Chapter 30 The City of Angels #2
The copy is straightforward game preview stuff—key players, recent performance stats, playoff implications. I memorize as much as I can, knowing from experience that depending entirely on a teleprompter is asking for trouble.
A production assistant counts me down. “Three, two, one...”
The red light blinks on, and I transform into Broadcast Sydney, the version of myself that knows what she’s doing.
“Good evening, sports fans. The Lakers look to extend their winning streak tonight against the Chicago Bulls team that’s been struggling with injuries to key players.
Magic James comes into this matchup fresh off a triple-double performance against the Suns, while Duncan Kobe has been dominant in the paint, averaging twelve rebounds per game this month. ”
I’m hitting my stride, the words flowing naturally, when the teleprompter freezes. Then goes blank. Then displays what appears to be someone’s lunch order.
Don’t panic. This is familiar territory. In Dickens, equipment fails at least twice a week.
“The Bulls will need to contain the Lakers’ perimeter shooting,” I continue smoothly, pulling statistics from my pre-interview research.
“They’ve allowed opponents to shoot 38% from beyond the arc in their last five games, a vulnerability the Lakers are well-positioned to exploit with their current three-point shooting percentage of 41%, third best in the league. ”
I continue for another minute, ad-libbing analysis based on what I crammed last night, maintaining eye contact with the camera and my professional smile. When I see the teleprompter flicker back to life, I seamlessly transition back to the script.
“That’s it for our preview. Back to you in the studio.”
The red light blinks off, and I exhale slowly, unsure if what just happened was a genuine malfunction or a test. Given the smiles on the executives’ faces as they re-enter the studio, I’m guessing the latter.
“Impressive recovery,” Parker acknowledges. “Though you missed some nuance on the Bulls’ defensive rotations. And you didn’t mention their rookie point guard, who’s been a spark off the bench.”
“I—” I start to defend myself, then stop. He’s right. My knowledge of the Lakers is decent, but I don’t follow the Bulls closely enough to have that level of detail at my fingertips.
“What about local college teams?” the woman asks. “If you were covering LA sports, you’d need familiarity with USC, UCLA, the whole landscape.”
“I’d certainly need to deepen my knowledge of West Coast teams,” I admit, seeing no point in pretending. “But I’m a quick study, and I’m passionate about all sports, not just hockey.”
The executives exchange glances, communicating in that silent language of people who’ve worked together too long.
The conference room is silent except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights; I can hear my own pulse in my ears. Parker leans forward, voice velvet-smooth: “We’re prepared to offer you the position, Sydney. You’re sharp, resourceful, and you think on your feet—qualities we value at KSLA.”
My mouth goes dry. I blink, sure I’ve misunderstood.
Did he mean ‘We’ll keep you in mind,’ or ‘We’ll let you know by Friday,’ or one of those polite brush-offs?
But no, he continues, “We’d like you to start in an on-air support role with the expectation that you’ll be moving to the weekend sports desk within six months, contingent on review.
You’d be working with our top-tier team, covering LA sports, contributing to digital highlights, and—should you wish—developing your own feature packages. ”
My jaw actually drops. The smile on Parker’s face flickers for a half-second into something genuine at my stunned silence.
The other executives murmur their congratulations, some more convincing than others. The vibe is: she’s green, but she’s got potential. I hear it underneath every syllable. Maybe I even agree.
“You have until Monday to decide,” Parker says. “We understand it’s a big move, and we want you to be comfortable.”
“Wow, thank you,” I manage, acutely aware that my voice is shaking. “This is... incredible.”
“We’ll send you the offer in writing, with all the details and, of course, the salary package. Take your time to review,” the woman adds. “But do let us know as soon as you’re able.” Her smile is warmer than before.
Parker stands, signaling the meeting is over.
I stand too, on autopilot. My hands are sweat-slick as I shake theirs around the table, smile glued somewhere between professional and deranged.
I’m still holding the tablet from my audition and nearly forget to hand it back to the production assistant waiting by the door.
They escort me back through the glass corridors, sunlight pouring in, everything too bright and slightly unreal. I keep thinking any minute now someone will tap me on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, there’s been a mix-up. We actually meant to offer this to the other Sydney from Idaho.”
But the tap doesn’t come. Instead, Parker walks me all the way to the lobby, shakes my hand again, and says, “We’re excited to have you, Sydney. Welcome to LA.”
I step into the elevator, doors gliding closed with a soft whoosh.
That’s when the adrenaline dump hits. I sag against the mirrored wall, staring at my own reflection.
I look like a high schooler who just found out she’d passed a test she assumed she’d bombed.
My hands are trembling. My heart’s racing somewhere near my throat.
The hotel texts that my room is ready, but instead of heading back, I find myself wandering the streets near the station, taking in the city that might become my home.
