My butt sinks back on the chair. Despite myself, a teeny flicker of hope tickles my throat. Maybe he’s offering me a different position. Maybe a paid one, or—
“I wanted to invite you and Jake to the Bruins game this Sunday.” He beams at me, as if expecting me to clap my hands together in glee. “The network has a private box at TD Garden. Oh, my brother and sister-in-law will be there, too. Lindsay and Karen really enjoyed meeting you the other night. You ladies can catch up while us boys enjoy the game.”
Is murder illegal in Massachusetts?
It’s illegal in all fifty states, I remind myself.
Maybe I could get a good lawyer who could spin it as self-defense? Summer’s dad is a defense attorney. I’m sure he’d be able to keep me off Death Row.
The fury bubbling inside me is so close to spilling over. This asshole made me drive all the way to Boston so he could reject my internship application and invite me to talk about knitting and interior design with his wife and sister-in-law while he and my fake boyfriend get to watch my favorite hockey team.
It’s probably a good thing I don’t own a gun.
“I appreciate the invitation. I’ll have to ask Jake,” I say tightly, hoping the sheer rage isn’t showing on my face. “I’ll let you know.”
“Perfect. Hope you guys can make it. My wife can’t stop gushing about what a great couple you two make.” He winks. “Don’t worry, it’s still our little secret.”
I fake a smile. “Thank you.”
“Let me walk you out.”
“No bother!” My cheery expression is in grave danger of collapsing. “I know the way out. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Mulder.”
“Ed.”
“Ed.”
The fake smile disappears the moment I exit the office. My movements are stiff as I grab my coat from the row of hooks near the door. “It was nice meeting you,” I tell Rochelle.
“Yes. Best of luck to you,” she says sympathetically.
I step out into the corridor, but I don’t leave the building right away. I want to walk by the studio one last time, give it one last longing look. When I reach the cavernous space, there’s a news show in progress. I creep in, keeping a discreet distance, and watch as two analysts recap last night’s Ottawa Senators game and the game-winning goal by Brody Lacroix. One of them says, “Geoff spoke to Brody after the game. Here’s what the rookie had to say.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch a flurry of activity in the control booth. The director signals to someone, and a video of the interview suddenly comes on the screen between the two hosts. Geoff Magnolia’s annoying face appears. He’s the one who does most of the locker room interviews after games, and players view him as “one of the bros.”
Most of the time, Magnolia is too busy exchanging wisecracks with the players to ask about the actual game. With this Senators’ game, however, he’s attempting to be a real journalist while chatting with star player Brody Lacroix. They discuss Lacroix’s success in the third period, as well as his overall success during the season so far. At three different times, Magnolia says that Lacroix’s parents must be very proud of their son, and all three times, Lacroix gives an uncomfortable half-smile before finally mumbling some lame answer and turning away.
I shake my head. “Moron,” I mutter at the same time that a low female voice growls, “Idiot.”
I spin around to find Georgia Barnes, my idol, standing a few feet away. She eyes me, looking intrigued.
“And it’s time for a commercial,” one of the hosts tells the audience. “After the break, we’ll catch up with Herbie Handler down in Nashville and hear his predictions for tonight’s Predators matchup against the Flyers.”
“And we’re out,” a cameraman barks.
As if a switch has been flipped, the set comes to life. Bodies rush by, the chatter of voices echoing in the studio. “Someone fix that light!” one of the hosts complains. “It’s burning my goddamn retinas.”
A lowly assistant sprints over to deal with the lights. Georgia Barnes glances at me again, then walks off the set.
I hesitate for a beat. Then I hurry after her, awkwardly calling out her name.
She stops in the brightly lit corridor, turning to face me. She’s wearing a black pinstripe skirt, a white silk top, and black flats. Despite the elegant attire, I know that she has a fiery streak in her.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I tell her. “But I wanted to let you know what a huge fan I am. I think you’re one of the sharpest, most intelligent journalists in the country.”
Georgia responds with a warm smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Her shrewd gaze sweeps over me. “Do you work here?”
I shake my head. “In fact, I was just informed that I didn’t get the internship I applied for.”
“I see.” She nods ruefully. “It’s a competitive program, from what I hear.” A dry note enters her voice. “Although you should probably be prepared—this entire industry is competitive. Even more so for women.”
“So I hear.”
She studies my face again. “Why did you call Geoff Magnolia a moron?”
A rush of heat suffuses my cheeks, and I hope to hell I’m not blushing. “Uh, right. Yes. I’m sorry I said that—”
“Don’t be sorry. But tell me why you did.”
I offer an awkward shrug. “Because of the questions he was asking. Someone needs to tell that man to perform at least a modicum of research before his interviews. He asked about Lacroix’s parents three times.”
“So what?” Georgia says. Her tone is light, but I sense she’s testing me.
“So the kid’s mom died of cancer less than a month ago, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. Magnolia should’ve known about that.”
“Yes. He should have. But as we’ve established, Geoff Magnolia is a moron.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you a secret—what’s your name?”
“Brenna.”
“I’ll tell you a secret, Brenna. Magnolia is the rule, not the exception. If you ever find yourself working here someday, be prepared to deal with morons on a daily basis. Or worse, sexist blowhards who will spend every minute of every day telling you that you don’t belong here because you have a vagina.”
I smile halfheartedly. “I think I experienced that today.”
Her features soften. “Sorry to hear that. All I can say is, don’t let one rejection, one door-slam, stop you from trying again. Continue applying to networks, cable stations, anywhere that’s hiring.” She winks. “Not everybody wants to keep us out, and a change is coming. Albeit slowly, but I promise you it’s coming.”
I feel a bit awestruck as Georgia squeezes my arm before sauntering off. I have faith that she’s right, that a change is coming. But I wish it would hurry up. It took decades for female reporters to be allowed to interview athletes in the locker room. It required a Sports Illustrated reporter to file a lawsuit before a court finally ruled that banning female journalists from locker room interviews violated the 14th Amendment.
And yet changing laws does nothing to change social attitudes. ESPN has made strides by hiring more female columnists, analysts. But it pisses me off that women in sports continue to face hostility and sexist behaviors when they’re simply trying to do their jobs, just like their male counterparts.
“Brenna, hey!” Mischa, the stage manager I met last week, bumps into me near the elevator bank. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I say wryly.
“Good news, I assume?”
“Sadly, no. Mr. Mulder asked me to come so he could tell me to my face that I didn’t get the job.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. That sucks.” He shakes his head, visibly disappointed. “I would’ve enjoyed having you around.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure the new interns will be great.”
“Maybe. But I have a feeling Mulder is missing out by letting you go.”
“Feel free to tell him that.” When the elevator doors slide open, I reach out to touch his arm. “It was nice to meet you, Mischa.”
“Nice meeting you too, Brenna.”
My smile fades once I’m alone in the elevator. Tears prick my eyes, but I order myself not to cry. I’m not allowed to cry. It was just an internship. I’m sure I can find a local TV or radio station to gopher at this summer, and in the fall I can reapply at HockeyNet, or maybe I’ll find an even better work placement. This isn’t the end of the world.
But dammit, I really, really wanted this internship.
My fingers tremble as I pull my phone out of my purse. I should order a car to take me to the train station. Instead, I think about Jake’s text from yesterday, the one urging me to call him.
I bite my lip.
Calling him is probably a terrible idea.
But I do it, anyway.
“Wow, you’re talking to me again,” Jake says when we meet up twenty minutes later. “What did I do to deserve this honor?”
My spirits are so low I can’t even conjure up a sarcastic remark. “I didn’t get the internship,” I say flatly. “Mulder chose three guys with penises instead of me.”