Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Olivia POV
I wasn’t sure whether it was a good or bad thing to find Antonio in our dorm room when I got there. On the one hand, I really was happy he and Hilda seemed to be getting along.
And I also, after my tremor-inducing confrontation with Coop, wasn’t feeling up for a repeat scenario—with my friend. Hilda and I had never stayed mad at each other for long.
This was kinda long.
But the look Hilda threw me when she entered the room, the downward glance, the half grimace, the slump to her shoulders . . . She didn’t look mad at me anymore, at least.
“Hey hey Reporter Chica!”
“You could just call me Liv. It’s shorter and it seems like we’re going to be friends awhile.”
“It’s not nearly as much fun. Why don’t you cover hockey? Aren’t you the sports reporter for Victory Tech?”
“I’m baseball for Victory Tech. Not ice-boxing.”
“Too bad. I was hoping you could score us tickets. The damned game’s sold out.” The last part sounded a bit like a grown male . . . whining.
I checked the television screen behind him, as if it held some answer. “Sold out? Seriously?”
“That guy’s famous dad’s gonna be here.”
Hilda pointed. “Oh, oh, I’ve seen him before. Woah!”
I eyed the highlight reel of a giant of a man—who skated beyond the laws of physics. “Boris ‘the Flame’ Paljevic?”
Which were apparently the magic words to make Dublin Serra appear. She waltzed through the door in her long coat and perfectly straight hair, landing heavily on the couch. She tossed her coat over the back cushion and rested bare feet on the coffee table with a dramatic sigh. Almost like she lived here.
And she did not live here.
“I need to change the locks,” I grumbled under my breath. A loud cheer rose from the TV. I returned my attention to the hockey thing that had been happening earlier. Some famous guy named Boris, sold out game, something something something . . .
“I met him the other day. Saw him coming out of the locker room. He’s a giant, even off his skates.” Antonio wrapped his arm around Hilda.
“Who? Boris the Flame?”
“Yeah, he's been on campus for a few days. Visiting with his son.” Antonio answered over his girlfriend’s head.
“Wynter Paljevic. He's hotness on ice.” Dublin grinned like a feral cat.
“A hockey player named Wynter ?” I groaned.
Dublin held up her phone with her online . . . lair, er, social feeds. Some weird video playing to an old lady song about wind and wings—with really bad subtitles? “Dad’s a hockey player and mom’s a former national figure skating champion.”
“Of course. So does he have siblings named Frost and Flake?”
“I'm not the one to cast stones based on names.” Dublin rolled her eyes. “And only the youngest son is hotness on ice.” She zoomed in on a picture of a guy in a Strikers hockey jersey. He didn't smile. Dark hair fell over his forehead with the exception of a single stripe of white-blond over the right side. Heterochromatic eyes—one brown and one blue—glared at the screen. Uh, yeah, hotness factor’s definitely right. Wow.
“I don't really care what the others are called.”
I looked Dubby square in the face. “And I don't really care about hockey.”
“Well, good thing I'm the one with the ticket to the game. One of my followers, Mia, she's dating a defender and snagged a guest pass for me. Hockey players are all the rage. I want one.”
“So, what, you're going to show up and tackle him on the ice?”
“Oh, not Wynter. He's uh, little too damaged for my taste. Mia's got the right idea, her defenseman is a total cinnamon roll hottie. And I hear there's a perfectly delectable morsel returning from Olympic camp next week. I'm counting on an intro.” She held up her phone, again. This new guy smiled at the camera with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. Warm green eyes, dark lashes, he wasn't hard to look at either.
But Wynter's photo had been unforgettably striking. Like he should be modeling, shirtless . . . definitely shirtless. Oh damn, bad brain.
“Michel is gonna have his world rocked. I've been studying up on hockey lingo?—”
“Woah! What a shot, wow!” Antonio pumped his fist in the air. “That man is the real deal right there. I can't wait to see what this Wynter guy's gonna do for our team.”
I high fived Antonio, but definitely didn't feel it. Or know why?
He stared at me a little longer than he should have. A pleading smile.
