Chapter 30 The City of Angels
The City of Angels
SYDNEY
Los Angeles slaps me in the face the moment I step out of LAX—a wall of smog, palm trees, and desperation masquerading as ambition.
Nothing like the crisp Dickens air I left behind four hours ago with the drive to Boise’s airport.
I adjust my blazer, already not loving the more humid, warmer weather, and scan the sea of rideshare drivers holding up phones with passenger names. Mine’s nowhere to be seen.
“Excuse me.” A man in sunglasses bumps past, dragging a suitcase that costs more than my monthly rent. “Some of us have places to be.”
I shuffle to the side, my own pathetic roller bag—a relic from college that’s missing one wheel—limping behind me like a wounded animal. I check my app again. The driver is five minutes away. Has been for the last fifteen minutes.
While I wait, I check my phone for messages. I’m not sure from whom. I guess I’m secretly hoping Brooks will write and say all this was a huge mistake. Or just that he was too chickenshit to face reality.
None from him, but good luck wishes from Mom, Dad, Zoe, and Maisie.
Finally, my rideshare arrives—a silver Toyota that’s seen better decades. The driver, a woman with more piercings than I can count, doesn’t bother getting out to help with my bag.
“Sydney?” She doesn’t look up from her phone.
“That’s me.”
“Great. Get in. Traffic’s a nightmare.”
Welcome to LA, where warmth isn’t just a weather pattern.
I squeeze into the backseat, which smells like a blend of fast food and discount air freshener. “The KSLA Network building, please.”
“Know where it is,” she grunts, pulling away from the curb with the kind of acceleration that makes internal organs rearrange themselves.
The landscape of LA unfurls outside my window—a sprawling concrete beast that seems to stretch forever, nothing like the compact charm of Dickens.
Buildings rise like mountains, highways snake between them like rivers of metal and exhaust. It’s beautiful in its way, I suppose, if you’re into bright lights and big cities. It hits me that I may not be.
“First time in LA?” my driver says, catching my wide-eyed tourist gaze in the rearview mirror.
“That obvious?”
“You have that ‘holy shit this place is big’ look. Everyone gets it their first time.” She swerves around a Tesla, earning a honk. “What brings you? Acting? Music? Please don’t say influencer.”
“Job interview. Sports broadcasting.” The words feel both exciting and terrifying when I say them out loud. This is real. I’m really here, pursuing the dream I’ve had since I was reporting on Dickens High football games for the school paper.
“Sports, huh? Cool. My son plays soccer.” She gestures vaguely at a photo taped to her dashboard of a kid in a uniform.
“I played in college,” I say, and it reminds me to brush up on LA sports culture. This is going to be a whole different animal from Dickens, Idaho.
We turn onto a main thoroughfare, and traffic immediately grinds to a halt. Like, complete standstill. The kind where people start turning off their engines and settling in for the long haul.
“What’s happening?” Anxiety spikes as I check the time. My interview is in ninety minutes, and the station is still a half-hour away according to the app—and that’s without whatever this traffic situation is.
My driver cranes her neck, then laughs. “Oh, you’re gonna love this. Pure LA bullshit.”
She’s not wrong. After ten minutes of incremental movement, we finally see the cause of the backup: a group of what can only be described as professionally attractive people are conducting a photoshoot. In the middle of the street. With a llama. Wearing sunglasses and a tiny sombrero.
I blink, certain I’m hallucinating. “Is that—”
“A fucking llama? Yes, it is.” My driver sounds more resigned than angry, like this is just another Thursday in LA.
“Influencers. They’ll block traffic for hours for the right shot.
See the blond one? She’s got like five million followers or something.
Makes more money than God posting pictures of her ass next to exotic animals. ”
The blond in question is currently pouting next to the llama, while a photographer snaps away. Two bored-looking police officers are halfheartedly trying to move them along, but they seem more interested in getting selfies with the “celebrities” than clearing the road.
“Can’t we go around?”
“Working on it.” She honks, which does absolutely nothing except make me jump.
By the time we escape the llama-induced traffic jam, I’m down to fifty minutes before my interview. My carefully planned buffer time—because I’m Sydney Holt, and Sydney Holt is always early—has evaporated like Brooks’ commitment.
Okay, that was a low blow, even in my own head. He didn’t exactly evaporate. He just... very explicitly told me to leave. To pursue my dreams. To get as far from him as possible.
