Chapter 10
ALEX
Ilove Sundays because it means I have an actual day off.
And by a day off, I mean being able to spend the day in The Goldberg newsroom.
Sundays are when my mom spends the day with Naomi, and I feel like I can leave my family life at home, even if only for a little while.
I burst into the newsroom, nearly knocking my hip against the side of Fiona’s desk.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nose and sends a sense of calm through me.
Sunlight pours through the large windows, and the amber and red leaves outside burst with color against the pale blue sky.
The only sound in the newsroom is the coffee machine brewing. I inhale the smell in a way I haven’t since I started working at The Honeycomb. I forget how good coffee can smell when I’m not around it all the time.
The pot crackles and steams as coffee drips into the glass carafe. I inhale deeply and appreciate the stillness.
It feels like my life is constantly moving. I don’t have time to slow down and appreciate what I’m working toward.
I have three semesters left after this one, and my heart thrums against my ribs as I think about the prospect of going out into the real world as a journalist.
I have to start interning soon if I want to make a splash, and I’m glad Mason decided to be friends with me because his mom is an editor at The Meridian Tribune.
But I’ve let my position at The Goldberg take something of a backseat, and this morning, I really need to refocus so I can keep chasing what I want.
The machine stops brewing, and I pull out the pot and pour myself a mug.
I add some oat milk and sugar, then carry it to my desk, careful not to spill it.
I slump into my chair and roll it closer to the desk.
Something falls on the other side of the newsroom. I crane my neck, trying to see who else is here with me.
“Morning,” I call to whoever is in here that I can’t see.
“It’s a terrible morning,” Fiona’s voice calls back.
I close my eyes and let my shoulders sag.
I wasn’t expecting her to be here today. I was hoping for Mason or my colleague Anna to keep me company.
The She-Devil appears from the kitchenette with a bagel on a plate.
“Everything okay?” I ask, even though I don’t really want to know what wrath she’ll subject me to today.
“I ran out of coffee this morning, so I had to make some here. I’m waiting for it to brew.”
I glance at the pot. “It’s done. I’ll get you a mug.”
I get out of my chair, pull the pot from its holder, pour her a cup, and bring it to her desk.
“It should be in my thermos, but I don’t care,” she mumbles before taking a long chug from the mug.
I almost think she might burn her throat, but I’m pretty sure she has some kind of special genetics that make her immune to pain. Instead, she inflicts it on everyone else.
I walk back to my desk and pull my laptop out of my bag.
“Thanks,” she mumbles after a moment.
I sit down, hoping Fiona stays quiet for the rest of the morning so I can focus on the piece due tonight.
I sigh and open my laptop to a blank document.
I’ve never been in the position of having nothing done for an article before. I’m usually able to stay on top of everything, but this week has been particularly hectic.
“Alex? Do you have a moment?” she asks the second my fingers start flying across the keyboard.
I force myself not to roll my eyes. “Yeah. Why?”
She beckons me over with her index finger.
How many times am I going to sit down and get back up from this damn chair?
With a sigh, I push myself up and walk back to her desk.
“I’m assuming you’re finishing up the piece you were supposed to have for me last night?” she asks.
Irritation pulses through me. This is the third time this week she’s brought it up.
“The deadline is tonight.”
She clucks her tongue. “It’s always been the day before for you.”
“That was before I had to start working.”
She sets her mug on the desk and gives me the kind of serious look that means a lecture is coming.
“Alex, if you’re going to keep pushing your assignments off until the last minute—”
I clench my fists. “Has my quality gone down?”
She finally meets my eyes. “No.”
“Maybe it’s not a problem then.”
She waves a hand around. “You’re my right-hand man—”
“Then make me co-editor this year,” I say, suddenly feeling much braver than I ever have before.
She frowns. “Not happening. I don’t work alongside anyone.”
I clench my fists again because I knew that would be her exact answer. It always is.
“Then you can’t expect me to be at your beck and call all the time. I have my own life, and The Goldberg is still a priority. I get everything in on time. I show up to every meeting. My quality is consistent. And that should be enough.”