LA is a study in contrasts—gleaming skyscrapers casting shadows over homeless encampments, designer boutiques next to dollar stores, BMW convertibles idling next to beat-up food trucks.
I stop at a cafe with outdoor seating, ordering an overpriced latte that I can’t really afford, and pull up apartment listings on my phone.
The numbers make me choke on my first sip.
Thousands of dollars for a studio apartment the size of my bathroom in Dickens.
More thousands for a one-bedroom with “partial city views”—which, based on the photos, means if you lean out the window and crane your neck, you might glimpse a building that isn’t directly in front of you.
Even if I get this job, even with the substantial pay increase, I’d be living paycheck to paycheck. No savings. No safety net. Just me in a shoebox apartment, chasing a dream that suddenly feels less shiny than it did.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, which is also sleek and modern, the staff so attractive they could be TV extras, the sun is setting, casting long shadows between the buildings. My room is nice—clean, modern, impersonal. I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The TV remote is right there, and I find myself turning it on, flipping channels mindlessly until—
“Brooks Kingston makes his return to the ice after months of rehabilitation following a shoulder injury that many thought might end his career.”
My finger freezes on the remote. There he is, larger than life on the screen, skating in practice footage that must be recent. He looks good. Strong. That familiar determined set to his jaw as he fires a puck into the net.
“Sources close to the team say Kingston’s been cleared for play, though questions remain about his readiness for elite competition. The Boise coaching staff remains confident that their star center will return to form as they face the Colorado Blizzards next week.”
Oh, god. Brooks’ first game back, and he’s going head-to-head with Jonah.
My chest aches, a physical pain that surprises me with its intensity. I should be happy for him. This is what he’s worked toward these past months—his return, his redemption arc. But all I can think about is how quickly he let me go.
It shouldn’t hurt this much, should it?
Except I’d fallen for him—truly, deeply fallen—and I thought, I really thought, he had fallen for me too.
I flip the TV off and, exhausted, fall asleep, dreams filled with ice and snow and a man who taught me to skate only to leave me drowning.
Morning in LA is different from morning in Dickens. The light has a different quality—hazier, softer through the smog. The sounds are constant—traffic never stops, people never seem to sleep. I shower, dress, and head out, needing to walk, to think, to decide.
My flight home isn’t until this evening, giving me the morning and part of the afternoon to experience what life in LA might be like.
I make my way to Hollywood Boulevard, because it seems like the touristy thing to do, and find myself in the midst of exactly the kind of LA chaos that makes for good stories back home.
Two grown men—one dressed as Batman, one as Superman—are engaged in what appears to be a territorial dispute over a specific star on the Walk of Fame. Both are shouting, their costume masks pushed up to reveal red, sweaty faces.
“I’ve been working this spot for three years!” Batman yells, his cape flapping indignantly. “Tuesday is my day!”
“The spot isn’t assigned!” Superman strikes a heroic pose that’s somewhat undermined by his sagging foam muscles. “This is public property!”
A small crowd has gathered, most taking photos and videos rather than trying to intervene. Some tourists are even paying to take pictures with the arguing superheroes, apparently believing this is part of the authentic Hollywood experience.
I find myself laughing—a genuine belly laugh that feels foreign after days of stress and heartache. This absurd scene somehow encapsulates everything about LA—the performance, the hustle, the desperation disguised as confidence.
Is this what I want? To be part of this world of constant performance, of surface-level connections, of Batman and Superman duking it out for tips on a dirty sidewalk?
I find a bench and sit, watching the city pulse around me. In my pocket, my phone buzzes—a text from Zoe asking how the interview went. Another from Mom hoping I’m enjoying LA. One from Maisie telling me I’d better have “kicked ass.” Nothing from Brooks.
The conflicting emotions battle inside me—the lifelong ambition to be more than a small-town weather girl, to prove myself on a bigger stage, versus the comfort of home, of belonging somewhere, of people who know me, really know me.
With this job, I’ll be reporting on major league sports. I’ll have “made it” by any objective standard.
But at what cost?
As I watch Superman finally storm off, leaving Batman triumphant but winded on his hard-won star, I realize something I’ve been avoiding: success means different things to different people.
For some, it’s the biggest market, the most prestige, the highest salary.
For others, it’s doing work they love surrounded by people who matter.
But wouldn’t I regret turning down a huge network like KSLA? I don’t know if there’s anything left between Brooks and me worth fighting for.
I don’t know if I belong in LA or Dickens or somewhere else entirely.
But I know one thing for certain: wherever I end up, whatever choice I make, it has to be for me. Not to prove myself because of who my brother is. Not for Brooks, or anyone else.
The Hollywood sign looms in the distance, hazy through the morning smog. A street performer dressed as Marilyn Monroe blows me a kiss as she totters past on impossible heels.
Los Angeles. City of dreams. Maybe mine, maybe not.