After I stepped back, she said, “You’re leaving?”
“I might pop upstairs and bug my cousins before I go. Why?”
“I have something to say.” She winced when her teeth rubbed on the inside of her lip. “Thanks for tracking me down after the game. It was . . . romantic in a bizarre way.”
I smiled at her. “I might’ve freaked out a little.”
“A little?”
“Fine. A lot.”
“I was still in that adrenaline rush stage, so sorry I snapped at you.”
I shrugged. “Not the first time, probably won’t be the last.”
Gabi smirked.
“What?”
“We have a unique way of sharing our feelings, don’t we?”
“It works. When it doesn’t, we’ll adapt.” I forced myself to take another step back. “Good night, Gabriella.”
“Night, Nolan.”
* * *
* * *
Two hours later, as I was getting ready for bed, my phone pinged with a text.
GW: What’s worse than raining cats and dogs?
GW: Hailing taxis
GW: That joke, courtesy of your niece.
I laughed.
ME: Sounds like Mimi saved the best one for you tonight.
GW: Timing is everything. Speaking of timing . . . for me, it’s easier to say this over text.
I tried not to panic.
ME: Say what over text?
GW: When my crush on you started.
ME: When?
GW: After you apologized for the not-my-type thing. I realized I’d been wrong about you. But you’d been wrong about me too. So I took a chance and let my guard down. I can’t honestly remember the last time I wanted a man to see the real me. It scared me to think you liked what you saw. But it hasn’t scared me enough to put that guard back up.
ME: I’m so glad to hear that. But I need to ask . . . am I just your rebound guy?
The . . . started and stopped three times before I got a response.
GW: No. This feels . . . different. I’ve decided to shitcan my fears and go all in to see where this takes us.
ME: Then we ARE on the same page. Just wanted to double-check.
GW:
ME: I’ll look forward to talking to you tomorrow.
Eighteen
GABI
I woke up feeling like I’d been beat to shit the night before.
Oh right. I had.
Groaning, I forced myself out of bed to start coffee and pop some Aleve.
I shuffled into the bathroom and avoided looking at myself in the mirror. Once the heat from the shower warmed up my muscles, I performed a few slow stretches. That loosened me up enough to get my hair washed and conditioned, my body parts shaved.
Needing that blessed hit of caffeine so bad, I didn’t bother putting any clothes on; I just wrapped my hair in a towel and ventured into the kitchen naked.
Mug in hand, I checked my phone for messages.
None.
I didn’t have time to dwell on my disappointment I hadn’t heard from Nolan because, looking at the time, I realized my interview started in two hours.
The steam had cleared out of the bathroom, leaving the mirror fog-free. When I got the first glimpse of my face, I stared at my reflection with utter dismay.
My bottom lip stuck out so far that I appeared to have a permanent pout. The gash probably should’ve had stitches. I had a bruise on the edge of my jawline. And on my forehead. And on my cheek. Oh, and a great big black eye. I couldn’t even muster up an “it could’ve been worse” scenario by telling myself at least Asswipf hadn’t broken my nose.
Christ. I wasn’t sure I even owned enough foundation for a job of this magnitude. Besides, if I couldn’t figure out how to mask regular dark circles under my eyes on a daily basis, how was I supposed to know how to contour and blend to hide bruising?
You can’t.
Fuck.
Now I wanted to cry. But then my eyes would be red, my face would be blotchy and bruised and wouldn’t that just add a lovely touch.
I fussed with my hair while options to fix this crisis came and went.
Ultimately, I realized if I couldn’t hide it, I might as well flaunt it.
I dressed in the olive jumpsuit, adding jewelry, the leather jacket, the matching purse, marking off each item on the “dress for success” checklist Q had given me. I shoved my phone in my pocket, my feet into the fringed booties and hit the highway.
I believed I had a handle on my nerves . . . until I pulled into the Wolf Sports North complex. Would this be the first of many times I parked in this lot? Or the first and last time all rolled into one?
You’ve got this, Gabi. Go in there and show them why you’re the best person for the job.
I strode into the reception area. All very sleek, chrome and glass, a retro ’80s “mod look” design magazine. At the desk, I said, “Hi. I’m Gabi Welk. I have an appointment with Dahlia Switch.”
“One moment please.” Clickety clack as she typed. Without looking up at me, she said, “I’ve let Dahlia know you’re here. There’s a coatrack to your left if you need one.”
Well, okay then. Not exactly personable. But still I said, “Thank you.”
After I hung up my coat, I had too much nervous energy to sit, so I wandered around, stopping to check out a piece of artwork.
Entwined stripes of silver and gray paint flowed from one corner of the canvas to the other, thicker at the bottom, thinner as it reached the top. In the center of the piece was a black box with two slashes of charcoal on each side, and two lines beneath. Shiny screws, rusted washers and bits of wire were randomly glued around the box, splotches of red paint trailing behind it. Jagged horizontal lines scratched out in pencil stretched above, the images within the lines blurred with streaks of pastel-colored chalk.
