Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
I’d been working from the couch for so long that the cushions had flattened into the shape of me.
My laptop balanced on my thighs. My phone lay face down on the coffee table to avoid inevitable distractions. My coffee had gone cold sometime around paragraph four of my final reread, but I drank it anyway, grimacing.
I hovered over the trackpad longer than I meant to.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t written the story carefully. I had. Painstakingly so. But it had been a long time since I’d written something like this—something that wasn’t a sixty-second hit, a practiced toss to commercial, a quick postgame quote packaged into a neat little segment.
I’d majored in journalism. I’d loved writing once. Loved digging and shaping and arguing with sentences until they said exactly what I meant. But for the last few years, my work had been sideline reporting and studio appearances. Talking, not writing. Asking questions, not constructing answers.
I wondered, not for the first time, if I was out of practice.
The story was digital-only, which was supposed to make it safer. Lower stakes. But somehow that made it worse. The words had to stand on their own with no producer trimming the edges for time.
Just me and the sentences.
I read the lede again, and then the section about Charlotte, and then the paragraphs laying out the league’s long-promised, but never-delivered gender-inclusive policy. Everything in me tightened when I got there, like my body already knew which lines would be challenged.
I told myself I’d done my homework. I had sources. I had quotes. I had dates and statements and context. I wasn’t being reckless. I wasn’t being inflammatory. I was being accurate.
I hit send before I could talk myself out of it.
For the rest of the morning, my apartment felt too quiet. I tried to distract myself by answering emails, scrolling half-heartedly through social media, and cleaning my already-clean kitchen. Every time my laptop chimed, my stomach jumped.
I kept thinking about how Mark might read it.
I’d written plenty of features for him since getting hired—player profiles, stories about community outreach endeavors, features on Boston’s practice facility, and my vanity project about away games.
Mark had always edited with a light hand, letting my articles stand on their own and never obscuring my voice.
But this story wasn’t just about hockey.
It was about a little girl who wanted to play the game she loved on a team with her friends.
It was about policies written by adults who would never meet her.
It was about leagues that loved to talk about inclusion until inclusion required an actual backbone.
It was political whether I wanted it to be or not.
At 11:19 a.m., my laptop pinged with a new email.
Can we talk through some edits this afternoon? Zoom okay?
I stared at the message longer than necessary.
Some edits could mean anything. A few tweaks. A structural suggestion. Or it could mean what it so often meant—the elimination of anything that might make people uncomfortable.
I typed back Of course, and then immediately wished I’d added something warmer: Thanks! Happy to! Looking forward to it!
Too late.
I spent the next few hours doing the kind of busywork that felt productive without actually being productive.
I rewatched a game I’d already covered. I reorganized my notes.
I changed my outfit twice for no reason.
I kept glancing at the clock, as if watching time pass might give me some control over what waited at the end of it.
When the Zoom notification finally popped up, my chest felt tight.
Mark appeared on my screen looking disarmingly normal: Red Sox hat, light blue button-down shirt, reading glasses perched low on his nose.
Behind him was his office—real walls, real shelves, framed degrees and journalism awards I’d seen a dozen times on previous calls.
The physicality of it—that he had an actual office while I was sitting on my couch in a studio apartment in my parents’ triple-decker in Charlestown—made me feel amateurish in a way I hadn’t expected.
“Hey, Reese,” he said, smiling. “Thanks for hopping on.”
“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”
He nodded and leaned back slightly. “First off, I want to say this is really solid work.”
I waited.
“You clearly did your homework,” he continued. “The sourcing is strong. And I think the way you explain the youth hockey structure and its relation to USA Hockey is especially clear. That’s not easy.”
“Thanks,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
“But,” he added gently, “I think we need to talk about framing.”
There it was.
He shared his screen and scrolled to the top of my draft. Seeing my own words projected back at me made my skin prickle. They looked different here—less mine and more like a stranger’s to be dissected and critiqued.
“I want to start with the opening,” Mark said. “You bring the reader right into the girl’s experience.”
“Yes,” I said. “That was intentional.”
“I figured,” he said. “And it’s effective. My concern is that it positions the piece very emotionally from the jump.”
I frowned. “It’s a human story.”
“Of course,” he said quickly. “But some readers might feel like they’re being guided toward a conclusion before they’ve been presented with the full scope of the issue.”
I felt heat rise in my chest. “The full scope includes Charlotte.”
“I don’t disagree,” he said. “I just wonder if we might consider moving that section slightly later. Let readers orient themselves first.”
I crossed my arms, aware I was already getting defensive. “So they can absorb USA Hockey’s anti-transgender policy before meeting the kid affected by it?”
“That’s one way to put it,” he said mildly.
“It’s also the opposite of how people actually experience this,” I said. “They experience it as a kid being told no.”
Mark nodded, but his expression stayed careful. “I hear that. I just want to make sure we’re not alienating readers who are still trying to understand the issue.”
I bit back a response. Alienating who, exactly? The people who already believed the misinformation? People who would deny a little girl the joy of playing sports with her friends and claim they were only protecting women’s sports when it was obvious they had never cared about women’s sports?
“Okay,” I said instead.
Mark scrolled down my story.
“Next,” he said, highlighting the section about the professional women’s hockey league. “This is where I think we need to be especially cautious.”
My jaw tightened. “Cautious how?”
“The league is mentioned prominently,” he said. “And while everything you’ve written is accurate, the implication is fairly critical.”
“It’s factual,” I said. “They’ve promised a gender-inclusive policy for three years without producing one.”
“Yes,” he said. “But the way it’s juxtaposed with the youth ban creates a throughline that suggests culpability.”