I rip my gaze from hers and take a long gulp of my coffee, setting it down on her desk with a louder sound than I intended.
She gives me a serious look, one that’s unreadable from her usual stern, She-Devil one.
Fiona folds her arms. “Look, this is my last year on the paper, and it’s been my baby for the past three years.”
I let myself relax.
“I’m really scared of how it’s going to turn out when I’m gone. I don’t want it to lose the spark that it has. It’s not just me who gives it… bite. It’s you, it’s Mason, and it’s everyone else. I don’t let anyone on that doesn’t have edge.”
I look at her, and I realize it might be the only time she’s genuinely complimented me, and unprompted, too.
“And when I see you pull away a little, I think that it’s going to lose a bit of that edge. I know I have my own issues, and I don’t make things easy for you all, but I do it because I care in my own way.”
I smother a laugh because she certainly has an authoritarian way of ruling over us all.
She sighs. “I just want to make sure you’re not gonna flake out on me, okay? I trust you to carry on this paper into next year, and I want whoever we take on next to carry on that edge from you, just as I passed it to you.”
I want to tell her that my sharpness didn’t come entirely from her, but I’m alarmed at how much she’s sharing with me to care for.
“You think you can trust me with this? As editor?”
“I see you as being the editor next year, that’s why I need you to stay on things.”
She rolls her eyes. “And don’t tell anyone else this, but you’re the only one I can ever see being editor. They’d all wither if they had to fill my shoes. But you—you have your finger on the pulse in a way no one else does.”
I want to disagree with her and say that there are lots of people on staff who would be capable of being the chief editor. I wish she didn’t try and discount all of us so much.
I cross my arms. “What if I don’t want to be editor?”
“You do. Don’t kid yourself.”
I roll my eyes, but force out a smile. “Fine.”
She angles her chin toward my computer. “Just make sure that’s done by tonight, and I’ll stay off your back. I just need to know you’re serious about this, Alex.”
“I am. I want to be the editor.”
“Good. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and I think you will be.”
She shoos me away from her desk and takes a sip of her coffee.
I’m beyond surprised that Fiona actually told me she sees a future for me here. All this time, I thought she just liked having control over me.
Maybe I should have realized she was trying to be a mentor, not a dictator.
I write with a fervor I didn’t have before, knowing that every piece I finish brings me one step closer to sitting in the chair she occupies now.
For once, I don’t feel like I’m writing on autopilot. I write like an artist.
As I settle at my desk, I can’t seem to let myself focus on one final read-through of my piece before I submit it.
Logan told me he was injured, and I feel like I would have heard about it if it were on the field or during a game. There would have been mutterings about it from Mason when he did game coverage.
Instead of typing, I decide to look at the previous year’s football roster.
I scroll through it and find Logan’s picture, a serious expression plastered on his face, much different from the shy yet assured disposition he usually has.
“Logan Abbott,” I whisper to myself.
He’s 6'6" and 250 pounds?
That guy really is huge.
Against my better judgment, I type his name into the search bar, and various articles come up. Most of them are game coverages from the past couple of years.
There are pictures of him jumping into the air to catch a ball in the end zone, rain pouring down around him while the floodlights frame him perfectly in the middle, like he’s in a movie.
I click back to the search page and freeze when I see an article from earlier this year.
Montgomery Student, 20, Injured in Car Accident.
I click on the article, and a picture of Logan on the field appears at the top.
I scroll down and read.
How did I not see this?
Hornets football player Logan Abbott was left in critical condition late last night after a drunk driver struck him while he crossed the street.
I put my hand over my mouth as guilt rushes through me.
Logan was hit by a drunk driver. His entire football dream was ripped away from him by someone who made the decision to drive while inebriated.
My stomach sinks.
I wish I could help him. No wonder he feels like he needs a fresh start.
I close my laptop and immediately wish I hadn’t read it. He’s probably been traumatized and is still so angry about it all.
I can’t stop thinking about him as I read through my piece one last time and send it off to Fiona.
The next time I see Logan, I swear to myself that I’ll try to be a friend to him.
He probably needs one right now.