So why does it still feel like a ghosting?
The KSLA network building is housed in a gleaming glass tower that makes the Dickens station look like a high school AV club.
I tip my driver—probably too much, but small-town guilt dies hard—and wheel my sad suitcase through the lobby, hyperaware of my travel-rumpled appearance.
Security is tight—I have to present ID, get a visitor badge, and wait for an escort just to get past the lobby.
The receptionist eyes me with barely concealed judgment.
Five minutes later, I emerge from the lobby bathroom having performed a dry shower, complete with paper towel pit checks and a desperate application of fresh makeup and hairspray.
My interview outfit—a navy blazer, cream blouse, and tailored pants that I painstakingly ironed last night before packing—looks like it’s been crumpled into a ball and used as a pillow.
Which, given airplane seating, isn’t far from the truth.
I need to calm the familiar tightening in my chest. Deep breaths, Sydney. This is what you wanted. This is what you’ve worked for.
So why does it feel like I’m making the biggest mistake of my life?
That rideshare to the station cost more than I’d budgeted for the entire day’s transportation. LA prices are giving me heart palpitations, and I haven’t even started looking at apartments yet.
“Ms. Holt?” A voice calls just as I’m contemplating making a run for it. “I’m Parker Wilcox, VP of Talent Acquisition.”
Parker is exactly what I picture when I imagine LA television executives—expensive suit, perfect teeth, handshake that’s just a bit too firm. He’s probably my age but carries himself like he’s been running the place for decades.
“Nice to meet you.” My voice comes out higher than intended. “Thank you for the opportunity to interview.”
“Our pleasure. Though I have to say, we were surprised by your application. Dickens isn’t exactly a major market.”
And we’re off to a great start.
“Small markets offer unique challenges.” I follow him to an elevator. “You learn to be versatile, to handle everything from technical issues to unruly interview subjects.”
“Mmm.” He sounds unconvinced. “Tell me, how did you develop your sports knowledge? Your demo reel showed some decent hockey analysis.”
“I grew up with a brother who plays professionally. Jonah Holt? He’s a center for—”
“The Colorado Blizzards, yes, I’m aware.” Parker’s eyebrows lift. “That’s actually interesting. Connections like that can be valuable.”
Great. He’s more impressed by my brother than anything I’ve done.
The elevator opens directly into a conference room where three more executives wait, all with the same polished, slightly predatory vibe as Parker. They introduce themselves in quick succession—names I immediately forget in my anxiety.
“So, Sydney,” the only woman in the room begins, “your resume is... modest. But what caught our attention was your recent work with Brooks Kingston. ‘The King,’ as hockey fans know him. How did that collaboration come about?”
I feel heat creep up my neck. “We have a personal connection. He was recovering in my hometown, and our station manager thought viewers would respond to the local angle.”
“Personal connection,” one of the men repeats, exchanging glances with his colleagues. “Yes, we’ve seen the reports of your engagement. Quite the whirlwind romance, wasn’t it?”
The emphasis he places on “whirlwind” makes it clear what he’s really asking. Is it real? Is it a publicity stunt? Are you using a relationship with a sports celebrity to advance your career?
I keep my voice steady. “Brooks and I have known each other since childhood. Our relationship developed naturally during his time in Dickens.”
The lie feels sour on my tongue. There was nothing natural about how we started. But what came after—the nights at the cabin, the way he held me during my panic attack, the moments when it was just us, no audience, no pretense—that had been real. Hadn’t it?
“Well, connections are important in this industry,” the woman says. “Though I hope you understand that at KSLA, we hire based on talent, not who someone is dating.”
“Of course.” Except that’s all they’ve talked about since I walked in the door. I straighten my shoulders, channeling every ounce of professional composure I can muster. “I’d expect nothing less.”
Parker checks his watch. “We’d like to see you in action. We’ve set up a test broadcast in Studio B. You’ll be given some copy about tonight’s Lakers game, and we’d like you to deliver it as if it were live.”
“Sounds great,” I say with far more confidence than I feel. Lakers. Basketball. Not my strongest sport, but I’ve done my research. I can handle this.
Studio B is state-of-the-art, nothing like the outdated equipment I use at home. The lighting is perfect, the cameras sleek and modern, the teleprompter an actual recent model instead of the ancient one held together with duct tape and bubble gum at home.
“Take a few minutes to review the copy.” Parker hands me a tablet. “We’ll be in the control room.”