I hide a frown at the sexist remark. One of my TAs at Briar, Tristan, used to be an intern here and he warned me that Mulder is a total jerk. But Tristan also said none of the interns report directly to Ed Mulder, which means I won’t need to deal with him past this interview. He’s just one obstacle I have to get through to strike internship gold.
“Well, as my cover letter stated, I eventually want to be an on-screen analyst or a reporter, but I’m hoping to build experience behind the scenes, too. I’m majoring in Broadcasting and Journalism at Briar, as you already know. Next year I’ll be doing a work placement at—”
“This isn’t a paid internship,” he interrupts. “You’re aware of that?”
I’m caught off-guard. My palms feel slippery when I wring them together, so I place them on my knees. “Oh. Um. Yes, I’m aware.”
“Good. I find that while male applicants come in knowing the details, the female ones often expect to get paid.”
He’s gone from vaguely sexist to obscenely so. And the comment doesn’t make much sense, either. The job posting on the HockeyNet site clearly specified this was an unpaid internship. Why would men expect one thing and women expect another? Is he suggesting that the women didn’t read the posting correctly? Or that we can’t read at all?
Beads of sweat break out at the nape of my neck. I’m so off my game here.
“So. Brenda. Tell me about yourself.”
I gulp. He called me Brenda. Should I correct him?
Of course you should correct him. Screw this guy. You own him. Confident Brenda—I mean Brenna—rears her spectacular head.
“Actually, it’s Brenna,” I say smoothly, “and I think I’d be a good fit here. First and foremost, I love hockey. It’s—”
“Your father is Chad Jensen.” His jaw moves up and down, and I realize he’s chewing gum. Classy.
I answer in a careful tone. “Yes, he is.”
“A championship-winning coach. Multiple Frozen Four wins, right?”
I nod. “He’s a great coach.”
Mulder nods back. “You must be proud of him. What would you say is your biggest strength, aside from having a semi-famous dad?”
I force myself to ignore the snide note in his inquiry and say, “I’m smart. I think on my feet. I thrive under pressure. And most of all, I genuinely love this sport. Hockey is—”
Annnd he’s not listening to me anymore.
His gaze has shifted to the computer screen, and he’s still chewing his gum like a horse chomping on some oats. The window behind his desk provides a fuzzy glimpse of the reflection from his monitor…is that a fantasy hockey lineup? I think it’s the ESPN fantasy page.
He suddenly glances at me. “Who’s your team?”
I wrinkle my forehead. “My college team or—”
“NHL,” he interrupts impatiently. “Who do you root for, Brenda?”
“Brenna,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I root for the Bruins, of course. What about you?”
Mulder snorts loudly. “Oilers. I’m a Canadian boy, through and through.”
I feign interest. “Oh, that’s interesting. Are you from Edmonton, then?”
“I am.” His eyes flick back to his screen. In an absentminded tone, he says, “What would you say is your biggest weakness, aside from having a semi-famous dad?”
I swallow an angry retort. “I can be impatient at times,” I confess, because there’s no way I’m doing that cheesy bit about how my biggest weakness is that I care too much or work too hard. Gag.
Mulder’s attention is once again diverted to his fantasy hockey team. Silence falls over the spacious office. I shift irritably in my chair and examine the glass case against the wall. It displays all the awards the station has won over the years, along with signed paraphernalia from various pro hockey players. There’s a lot of Oilers merch in there, I note.
On the opposite wall, two big screens are showing two different programs: an NHL highlights reel from this weekend, and a Top Ten segment counting down the most explosive rookie seasons of all time. I wish the TVs weren’t on mute. At least then I could hear something interesting while I’m being ignored.
Frustration climbs up my spine like ivy and tightens around my throat. He isn’t paying a lick of attention to me. Either he’s the worst interviewer on the planet, a rude jackass, or he’s not seriously considering me for this position.
Or maybe it’s D) all of the above.
