by M. F. Lorson
I moved a little closer so I could stop reading lips and start eavesdropping properly.
“I did try a few ideas. But I’m afraid they are all awful,” said Andie peeping up at Elliot through long, dark lashes.
“They can’t be that bad,” he coaxed. “You’ve got great intuition.”
Great intuition? Ha! It was taking every bit of self-restraint I had not to cackle out loud. He knew this why? Because she had spoken up all of one time in class? Her great intuition was slamming my article.
“I guess I’m just stuck on what to write about,” she said, tucking a wayward strand of honey blonde hair behind her ear. “Everyone else has these great ideas, but I...I’m just boring myself to tears. No one wants to read this stuff.”
“I think you're too hard on yourself,” said Elliot, resting an unnecessary hand on her shoulder.
My cheeks burned with envy. Is that what it took to get his attention? Did he want a girl who needed his help? I didn’t know if I could be that kind of girl. I’d read enough books where the girl transforms herself into exactly what she thinks her crush wants to know that was a bad idea.
“Let’s take a look,” he continued, his eyes scanning the paper on the top of the pile. “Well, maybe not this one.” He said shuffling the page to the back. “Or this one.” Elliot repeated the process, his mouth moving along as he read each header to himself until he had sifted through the entire stack.
“I told you,” scowled Andie. “They’re all garbage.”
Elliot gently reassembled the pile. “We’ll figure something out. I promise.” His voice was saccharine sweet. Just listening to it made me nauseous. Just like that doe-eyed grateful look she was giving him back made me nauseous. I couldn’t take it anymore.
I plopped down at the side computer and spent the rest of the period recording everything of importance I had picked up during tryouts. There was an article in there somewhere; I just needed to find it. Before I knew it, the class was over, and yearbook kids were spilling in to fill the vacant seats. I shoved my gear into my backpack, logged out of my Google Drive, and headed toward second period.
I hadn’t quite reached the science wing when I felt a hand resting on my lower back. I spun around to give whoever it was a piece of my mind but stopped short of obscenities when I recognized the familiar scent of pencil shavings and mouthwash. Elliot. Suddenly that spot in the small of my back went from offensive to a warm blanket of affection. It would be great, I thought, if he could leave that hand there forever. I could learn to live with an extra appendage if that appendage was attached to Elliot Lambert.
“Sorry to spook you. I meant to grab you during class but the time got away from me.”
I nodded affirmatively. The words in my brain utterly incapable of exiting through my mouth.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something. And I don’t know exactly how you’re going to feel about it. I mean it would be okay if you don’t want to—” He cleared his throat. “But I was hoping.”
My heart was a gong being hit by the world’s largest woodpecker. We were nowhere near the holiday party, and yet here was Elliot standing in front of me, touching me, tripping over his words, asking me, asking me what? If I didn’t stop freaking out and pay attention I was going to miss it.
“I was hoping you would be willing to help Andie with her first couple of articles.” Everything happy inside me died. “You always have such great ideas, Lane.”
My first impulse was to say, ‘great ideas like the ones you two shot down together?’ or ‘If they are so great maybe I should be the one to write them?’ But I bit my tongue because...Elliot.
“Please?” he asked, his voice deep and throaty.
The smart thing to do here was probably say no. If I let Andie fall flat on her face, she was likely to fall out of his good graces as well. Admittedly, the way he was acting around her took me by surprise, but that didn’t change the fact that the paper was the most important thing to him. He wasn’t going to let it crumble over the chance to woo a girl. No was the smart thing to say, but when I finally parted my lips to speak, “Sure” was what came out.
I couldn’t say no. Not with Elliot making pleading eyes at me through his adorable black-framed hipster glasses. Not with that pencil poking out from behind his ear as if an emergency editorial decision could occur at any moment. Who said no to a high school boy who wore sports jackets with suede elbow patches every single day? Maybe he wasn’t everyone's type, but he was my type and had been for too long to give up.
Elliot pulled me in close, wrapping me in an enormous hug. The kind that made your father want to shove a ruler between you.
“I knew I could count on you,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to my hair.
Twice today Elliot had made physical contact, and twice I was completely unprepared. As he drew back from our hug, I couldn’t help but feel silly for envying that tiny shoulder pat he gave Andie. What was a shoulder pat compared to a hair murmur? I mean his lips had grazed a strand or two for sure, and those strands were connected directly to my head, of which was connected directly to my face, of which my lips were a part. We basically kissed when you put it that way!
That night instead of working on my starting five article I spent the entire evening brainstorming potential leads for Andie. She was actually in a pretty prime position, seeing as how it was the first edition of the school year. None of the good topics had already been taken. It blew my mind that she didn’t have a whole slew of ideas to work with. To give her the benefit of the doubt, she was new to Rosemark. Maybe it was harder to come up with something when you were still learning what made the students tick. As a lifelong resident of Marlowe Junction, I never questioned what would or wouldn’t play well. People wanted drama, controversy, and the polar opposite, feel-good mushy gushy stuff. As was my practice, I read a few of the juicier headlines out loud to the row of stuffed animals at the back of my bed.