“I still can't get tickets.”
“Reporter Chica.” He threw his arms wide. “You're not even trying to help a guy out!”
I gave him a small smile, but I wasn't really up for this. The game continued, I guess. I sat there, not really seeing what was on tv, barely even present in the room.
“The scouts don’t even have me on their rosters anymore. I’m standing at the back of the line . . .”
Hilda glanced at me from across the room. She inclined her head toward the front door. My heart contracted a little too tightly in my chest. I swallowed, but nodded. Found my feet and followed her into the hall.
I didn't know what she'd have to say to me. A part of me felt like something had been broken between us. It wasn't that I stopped caring about her. I just didn't know how to make our way back to what our friendship was before.
“I shouldn't have yelled at you. I think we were all stressed and anxious. But Liv, I stand by my concerns about this scouting thing. You've changed. Or maybe stagnated.” Hilda shook her head. “While the rest of us are taking on more responsibility, you're just hanging around baseball players. Is that really all you want out of life?”
I crossed my arms and put on my game face. So we're going to do this, now. Great. “What if it is?”
“Why? Just because your dad got rich off the sport?” She threw up her hands. “Because you're trying to live up to some shadow behind your brother?”
Not sure that last analogy made sense, but I got the point. “It's the family business, right?” The words sounded hollow and lame even to my ears.
“The family business that your family begs you not to?—”
“They don’t beg, they just leave me behind while they—" My chest squeezed to the point of pain. “They practically forbid it.”
“And because it’s forbidden, it must be the only thing you can think of to do. Did it never occur to you that they have their reasons? Like: Hey, Liv, don't touch the hot stove or you'll get burned?”
I laughed. It echoed, harsh and hollow, in the small dorm room. “Really? Coming from you, that's . . . rich.”
“Yeah. I guess it is, huh?” She crossed her arms and let out a sigh. “I want to support you, but it just feels like it’s not something you really want. Just like you're desperate for something. Their approval?” She frowned and tipped her head.
“Just quit. I don't know what your endgame was, but apology not accepted.” I spun on my heel and headed down the hall.
“Your mom's the only one who wants nothing to do with baseball. Isn't she?”
I swallowed against a raw, sore lump in the back of my throat.
“Come on Olivia, let's go. We'll go have a girls’ night. We don’t need baseball.” She held out her hand. I wouldn't take it.
“But mom, Curt's pitching tonight.”
I shook away the image. I didn't go with her that night. My brother had always been amazing. He'd play music in his room and tell me silly jokes . . . when Mom and Dad's arguments got so loud, I couldn't sleep.
Then he'd tuck me into bed when it was finally over.
“Leave me alone.” I grumbled under my breath.
“Livia, don't be like this. I care about you. I don't want to see you chasing after something that's just a substitute for?—”
“What, my absent mother?” Heat washed over my skin as I whirled around to face her. “Yeah, there's a real missing piece in my life. My mom .”
“I don't pretend to know or imagine I know what it's like. My family, we had four of us, my parents, and grandparents all in one house. But the way your mom bounced in and out of your life. It makes sense—why you'd chase after the ambitions of the men in your family. The only way you know how.”
Ice dripped down my spine even as another wave of heat breathed across every fiber of my skin. “Wow, thanks for the family therapy session.” I spit out and turned away. Numb feet moved toward the stairs.
“Liv, don't?—”
“She's not a Milline.” I seethed through clenched teeth. “I'm nothing like her.” I crammed my hands in my pockets as I walked away. “I will be nothing like her.”
Friday buzzed with excitement throughout the campus. Founders’ Day, the Exhibition game, the ice-boxing legend on campus. There were no shortage of newsworthy stories, but I had the best one.
My phone chimed an email alert. I opened the message to see a note from Mrs. P asking me to come by and check in. I'm probably overdue for taking on another layout or graphics assignments. I changed direction to head toward the Media and Communications building, then beelined straight for our working room. Hopefully it's not already my turn, again, for ad sales. I paused and eyed the door for a moment. I hate cold calls. But it’s all part of the reporter job . . .