Tristan was wrong. Ed Mulder isn’t a jerk—he’s a mega asshole. But unfortunately, good, hands-on internships at big networks like HockeyNet don’t come along every day. It’s slim pickings out there in the internship market. And I’m also not naïve enough to think that Mulder is a special case. Several of my professors, both male and female, warned me that sports journalism isn’t the most welcoming field for women.
I’m going to face men like Mulder during my entire career. Losing my temper or storming out of his office won’t help me achieve my goals. If anything, it’ll “prove” his own point in his misogynistic head: that women are too emotional, too weak, too ill equipped to survive in the sports arena.
“So.” I clear my throat. “What would my duties be if I got this internship?” I already know the answer—I practically memorized the job posting, not to mention my CIA-worthy interrogation of Tristan the TA. But I might as well ask some questions, seeing as how Mulder isn’t interested in returning the favor.
His head lifts. “We’ve got three intern slots to fill in the production department. I’m the head of that department.”
I wonder if he realizes he hadn’t answered the question. I draw a calming breath. “And the duties?”
“Highly intensive,” he replies. “You’d be required to compile game highlights, assemble clips packages, help to create teasers and B-roll. You’d attend production meetings, pitch ideas for stories…” He trails off, clicking his mouse a few times.
AKA, the perfect job for me. I want this. I need this. I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering how I can turn this disastrous meeting around.
I don’t get the chance. There’s a loud knock on the door, and it flies open before Mulder can respond. An excited-looking man with an unkempt beard thunders into the office.
“Roman McElroy just got arrested for domestic abuse!”
Mulder dives out of his leather chair. “Are you fucking shitting me?”
“There’s a video of it all over the Internet. Not of the wife-beating, but the arrest.”
“Have any of the other networks picked this up yet?”
“No.” Beard Man is bouncing up and down like a kid in a toy store, and he can’t be a day younger than fifty-five.
“Which talking heads do we have on set?” Mulder demands on his way to the door.
“Georgia just got here—”
“No,” the boss interrupts. “Not Barnes. She’ll try to give it some sort of feminist bullshit spin. Who else?”
I bite my lip to stave off an angry retort. Georgia Barnes is one of the two female analysts at HockeyNet, and she is amazing. Her insights are topnotch.
“Kip Haskins and Trevor Trent. But they’re doing a live segment right now. The Friday Five.”
“Screw The Friday Five. Have Gary write up some copy, then get Kip and Trevor to debate the fuck out of it and break apart the arrest video frame by frame. I want a whole segment on this McElroy thing.” Mulder skids to a stop in the doorway, suddenly remembering my existence. “We’ll finish this on Monday.”
My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Come back Monday,” he barks. “We’re dealing with a monster exclusive here. The news waits for no man, Brenda.”
“But—”
“Monday, nine o’clock.” With that, he’s gone.
I stare at the empty doorway in disbelief. What the hell just happened? First he opened the interview with a bunch of sexist comments, then he didn’t listen to a word I said, and now he’s abandoning me mid-interview? I understand that a
professional hockey player being charged with abusing his wife is big news, but…I can’t come back on Monday. I have classes. Tristan warned me about Mulder, but the man was even worse than I’d expected.
I angrily gather up my purse and coat and rise to my feet. Fuck that. I’m not returning on Monday. I’m not letting that asshole—
Dream internship, I remind myself, then repeat the phrase over and over again in my mind. ESPN and HockeyNet are the two biggest sports networks in the country. And ESPN isn’t hiring.
Therefore…
I guess I’m skipping school on Monday.
Rochelle, Mulder’s cute blonde receptionist, glances up from her desk when I walk up. She officially reschedules the interview, and I leave the HockeyNet building with the worst feeling in the pit of my stomach.
For the first time in ages, it’s not raining, so I arrange for an Uber and stand outside by the curb. I call my cousin while I wait. “Hey,” I say when Tansy picks up. “My interview’s over.”
“Already?”
“Yup.”
“How did it go?”