Community College may not Honor AP test scores, Former Ballerina Hangs up Toe Shoes for Textbooks and Early Admission Horror Stories, Why to Finish Your Senior Year at Rosemark. I tried to deliver the lines with as much punch as I usually did, but it was hard to get excited about articles I wasn’t going to get the chance to write. I looked to my favorite brown teddy bear for affirmation. Even he seemed to be wearing a skeptical expression.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I grumbled. “Keep it to yourself McBearderson.”
The bear did not answer back as I flipped off the light and crawled under the covers.
Chapter Six
Dear Jillie,
Tryouts are over. Which means the Mountaineers officially have a starting five for the season, and I officially have five guys to harass for the next two months. In the grand scheme of things, I have to admit there are worse assignments I could have received than chasing around five bonafide hotties. Please don’t tell anyone I said that. I’d like to maintain the illusion that I respect them for their—okay I have no idea what I admire them for yet, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something!
The thing is, my article isn’t exactly my focus at the moment. Admission time. Elliot talked me into helping Andie with her piece, and I couldn’t very well argue because without his face the sun probably wouldn’t rise; also the Mountaineers have two more weeks of practice before their first game anyway.
I can afford to spend a little time donating to the greater good. I’m thinking of it as a tax write-off. Painful now, but in the long run, it could yield results. Results like Elliot suddenly realizing what a selfless loveable person I am.
As far as my article goes, I have committed to writing a season opener that profiles one of the starting five, which is going to require more than glancing through last year’s yearbook. My first thought was to interview them like I would any other profile piece. Seeing as how I don’t know much about sports interviews I decided to watch the pros do it. Granted sideline reporting for television isn’t the same as writing for a paper, b
ut I figured it would give me some ideas. Wrong! Have you ever watched the players or coaches speak during half-time or the end of a televised game? Their mouths move, and sounds come out, but they aren’t saying anything. It’s always ‘We have to do better’ and ‘We have to make our shots.’ Seriously, someone actually said, ‘We have to make our shots.’ I cannot even.
If I really want to turn this fluff into something interesting, then I need to get below the surface. If that requires the assistance of a super hunky, tall, center, I’m just doing my job, right?
See you when I see you.
Love,
Lane
I tracked Mackey down in the newsroom before school. Judging by the contents of his screen, he was in charge of yearbook layout, which meant I would be fighting him for computer time sooner or later. The fact that he knew how to use InDesign was surprisingly sexy. Neither Elliot nor Bianca would let me touch any of our graphic design software. Not after what I’d done the first time I so graciously ‘helped.’ There was a reason Elliot assigned Veronica as my co-editor. She might have been a nasty gossip, but she had a good eye. She would make sure we chose the right art for each piece and prevent me from mucking up all the margins. I didn’t particularly like working with her, but I knew where my skills did or did not lie as was the case in this situation.
“Hey there, Cub,” said Mackey looking up from the two-page spread he was working on.
“Cub?” I asked.
“Don’t they call reporters that?”
“When they are young and inexperienced.”
“My bad,” said Mackey giving me his best uh-oh face. “What do they call the good ones?”
The compliment left me all warm and fuzzy inside. “You can just call me a journalist,” I answered, grabbing a seat beside him.
Mackey grinned, “I’m gonna call you Cub anyway. On account of your tiny stature.”
I rolled my eyes. “You know I’m not tiny, right? That you are actually abnormally tall and I’m incredibly normal, slightly on the tall side actually.”
Mackey raised one eyebrow, “What are you 5’4”?”
“5’5” thank you very much,” I scoffed.
Mackey laughed. “Tiny. You’re tiny. I am an entire ruler worth of inches taller than you.”
6’7”? He was 6’7”! I’d estimated somewhere over six foot, but his actual height was mind-blowing. Did they even make shirts with sleeves that long in Marlowe Junction? I bet he had to order out from the Big and Tall store.
I shook my head in disbelief. “See that just makes you a giant.”
“Sure, if I’m standing next to a tiny person,” said Mackey with a wink.
The desire to continue bantering with him was strong, especially since I was so obviously right and he was so obviously disillusioned about his monstrous stature. If my life were one of Mom’s early teen romance books, Mackey would totally be the character that morphed into a ginormous animal whenever he got too close to kissing the girl. I didn’t dare tell him that though. It seemed pretty unlikely he would want to help me if I compared him to some freaky creature. Even if the beast always got the girl in the end anyway.
“Hey,” I started, drawing his attention away from the computer once again. “I’m working on a series of articles for the paper. They focus on the starting five. I was sorta hoping you would be willing to help me?”
Mackey pivoted his chair to face me. “Define help.”
“I want it to be kind of personal. Something that introduces you all, you know makes you human and stuff. Makes people want to root for you, underdogs with a personality that kind of thing.”
Mackey bit the corner of his bottom lip, sucking in a deep breath before answering.
“I like the concept,” he admitted. “Last year it was all scores and plays, which as you can imagine, isn’t so great to see in print when you aren’t scoring or making plays.”