I entered the Journalism workspace. The place was empty except for Mrs. P, sitting at the center table. Which made sense, her team should all be out writing stories. So why was I here? She didn't look up from her laptop. “Liv, good. I received your Founders’ Day interview.”
“Oh, yes. Dotty’s a real character. She has a lot of . . .”
Mrs. P held up a printout and proceeded to tear it into bits.
My heart sank. So, that would be, not good. And . . . kinda unnecessary.
“Your baseball adjacent reporting is top notch. You know the sport. You can write. But tomorrow’s game aside, as we've discussed a few times over the past semester, there’s no baseball for three more months.”
“But there’s?—”
She held up a hand. “For the forty-first time, I don’t have the luxury of an only-baseball reporter. I’m not running the Times.” She bent her laptop screen and glared at me over the rim of her glasses. “I need your article for Founders’ Day. You’re going to nod your head, swear to me that you’ve done the interviews, and rewrite this, borderline biography.”
Frozen lumps churned inside my stomach, but I managed to nod.
“Great.” She flipped up her screen and went back to typing. “And then you’re going to help cover hockey this winter.”
Oh no. No no no. “Aren’t there plenty of other people who would welcome the opportunity? It’s a big deal with the Olympic guy and Wynter’s dad being a major league . . . guy. I could help cover football?” Maybe? “It’s a large team and playoffs in particular?—”
“You’re in Texas. Football is a religion. Hockey’s a huge NCAA sport for this school, but it’s played on ice and you may have noticed we’re in the desert.”
I ground my teeth together to keep additional protests locked inside. “Women’s soccer? It starts next month? Oh, the men have a big tournament?—”
“Fix the article. Today, Liv.”
“Yes ma’am. I did the interview. Dotty made me come back multiple times because she didn’t feel like it or something. In the end, she answered only what she wanted to, asked me a bunch of personal questions and?—”
Mrs. P's mouth shifted to one side of her face. “You don't know how to handle a difficult interview?”
“Of course I—” Ew. The many, many times I'd tried to interview Coop cropped up in my brain. Do I?
“So what? All baseball players just talk to you?”
“No comment. I can keep this up all year. No comment. No fuckin comment.”
“Well, um, no. Not all of them.” The frozen, churning sensation in my stomach flipped over. “But most seem to appreciate the attention.”
“And the ones that don’t? How do you get them to talk to you?”
His mouth covered mine. I clutched the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer . . .
I cleared my throat. “Well, so far, a head injury has been the only method with any notable progress?” That would just sound like I'm not taking this seriously. Despite being kinda, mostly true. “It’s kind of a process?”
“Right. Connecting with someone, demonstrating kindness or even caring about the individual.” She pulled her glasses off and glared. “Do I really need to explain this? To my reporter?”
I took a step back, away. “No ma’am.”
“Great. Fix the article. I need it today. If it’s good enough, I’ll print it.”
I took a deep breath, trying to thaw the frozen pit that was my stomach. “Yes ma'am, I’ll get right on it.” I spun around and stepped toward the door.
“Not done.”
Dammit. I turned back and summoned my game face.
“If I can't print it, your grade will reflect that your work was incomplete this semester.”
Oh suck.
“I want a dynamite rewrite of this Founders’ Day story, today, and Times-worthy exhibition game coverage for next week's publication. Bring me a real story not just stats and who won or lost. Make it human. And if you deliver, I’ll send you to cover one practice each next week—hockey and soccer. Then you will get to decide which beat to pick up in the offseason.”
“Yes, Mrs. P. I got it. I won’t let you down.”
“Olivia, if you can’t prove to me that you’re already a versatile reporter. Then it’s my job to make you one.”
“I think covering baseball, and another sport is versa?—”
“No. If you can’t deliver on the assignment I gave you almost three months ago? Not only will you receive an incomplete, I’ll have to pull you from baseball coverage and assign you to something . . . less distracting.”
The cold pit inside threatened to swallow me whole. This was epically not good. “Yes ma’am.”