“It was a total disaster. I’ll tell you about it later. I just ordered an Uber—can I still head to your dorm?” The plan was for me to hang out there alone while Tansy is in class.
“Yeah, I left my key with my RA. She’s in room 404. Knock there first and get the key. I’m in 408.”
“Cool.” I glance back at the high-rise I just exited, with its sparkling windows, glass lobby, and massive white-and-red HockeyNet logo. A sigh slips out. “I hope you’re ready to get lit tonight, because I need to drink the memory of this interview right out of my head.”
* * *
“I hate you so much. How do you always manage to look so good without even trying?” Tansy gripes later that evening.
We’re in her suite at Walsh Hall, one of the Boston College residences. Tansy shares it with three other girls, and bunks with a chick named Aisha, who’s away for the weekend visiting her parents in New York. Aisha is a girl after my own heart, because she transformed her desk into a vanity. I would’ve done the same thing to my desk at home, if I had one; I’ve always preferred doing homework while sprawled on my bed or couch.
I grin at Tansy’s reflection in Aisha’s huge mirror, then continue applying mascara to my upper lashes. “I’m putting on makeup,” I point out. “How is that not trying?”
She makes a grumbling noise in her throat. “You call that makeup? You put on a dab of concealer and a bit of mascara. That doesn’t count as trying.”
“And lipstick,” I remind her.
“And lipstick,” she concedes. She rolls her eyes at me. “You know colors other than red exist in this big, beautiful world, right?”
“Red’s my color.” I purse my lips at her, then smack them together in an air kiss. “My friend at Briar says it’s my trademark.”
“It totally is. I can’t remember the last time I saw you without it. Maybe Christmas morning?” She pauses. “No, wait, we both wore red lipstick that day. It matched our Santa hats. I looked awful, though. I remember that. I can’t pull off red lips.”
“We have the same complexion, Tans. You could absolutely pull it off.”
“No, I mean swag-wise. You need to possess a certain amount of swagger to rock the red.”
She’s not wrong. It’s a look that requires confidence. Ironically, it’s what gives me confidence. I know it sounds absurd, but I feel invincible every time I slather on some crimson lipstick.
“I can lend you some of my swagger if you want,” I offer.
Tansy’s nose scrunches up as she grins. The silver stud in her left nostril catches the light and seems to sparkle. “Aw thanks, Bee. I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite cousin.”
“Well, the others aren’t exactly prime candidates for that honor. Leigh and Robbie are too preachy about religion. And don’t get me started on Alex.”
We both grimace. Alex is our uncle Bill’s daughter and she’s incredibly annoying.
I hear the chirp of an incoming message. “Hey, can you check that?” I left my phone on Tansy’s desk, and she’s closer to it.
She reaches over from her bed. “Someone named GB says he misses you. He used about a hundred u’s and five, no, six, heart emojis. Oooh, and it’s the red heart. That means he’s serious. So. Who is GB and why haven’t you mentioned him?”
I sputter with laughter. “GB stands for Greenwich Barbie. That’s what I call my friend. Summer. She’s a hot rich girl from Connecticut.”
“Liar. I’ve never heard you mention a Summer,” Tansy accuses.
“She transferred to Briar at the beginning of January.” I stick the mascara wand back in the tube and twist it closed. “This chick is insane, like in a good way. She’s hilarious. Always up for a party. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
“Are we seeing her this weekend?”
“No, unfortunately. She’s performing her girlfriendly duty and supporting Briar at the semifinals against Yale tomorrow night. Her boyfriend is on the team.”
“Why does she miss you?”
“We haven’t hung out since last weekend. And yes, I know a week is not a long time at all, but in Summer years that’s a decade. She’s melodramatic.”
My phone chirps again.
“See what I mean?” I chuckle, tucking my mascara and lipstick into the small makeup case I brought with me. “Pass me my phone, will ya? If I don’t text her back, she’s liable to have a panic attack.”
Tansy checks the screen. Her shoulders stiffen slightly. “It’s not Summer,” she informs me.
I knit my brows. “Okay. Who is it?”
