laughter.

"Great! Great! Hahaha!" David Hart clapped loudly, louder than anyone else around him, with the smile of a capitalist seeing a high-quality asset.

Marshall remained seated, but his fingers loosened slightly, and the tension in his heart eased.

Debbie was unharmed and completed her debut performance perfectly.

Moreover, Debbie's posture and movements, enhanced by her super-jumping ability, somehow acquired an otherworldly and wondrous quality.

Perhaps this kind of spirit can offset the negative impact of cheerleaders?

He pondered it.

The director withdrew his finger from the cut button, leaned back in his chair, exhaled, and said with emotion, "Debbie really did it."

He leaned back in his chair and glanced at the assistant director next to him: "The twenty-second delay wasn't used."

The assistant director also breathed a sigh of relief, a barely suppressed smile on his face: "It's good that we didn't have to use it."

Then she added, "As expected of the Saintess, I've seen many cheerleaders do that triple fall, but none of them did it as well as she did."

"Yes, that's true."

Miranda sat on the sofa, the TV screen still lit, the image frozen on the moment Debbie landed.

The director switched to a replay in slow motion, showing Debbie spinning three times in the air before unfolding her body and falling back to the ground.

Miranda's smile vanished.

Debbie did it more gracefully and better than me.

Because she can jump higher than me!

Why?

Why?!

Just a few days ago, she couldn't even jump for two weeks straight!

How did I suddenly learn it in three weeks!

This is unreasonable!

But she doesn't have time to think about that now.

This is a big problem. Debbie has shown great strength, and my position in the team is in danger!

What should I do next?

Miranda stared blankly at her phone for several minutes before she calmed down.

If I were to go against Debbie under these circumstances, I would be courting death.

The owner supports Debbie, the coach supports Debbie, and the public relations director has come to visit several times. The Giants have fully demonstrated their high regard for Debbie.

So what I need to do now is surrender immediately!

"Damn bitch!" Miranda cursed angrily, but had no choice but to take out her phone and turn on the camera.

She tried to compose herself, forcing an excited smile: "Congratulations, Debbie! She was amazing! I knew she could do it; she's always worked so hard, and she deserves everything she has today! I'll take good care of my injury and get back to the team as soon as possible!"

The moment the camera was turned off, Miranda's face darkened.

Damn bitch!

Miranda cursed again, then carefully checked the video three times before posting it to her social media account, tagging Debbie.

She lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, her face filled with resentment: "Seven years! I trained for seven years! And now it's all gone!"

A moment later, Miranda's phone rang. Thinking it was Debbie, she opened it to find a message from HR: "To: Ms. Miranda Quinn. Based on your employment agreement with our company and after comprehensive evaluation, we hereby formally notify you that your employment relationship with our company is terminated, effective immediately. The company will pay you severance pay in accordance with relevant U.S. labor laws and regulations and the terms of your employment contract, and will settle all outstanding wages up to the date of your departure."

'

Miranda sat up abruptly.

I got fired?!

Why!

Just because of the injury!

Miranda hurriedly picked up the phone and called coach Edmund.