What a powerful piece. I leaned down to see if the artist had signed it but there were only the initials T.A.L.
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” a female voice said behind me.
“Very. I don’t always ‘get’ art, but this piece . . . I do.”
“What do you see?”
“The box is an athlete. The lines on the top are bleachers with spectators, but it’s all a blur to her as she races past, not realizing she’s falling apart, or losing pieces of herself she’s so focused on the finish line . . . but looking at the horizon, there is no end goal in sight.”
When the woman didn’t respond, I figured I’d shown my ignorance. Maybe the box was nothing more than a stylized television in a stadium since this was a TV studio.
“It amazes me that the artist’s intent is understood by athletes, and others see a dancing box with unseen forces pulling the strings.”
I murmured, “That analogy works too,” and turned to look at her.
A woman with a tousled blond bob, roughly a decade older than me, offered her hand. “Dahlia Switch.”
Her smile faded as she saw the state of my face.
I didn’t babble an explanation. I kept my smile in place even when it hurt like a bitch, and took her hand. “Gabi Welk.”
“Welcome to Wolf Sports North. If you’ll come with me, we’ll head back to the business offices.” She swiped a badge over the card reader by the door.
I followed her down a long hallway. Some doors were shut, some open. She didn’t explain where we were in the building, or indicate where the studios were located, which honestly didn’t bode well for me. Especially since Liddy had mentioned the staff here were very friendly.
Dahlia stopped outside of a closed door and faced me. “Do you need to ah . . . freshen up or anything before I take you to meet Mr. Mayes, the VP of Programming?”
Wait. I was meeting the VP of Programming? Toda
y? “I’m sorry. I thought I was meeting with you.”
“Goodness, no. I’m Mr. Mayes’s liaison from Personnel.”
Maybe this did bode well for me. “Well, Dahlia, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
She knocked twice and opened the door, standing aside to let me enter first.
The man, much younger than I expected, moved from behind his desk and crossed the room to shake my hand. “I’m Alan Mayes. We’re so pleased you could meet with us today, Gabriella.”
“Please call me Gabi. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“Won’t you please have a seat?” He gestured to a sitting area.
Four high-backed library chairs in coffee-colored leather were spaced around a kidney-shaped coffee table. A woman my age rose from one of the chairs and offered her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Gabi. I’m Minka. Production manager for Minnesota Weekly Sports Wrap-Up.” She gave my outfit a thorough scrutiny. “Fantastic pantsuit. That color is perfect on you.”
You rocked it, Nolan and Q. “Thank you. I wasn’t quite sure if it would clash with or complement the bruises on my face.”
Silence.
Then Alan chuckled. “Maybe I should offer you a cold drink instead of coffee to ice down that lip.”
I sat in the chair closest to Minka and set my purse on the floor. “Ice helped a little last night after the game, but not much. I know it’s not ideal to show up to a job interview looking like this, but I’m a hockey player. It’s a part of the gig.”
He took the chair opposite mine. “I watched the exhibition.”
“Really?”
“I found it interesting that both captains added a woman to their roster, but it wasn’t promoted until a few hours before game time.”
“From what I learned during practice on game day, all the parties involved—including the Wild organization—kept the exhibition as a surprise for game attendees. No one on either team knew specifics on who we were playing against.”
“Quite a bonus for game goers. There were ten Stanley Cup winners, Olympic medalists, and NHL conference champions on the ice last night.”
“It was an honor to play with all those guys. Sort of feels like last night was a dream.” I didn’t add that my aching body attested to the fact all those body checks had really happened. Wouldn’t want to overdo the self-deprecating humor.
“We saw your pregame interview with Channel 9 News,” Minka said. “I assume you had the questions for that ahead of time?”
“No. Actually, I had no idea any news organization would be interviewing me.”
“Really?” Alan said skeptically. “It was a historic moment, two women playing in an NHL exhibition.”
“That was not a sound bite to make myself look humble, Mr. Mayes. I truly was not expecting it.”
“Then please tell us how it came about.”
“Immediately after I showed up at the arena, my boss, Jaxson Lund, took me over to where a news crew was already set up. I figured he just wanted me to wait with him until Lucas Griswold, the other team captain, had finished his interview. So I was shocked when Stonewall informed me that Pashma would be interviewing me.”
Minka and Alan exchanged a look that wasn’t lost on me. I’d nailed that Q&A. The fact I’d had no prep time and nailed it? Big bonus points in my favor.
“We usually have pregame and postgame coverage,” Alan said. “Our crew asked for an interview with you after the game, but they were denied. Was that because you’d already agreed to an exclusive follow-up interview with another network?”
“No. I left at the start of the third period.” I smirked. “Had to get to bed early since I wanted to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for this interview. Not that a solid ten hours of sleep helped my hockey souvenirs heal any faster.”
