: Chapter 11

“I’m sure he won’t be much longer.” The employee who’s been tasked with babysitting me keeps repeating the assurance.

Frankly, I don’t care how long Ed Mulder takes. In fact, I’ve been fighting the urge to leave out of spite. If I hadn’t endured nearly two hours of rush-hour traffic this morning to reach Boston, I totally would’ve said screw it and stomped out of the HockeyNet building, never to return. But I’ll be damned if that bumper-to-bumper traffic was for naught.

He’s just one little obstacle, says the reassuring voice in my head.

Right. If I can conquer Jerk Mountain, the internship promised land awaits me on the other side. I won’t have to report to Mulder. I probably won’t even see him again. All I need to do is prove to him that I’m qualified for this position, and then I can forget he exists. Which won’t be too difficult to do.

I can’t believe I’ve already been waiting an hour for him. When I walked in at nine o’clock sharp, Rochelle apologetically informed me that Mr. Mulder was currently on an unscheduled conference call. Super important, apparently.

Uh-huh. I’m sure that was why I kept hearing bursts of laughter and nasally guffaws from behind his closed door.

After about forty-five minutes, Rochelle went into the office to speak to him. The next thing I knew, an employee named Mischa popped up and announced he was taking me on a tour of the station while we wait for Mulder to finish up.

I follow his tall, lanky frame down the brightly lit corridor. “So what exactly do you do here, Mischa?”

“I’m the stage manager. Which is a lot less glamorous than the title implies. Basically I coordinate the talent, see to the needs of the director, clean up the set, keep the caffeine flowing.” He offers a dry look. “Sometimes I get to make small adjustments to the lighting equipment.”

“Oooh, you’ve hit the big-time!”

He grins. “Eventually I hope to become a director, or maybe run master control. That would be the big-time.”

We pass a bulky man in a gray pinstriped suit. He’s on his cell phone but spares us a brief look as we walk by him. Recognition instantly hits me.

“Holy shit,” I hiss to Mischa. “Was that Kyler Winters?”

“Yup. We just landed him as a special commentator. He’ll be reporting on the NHL playoffs.”

“Do a lot of other former NHLers working here?”

“Definitely. Most of them are analysts or game commentators. We’ve got some former coaches, too. And then there’s the fantasy guys, stats guys, injury experts. And the loud-mouthed opinion dudes, like Kip and Trevor,” he says, naming the popular talking-heads duo whose show is probably the most controversial. Both men have strong opinions and aren’t afraid to voice them.

“That’s a lot of testosterone in one building,” I tease. “What’s the estrogen situation like?”

He laughs. “Well, if we’re talking on-camera, we’ve got Erin Foster. She usually reports from the locker room. And Georgia—”

“Barnes,” I finish.

Georgia Barnes is kind of my idol. She’s the one who asks the hard-hitting questions after the games, pulling no punches. She’s also smart as a whip and hosts a weekly opinion segment, and while her views aren’t as contentious as Kip and Trevor’s, I find them a lot more intelligent, if I’m being honest.

“Georgia’s awesome,” Mischa tells me. “Sharpest wit you’ve ever experienced. I’ve seen her verbally cut down men three times her size.”

“I love her,” I confess.

“We’ve also got a female director for some of the evening segments, a few analysts, a couple women who work on the crew. Oh, and exhausted assistants like Maggie over here,” he finishes, gesturing to the figure barreling toward us. “Hey, Mags.”

Maggie is a harried-looking girl with bangs that keep falling in her eyes. She’s carrying a cardboard tray of coffee cups, and rather than stop to greet us, she mumbles, “Don’t talk to me. I’m late and Kip’s gonna kill me.” She rushes past without a backward glance.

“Still want to work here?” Mischa teases me.

“I’m a pro at getting coffee,” I say confidently. “And I’m never late.”

“That’s good to hear. Because some of the dudes who work here have hair-trigger tempers. One producer, Pete, fires his assistants every other month. He’s already been through three of them this year.”

We continue the tour, winding up in the main studio, which is so cool to see. I gaze longingly at the news desk where the analysts sit, but even cooler is the set of Kip and Trevor’s show, Hockey Corner. The familiar brown leather couch and backdrop covered with pennants and trophies trigger a wave of excitement. How amazing would it be to have my own show one day? My own set?

I force away the grandiose delusions. It’s a nice fantasy, but I imagine it’d take years, decades even, before somebody gave me my own show.

The radio clipped to Mischa’s belt crackles with static. “Mr. Mulder is ready for her,” comes Rochelle’s voice.

“See? That wasn’t too long of a wait,” Mischa tells me. “Right?”

Uh-huh. Right. Mulder was an hour and fifteen minutes late to an interview that wasn’t even supposed to be today. Consummate professional.

Mischa walks me back to the production offices, where Rochelle hurriedly ushers me to her boss.

“Mr. Mulder,” I say. “It’s good to see you again.”

As always, his attention is elsewhere. There are several overhead screens mounted on the wall, and one is showing a newscast from a rival network. It’s on mute, but the coverage is on Saturday night’s Oilers game.