“But,” I asked, noting his roguish expression.
“But, helping you would mean helping the newspaper staff, and you know where my loyalties lie.”
“Blah!” I howled, “This is bigger than that. This is your chance to tell your story. Tell the Mountaineers’ story!”
Mackey looked at me skeptically, “No, this is your chance to tell the Mountaineers’ story. I just happened to be the guy in the room every time you need something.”
I feigned insult, “How dare you?”
“I’m just kidding. Of course, I’ll help. But you have to promise to do better than the last guy.”
“Deal.” I agreed. “In their defense though, it’s hard to give sports reporting depth.”
Mackey frowned, “If you think like that it is.”
I shrugged, I’d only been tracking basketball journalists for a few weeks but I’d yet to come across anyone who made me believe sports reporting was going to make an impact. “When can we interview?” I asked, “I think it would be best if you were there. You know, really encourage the guys to open up. Otherwise, they might be tempted to give garbage responses?”
“Garbage responses?”
“You know, canned one-liners, inspirational hullabaloo that’s been said and printed a thousand times before.”
Mackey nodded, “I’ll get the guys to be themselves, but you have to do your homework first?”
“My homework?”
“Yeah, I can’t have you showing up and asking a bunch of dumb questions then judging them for giving dumb answers.”
He had a point. The players and coaches on ESPN might have parroted the same answers over and over again, but it wasn’t like they had a lot to work with. Pretty much every question was geared toward a ten second sound bite.
“Alright, I’m game. What is this so-called homework?”
Mackey grabbed a piece of scratch paper from beside the printer and scribbled a few lines.
“Read this. Then tell me you still think sports journalism is hollow.” I reached for the slip of paper. But Mackey pulled it just out of my grasp. “I’m serious, Cub. These things are like my peoples version of the New York Times.”
“I get it,” I answered. And I did get it. If I could make everyone read the Onion, I would.
“When that’s done meet me at Perky’s, Thursday after practice. Then we can figure out how to get the guys to talk.” I felt my pulse beginning to speed up. A little newsroom chatter was one thing. Meeting up at a coffee shop, that was different. I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea even if the wrong idea sounded pretty appealing at the moment.
“I can do that.” I stammered, “Just as long as you know, it’s like, just a newspaper thing right?”
Mackey’s ears turned pink when he realized what I was getting at. “Of course! What did you think I meant? I’m not asking you out here, Cub.” I was totally relieved. Yet totally disappointed at the same time.
“I knew that,” I answered quickly, doing my best to keep my face free of any revealing expression. “I was just–”
“How dare you,” smirked Mackey. “You don’t even know if I have a girlfriend.”
“Well, do you?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
Mackey tugged at the back of his neck. “No, but that’s beside the point. The point is–” Mackey was silent for a moment his train of thought clearly having left him. “The point is I’ll see you on Thursday okay?”
I mentally submerged the wicked smile that threatened to burst forward as I calmly agreed. Mackey, on the other hand, wasn’t so collected. He was out of that classroom as quickly as was humanly possible, accidentally running into Elliot on his way out.
“Watch where you’re going,” cried Elliot, straightening his jacket as if his brief collision with Mackey had left him in complete ruin.
“They think they run the place,” grumbled Elliot tossing his bag on an empty chair and setting up for class. “Do me a favor, Lane. Write at least one scathing article about athlete entitlement this year, would you?”
I laughed on the outside, but on the insi
de, I was emotional patte.
One article about athlete entitlement? Wasn’t that what my cheerleading pitch had been? I guess it was okay to slam the boy's teams, but girls were too delicate? Or possibly, far more likely, Elliot hadn't disagreed with my article at all. He’d just been too blinded by Andie to think straight. I was beginning to feel like the prizes in the second row at the arcade. You spent all your money trying to get top shelf, and when that didn’t work out, there was always row two, jawbreakers and miniature glow-in-the-dark slinkies. I really didn’t want to be a slinky this year.
Chapter Seven
I didn’t waste any time. As soon as I got home, it was ‘Hi, Mom. Bye, Mom. Got a job to do, Mom.’ Dad would have stopped me before I even got to the landing. He would, after all, have to explain just how disrespectful my behavior was. Mom though, she just shouted in my general direction.
“Godspeed, Lane Crawford. Pizza is on the way!”
She understood what it meant to be passionate about something. Dad didn’t. It was probably half the reason the two of them didn’t work. A creative just couldn’t marry their opposite and live happily ever after. The jocks dated cheerleaders, the writers dated writers, but the quarterback never dated the band geek. That was the stuff of books, not real life.
I fired up my laptop, pulled the neatly folded scrap of paper Mackey had given me out of the side zipper of my backpack and entered the first thing he’d written in the search bar, the Players Tribune. With a tagline like, “The Voice of the Game,” I did not have high hopes. Still, I had to give it a fair chance. It clearly meant a lot to Mackey, and I needed his help a heck of a lot more than I let on. I clicked on the little horizontal lines in the right-hand corner that represented the menu.