They both laughed.
Then Alan asked, “Who in your life is aware of your ongoing application and interview process with us?”
“Just my friend who learned about the openings here and urged me to apply. I’ve not shared with my family or friends, including my boss at Lakeside or my supervisor at the Minnesota Youth Hockey League, that I’m looking at other career options.”
“Right. I remember from your application that you’re currently a referee with the MYHL.”
“Yes. I also run coaching workshops and coordinate team-building exercises for girls’ teams.”
“Is that time consuming?”
“While I’m running the events? Yes. But I don’t have to do the paperwork or the legwork setting things up. I am able to tailor my workshops on the fly when I hit the ice that day.”
Minka jotted something down on her notepad before she said, “You do all of these projects and classes because of your love for hockey?”
This was the type of question I hated because my answer could skew the interview. Should I be honest? Or give them the answer that would sound better?
“It’s a combination of love of the game and economic necessity. Last year I needed flexible paying positions that allowed me to train and coach my sister. Now that the Olympics are over and the current hockey season is wrapping up, I decided to pursue other avenues. Does that mean I’ll just abandon my positions if I am offered opportunities that are more in line with full-time employment? It depends.”
“On?” Alan prompted.
I let my gaze move between them. “What this interview is for. I’ve fulfilled all of the requirements, but I still don’t have any idea what specifically this job entails.”
“I’ll bet you have a guess or two what we’re looking for.”
“My first guess would be a game commentator, but that test could’ve just been to judge my verbal abilities and limitations, regardless if it’s on-air.”
“And your second guess?”
“An analyst to dissect the weekly games played and to make predictions for upcoming games.”
Alan watched as Minka wrote something else down. Then he looked at me. “You’re the only applicant that turned in game tapes for both men’s and women’s games. Why did you deem that necessary?”
I gave myself a moment before I spoke. “Because the most logical slot to shove me in is women’s hockey. Which I obviously love. But I was hired as an assistant coach for a men’s college team, and I didn’t want that achievement to get overlooked. Not to denigrate any applicant’s preferences, but I will point out that most female hockey players prefer to stick with what they know, which would be commentating on women’s hockey. I believe I’m more versatile.”
“You feel you’d work well on-air as an analyst with either a man or a woman offering opposing commentary?”
“As long as the person was respectful to both genders of players, I’d be fine with either.”
“Would you also be fine working with someone you might’ve had a personal conflict with in the past?”
“Meaning, would I take issue if you expected me to work with, say . . . Amelie SanSimeon-Wipf as my co-commentator?” I paused. “Yes. I would have a big problem with that.”
“Why?”
“Her specifically? She’s a glory hound. She’s divisive. She’s not a team player.” And those were the most flattering things I’d ever say about her.
“That’s it?”
I wasn’t surprised that Alan pushed the issue about potential personality conflicts. “That’s all I’m willing to say during an official interview that impacts my future.”
“Fair enough.” Minka passed Alan her notebook. He scanned what she’d written, added something and passed it back.
While I should’ve been happy they weren’t whispering back and forth, it still felt rude.
Alan studied me. “You’ve already signed confidentiality paperwork so I can tell you that we’re hiring for two positions. The first one is for the weekly wrap-up show.”
I smiled. I guessed
right. Go me.
“The second position is brand new, created to diversify our broadcast team. We intend to strengthen our brand as the go-to place for local sports, which means we want our viewers to be familiar with their broadcasters. The commentators for men’s and women’s college hockey will be a two-person team; a man and a woman. This concept will launch in the fall, so there are months to build buzz about our new streaming service. The position will entail travel, both preseason and extensively during the hockey season.”
“Which local college teams? You’re already the official broadcast for all the U of M sports programs.”
“We’ll officially broadcast U of M Duluth—UMD—hockey starting this fall. Previously we used their local affiliate as our broadcast, but we are replacing that with our own on-site broadcasting team.”
“When you say travel, and yet you also say local, are you talking about traveling in a vehicle with a news team and the co-commentator?”
“That will be our first choice for events within driving distance.”
I tried to wrap my head around the logistics, but I couldn’t.
Minka cracked open a bottle of water. “If you have questions, please don’t be shy.”
“Shy is rarely a word attributed to me. So you are suggesting that your new co-commentators will cover all of UMD women’s and men’s hockey games. I’m not being flip when I point out that’s thirty-four regular season games—per team, only half of which are played on their home ice.”
“As we’re aware.”
Then it hit me. “Your broadcast team would need to live in Duluth during the season.”
“Yes. We’ve prepared a contingency plan for when the men’s and the women’s teams will be playing simultaneously. Our plan for the first year is to have a secondary unit from here cover whichever game is played on home ice. The broadcasters will travel to the away game . . . unless—”
“The men’s team is playing at home, and the women’s team is playing in Wisconsin, the secondary unit will travel there. Because the goal is making sure whichever team has the winningest record gets the best coverage.”
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