He tears his gaze away from the screen. “Thanks for coming back. Friday was a total shit show.”

“Yeah, it seemed crazy.” He doesn’t ask me to sit, but I do it anyway and wait for him to continue the interview.

“So, your school will be facing Harvard in the conference finals,” he says. “What are your thoughts on that?”

“I’m excited to kick their butts.”

Mulder’s smile is mocking. “With Connelly at the helm? I’m afraid you’re destined to lose. You’ve heard of Jake Connelly, right?”

Unfortunately. “Of course.”

Mulder leans back in his chair. “All right, then here’s a nice test for you—our interns are expected to be statistics savvy. Tell me, what are Connelly’s stats for the season?”

I hide a frown. That’s the most generalized question I’ve ever heard. His stats? What stats?

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” I reply. “What statistics are you looking for? Goals? Assists? Power play goals? Shots on goal?”

Mulder seems annoyed by my questioning. Rather than answer, he shuffles through some papers.

Lovely. This is shitty interview 2.0. I hate this man. He doesn’t care that I’m here, and he has no intention of hiring me. But I patiently sit there even though I can tell he’s totally checked out.

His intercom buzzes, blessedly breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Mulder, your wife’s on the line. She says it’s important.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s never important,” he informs me. He jams a button with his finger. “I’m in the middle of an interview. Ask her to be more specific.”

Ohhhh really? He’s allowed to ask people to be more specific, but when I do it, it’s inexcusable?

After a short delay, Rochelle returns. “She needs to confirm the amount of people to expect for dinner on Friday.”

“Important, my ass. Tell her I’ll call her after the interview.” He hits the button again. “Women,” he mutters.

I refrain from commenting, because hello, I’m a woman.

“We have a dinner party this weekend,” Mulder explains, shaking his head irritably. “As if I give a shit about any of the details. What do I care what the napkins look like? Or if it’s four courses or twenty? I swear that woman obsesses over the most trivial nonsense.”

I’m surprised he doesn’t follow that up with some progressive commentary about how women are trivial creatures who have teeny pea brains and could never, ever work in a sports environment. The sports treehouse is for men! No girls allowed!

On the big screen, ESPN is showing a clip of the Oilers’ Connor McDavid scoring one of the most beautiful goals I’ve ever seen. Sadly, it’s not enough to win them the game.

Mulder whistles loudly, his mood brightening. “That kid is a legend!” he crows.

“He’s a generational talent,” I agree. “Best thing that’s happened to the franchise in decades.”

“And next season we have Connelly, too? Yee-haw! We’ll be unstoppable.”

I nod. “Connelly will bring some much-needed speed to the team. He’s one of the best skaters there is.”

“Lightning on skates. Lord, Brenna, I’ve never looked forward to a season more!” He rubs his hands together with unabashed glee.

My body language relaxes. This is the first time Mulder has actually warmed up to me. I’m not particularly thrilled that Jake Connelly is the reason Mulder is thawing, but at this point, I’ll take whatever assistance I can get. Jerk Mountain is harder to climb than frickin’ Everest.

We discuss Jake for nearly five minutes. I swear, Mulder actually seems to appreciate my opinions. One of my remarks legit causes him to say, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

And yet when I try to steer the conversation back to the internship?

Mulder’s attention goes back to his computer screen.

Frustration claws at my throat. I just want to scream. I can’t figure out if he likes me or hates me. If he wants to hire me or wants me to GTFO.

“Anyway. Thanks for coming in again,” he says absently.

Well, there’s my answer. Get the fuck out.

“We still have a few more candidates to meet with, but you’ll be notified as soon as any decisions are made.”

He means I’ll be notified that I didn’t get the job. At the moment, the likelihood of me landing this internship is about as good as me landing on the actual moon.

Whatever. I swallow my disappointment and try to convince myself that perhaps I’m better off.

“Thank you for your time,” I say politely.

“Hmmm. No prob.” He’s once again concentrating on something other than me.

Yes. I’m absolutely better off. I’d hate working in even the same building as someone like Ed Mulder. The man doesn’t give a crap about anything but himself and his precious Oilers. The only time he engaged with me or seemed the slightest bit interested was during our brief discussion about Jake. Mulder’s hard-on for Connelly is almost comical—

My step stutters on my way to the door.

An idea forms in my head. It’s insane. I’m aware it’s insane. And yet…I think maybe I don’t care that it’s insane.

I want this internship. I want it so very badly. People have taken far more desperate measures to get a job. In comparison, what I’m about to do is…trivial. You know, just a silly woman with her trivial pursuits.

“Mr. Mulder?”

He glances at the door, annoyance in his expression. “Yes?”

“I…well, I didn’t want to mention this before, because I thought it might be a bit inappropriate, but… Jake Connelly…” I hesitate, second-guessing the insanity.

I draw a breath, quickly penning a pros and cons list in my head. There are so many cons. Like, a lot of them. The pros don’t seem as satisfying as—

“What about him?” Mulder says impatiently.

I exhale in a rush. “He’s my boyfriend.”