There’s a long pause. Something shifts in the air, and suddenly a cloud of tension settles between us.
Tansy studies me, wary. “Why didn’t you tell me you were still in touch with Eric?”
5
Brenna
The tension seeps into my body, turning my shoulders to stone and my spine to iron. And yet my fingers feel like jelly, and I begin to tremble. Luckily, I’m finished putting on mascara; otherwise, I would’ve poked an eyeball out.
“Eric messaged?” I’m bothered by how weak my voice sounds. “What does it say?”
Tansy tosses me the phone. My gaze instantly lowers to the message. It’s brief.
ERIC: Call me, B. Need to talk to you.
Uneasiness trickles down my spine like drops from a leaky faucet. Shit. What does he want now?
“What does he want?” Tansy speaks my thoughts, only she sounds far more distrustful than I am.
“I don’t know. And to answer your question, we’re not in touch.”
That’s not entirely true. I hear from Eric two or three times a year, usually when he’s high as a kite or drunk off his face. If I don’t pick up, he keeps calling, over and over and over, until I do. I don’t have the heart to block his number, but the heart I do possess splinters each time I answer his calls and hear how far he’s fallen.
“Did you know my mom ran into him, like, six or seven months ago? It was around Halloween.”
“Really? Why didn’t she say anything about it over the holidays?”
“She didn’t want to worry you,” Tansy confesses.
A heavy breath gets stuck in my throat. The fact that Aunt Sheryl thought I would be worried tells me the state Eric was in when she saw him. “Was he high?”
“Mom thinks so.”
I exhale slowly. “I feel so bad for him.”
“You shouldn’t,” Tansy says frankly. “He’s the one who chooses to keep indulging in that lifestyle. His mom got him a spot in that super-expensive rehab in Vermont and he refused to go, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” I feel bad for Eric’s mother, too. It’s so frustrating trying to help someone who refuses to admit they have a problem.
“Nobody is forcibly pouring booze down his throat or making him do drugs. Nobody is holding him hostage in Westlynn. He can leave town anytime. We did.”
&nbs
p; She’s right. Nothing is keeping Eric in Westlynn, New Hampshire, except for his own demons. I, on the other hand, fled to Boston right after high school graduation.
There’s nothing wrong with my hometown. It’s a perfectly nice place, meeting the small-town requirements of tranquil and quaint. My dad and his siblings were born and raised in Westlynn, and Aunt Sheryl and Uncle Bill still reside there with their spouses. Dad waited until I moved out before he relocated to Hastings, Massachusetts. Before that, he made the hour-long commute to Briar so that I could continue to attend school with my cousins and friends. I think he’s happier in Hastings, though. The town is five minutes from campus, and his house is a roomy old Victorian with a ton of charm.
My ex-boyfriend chose to stay in our hometown. He spiraled after graduation, falling in with all the wrong people and doing all the wrong things. Westlynn isn’t overrun with drug dealers, but that’s not to say you can’t find drugs there. You can find drugs anywhere, sadly.
Eric is stuck. Everyone else has moved on, and he’s still in the same place. No, he’s in an even worse place these days. Maybe I shouldn’t feel sorry for him, but I do. And our history makes it hard to write him off entirely.
“I don’t think you should call him.”
My cousin’s stern words jolt me back to the present. “I probably won’t.”
“Probably won’t?”
“Ninety percent won’t, ten percent might.”
“Ten percent is too high.” She shakes her head. “That guy will only drag you down if you let him back in your life.”
I blanch. “God, don’t even worry about that happening. A hundred percent chance it won’t.”
“Good. Because clearly he’s still obsessed with you.”
“He was never obsessed with me,” I say in Eric’s defense.
“Are you kidding me? Remember when you got mono junior year and couldn’t attend school for a couple of months? Eric had a total meltdown,” she reminds me. “He called you every five seconds, skipped class to go see you, freaked out when Uncle Chad told him to stop coming over. It was intense.”
The Risk: Briar U Page 4