I sat on my hands to keep my energy in check. “Isn’t that the reality though? Youth leagues look to the pro leagues for leadership.”
“That’s one argument,” he said. “And a reasonable one. But again, we need to be mindful of tone.”
There it was again.
“Mark,” I said carefully, “what exactly are you worried about?”
He hesitated. “I’m worried about us being perceived as taking a side in a debate that’s still unfolding.”
I stared at him. “It’s been unfolding for decades.”
“I know,” he said. “But it’s also very hot-button.”
I tried not to flinch, but his words felt like a slap.
“I think we could soften some of the language,” he suggested. “Remove some of the more pointed phrasing. Maybe include more perspective from league officials explaining the delay.”
“They declined to comment,” I said. “I included that.”
“Yes,” he said. “But perhaps we could contextualize it differently.”
“By giving them the benefit of the doubt?”
“By acknowledging the complexity,” he said.
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “The complexity of not writing a policy?”
He smiled thinly. “You know what I mean.”
I sat back, staring at my own face reflected faintly on my laptop screen.
I had been so nervous about writing a story that mattered and being out of practice.
A sideline reporter stepping out of her lane to masquerade as a journalist. But maybe this was what rust actually looked like.
Not the writing itself, but the willingness to fight.
“I’m open to edits,” I said slowly. “But I don’t want to strip this story of its humanity.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Mark said. “Just make sure it doesn’t read as advocacy.”
I nodded, even though my chest ached. “Okay.”
We wrapped up the conversation, ending our meeting politely and professionally. Mark promised to send notes. I promised to look them over.
When the call ended, I closed my laptop and sat for a long moment, my hands in my lap, staring at nothing. My throat felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with tears and everything to do with anger.
I had known this would happen. That was the worst part. I’d written with one eye already anticipating edits, already compromising in advance. And still, it wasn’t enough.
I grabbed my phone and texted Dani without thinking.
Are you free? I need to vent.
Her reply came almost immediately.
What’s wrong? What happened?
I typed back quickly.
Can I come over?
Of course. Door’s open.
The drive to the western suburb of Wellesley did little to cool me down. Dani answered the door in socks, her hair damp from a shower, wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants.
“Hey,” she said, immediately reading my face. “Come here.”
I stepped inside and let her pull me into a hug. I buried my face against her shoulder and breathed her in. Her hands were solid and soothing on my back.
“They want to tone down my story about Charlotte,” I mumbled into her shirt.
“Of course they do,” she said.
I pulled back, frustrated. “You’re not even surprised.”
Dani’s mouth tilted. “No. I’m angry for you,” she clarified. “But I’m not surprised.”
I dropped my hands to my sides. “Mark told me the reporting was solid—that I’d done everything right. And then he asked me to whitewash it.”
She shut the door and ushered me deeper into the condo. “Because it made them uncomfortable.”
“Exactly—it makes them uncomfortable,” I emphasized. “Not Charlotte. Not her parents. Not the people actually affected by the bans.”
I flopped onto the couch in her living room. Dani settled beside me, close enough to support me, but far enough away to give me space.
“I keep thinking,” I lamented, my head in my hands, “maybe I shouldn’t have pitched the story. Maybe this is what happens when you let a sideline reporter pretend she’s a real journalist.”
Dani’s expression hardened. “Don’t do that. That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked. “Because it sure feels like I’m being told where my lane is.”
“They’re reminding you where their comfort zone is,” she said, shaking her head. “Those are not the same thing.”
“Mark kept saying we can’t look like we’re taking a side.”
Dani snorted. “You’re always taking a side when you write a story that matters. People only call it advocacy when the story challenges the status quo.”
I chewed on my lower lip. “I hate … I hate that this affects you, too.”
Her brow furrowed. “How do you mean?”
“If this story runs the way I wrote it,” I said slowly, “and then we’re … together, people are going to say I’m biased. Or that I’m using you. Or that you’re influencing my reporting.”
Dani opened her hands, palms up. “They’re going to say that anyway.”
I observed her, really watched her—how steady she looked, how controlled. How used to this she was.
“You could write the most anodyne story in the world, Reese,” she said, “and someone would still accuse you of having an agenda because of who you love.”
The word love landed firmly between us and lingered.
I let out a breath and sagged deeper into the couch. “I’m so tired of being careful.”
Dani leaned closer until her knee bumped against mine. “Then don’t be.”
I laughed weakly. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Is it?” she questioned. “My whole career has been about managing perceptions. I just learned earlier that neutrality keeps you safe until it doesn’t.”
I turned toward her. “So what are you saying?”
She hesitated and then smiled. For the first time since I’d entered her apartment, she looked a little nervous. “I’m saying—there’s an awards show next weekend. I’m not up for any awards, but they asked me to present.”
I felt my stomach flip.
“I was going to go alone,” she said. “But I don’t want to anymore.”
My pulse picked up. “Dani—”
“I want you there,” she continued. “Not as a secret. Not as a member of the media. I want you there as my girlfriend.”
The word hung there, undeniable.
I searched her face. “You know what that means.”
“I do.”
“For both of us.”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
I thought about Mark’s careful language. About edits that erased a story’s impact. About shrinking my opinions to fit inside someone else’s comfort zone. I thought about Switzerland.
And then I looked at Dani—steady, confident, and asking me to stand beside her where everyone could see.
“Okay,” I said.
Her smile was slow and bright. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I said, finally letting myself smile as well.
Dani leaned in and kissed me, soft and sure, like codifying a promise. I raised my hands to her face and pulled her in deeper.
And for the first time since hitting send on that email, the pressure in my chest felt lighter—not because the story was easier now, but because I wasn’t facing it alone.