They All Puck Me

1. Olivia

1

OLIVIA

I sit at my desk, the glow of my computer screen reflecting off my blue light glasses. A new "employee wellness measure" Hartgrove has implemented after reading a budding article in the Chicago Sun-Times, our rival newspaper, about how they reduce eye strain and fatigue.

Hate it for him, but the only way to combat my chronic fatigue is to stop binge watching Netflix and scrolling through TikTok all hours of the night.

I wonder if I should take these home and wear them during my doomsday scrolling? Perhaps I can get some real data about their apparent effectiveness and not some bullshit facts the Chicago Sun Times probably found on Google.

In case you haven't picked up on it yet, the Chicago Sun Times is our Regina George. Overzealous, under qualified and yet somehow, still the crowd favorite.

My fingers dance over the keys, each click a note in my symphony of deadlines and caffeine.

You know now that I think about it, I wonder if excessive caffeine might lead to increased fatigue? Because I drink that shit like my shitty ass Nissan 4runner drinks gas.

I open up a tab on the computer and begin my search of the side effects of the overconsumption of caffeine. If I'm on to something, then maybe I just solved the fucking national treasure.

I’m in the zone when I hear it—the unmistakable sound of Mr. Hargrove clearing his throat.

“Olivia, got a minute?” His voice booms from his office door.

I look up, meeting his piercing gaze. “Sure thing, boss.” I save my work and push back my chair, the wheels squeaking in protest.

Inside his office, the walls are lined with framed headlines and awards. He's like the James Dean of journalism. Just without the sex appeal, unless striped Lacoste polos and new balances are your thing. Which if it is, you do you. Everybody has their kinks. He's just not the type for me to shave my legs for.

Hargrove stands by the window, sunlight casting a halo around his graying hair.

“Close the door,” he says, motioning with a hand.

I comply, feeling a mix of curiosity and nerves. “What’s up?”

“Olivia, your piece on the volleyball team was stellar,” Hargrove says, leaning against his desk. “The way you captured their spirit—it’s exactly what we need more of.”

“Thank you sir,” I shift from one foot to the other, feeling the excitement bubble up inside me.

“But,” he continues, eyes narrowing with that familiar look of intensity, “I’ve got something bigger. A major feature story. And I think you're the gal for the job.”

I lean in, heart racing. “Bigger than co ed volleyball?”

“Much bigger.” He crosses his arms. “The Northstar Wolves.”

“The Wolves?” I can barely contain my enthusiasm. “You mean?—”

“Yup,” he interrupts. “The golden boys of Hockey. I want you to document their journey to the playoffs. This piece could make or break your career here, Olivia.”

“No pressure,” I mutter, half-joking, half-terrified.

He smirks. “Just think of it as the opportunity of a lifetime.”

I take a deep breath, letting it sink in. “Alright. What’s the angle?”

“Follow them closely. Capture their struggles, their triumphs. I want readers to feel like they’re on the ice with them.”

I nod, already planning my approach. “Got it. When do I start?”

“Tonight,” he says, handing me a press pass. “There’s a game at Howl Center against the Chicago Blizzard.”

Tonight? Shit. Looks like I'll be shaving my legs tonight after all.

I take the pass, feeling its weight in my hand—a tangible reminder of the responsibility ahead. “I won’t let you down Hartgrove.”

“I know you won’t,” he replies, giving me a rare smile.

I race out of his office, before he has a chance to change his mind. But I am fully prepared to get on my knees and beg if would so happen to do so.

Back at my desk, I gather my things quickly—a notepad, voice recorder, and my trusty camera. The newsroom buzzes around me, but I’m in my own world now.

“Hey Olivia!” Jenna yells from across the room. “Heard you got the Wolves gig! Congrats!”

“Thanks!” I wave back, grinning like an idiot.

I race home, practically tripping over my own feet in my excitement. I burst through the door of my tiny apartment, and Oscar greets me with his usual enthusiasm. He’s a scrappy little terrier mix I found in a garbage can a few years back, hence the name.

“Hey, buddy!” I drop my bag on the floor and crouch down to give him a good scratch behind the ears. “Guess what? Your mom’s got a big gig tonight.”

Oscar wags his tail furiously, looking at me with those big brown eyes like he understands every word.

I stand up and head for the bathroom, Oscar trotting along behind me. “Alright, shower time. No distractions,” I tell him, mostly talking to myself.

The hot water hits my skin, and I let out a sigh of relief. It’s like the steam is melting away the day’s stress. I think about tonight, about getting to be right there in the thick of it with the Northstar Wolves. This is huge. My first major assignment and it’s with one of the top teams in the league. The team that could make or break my career.

“Fuck, I can’t wait,” I say aloud, the words bouncing off the tiles.

Rinsing off quickly, I step out of the shower and grab a towel. “No time to dawdle,” I mutter to myself.

I rummage through my closet for something appropriate—professional but cute and comfortable enough for a hockey game. I decide on a pair of skinny jeans that make my ass rival Kim K's. Okay, maybe that's a little farfetched, and a fitted sweater. Not too fancy but still presentable.

I pull on my clothes and glance at myself in the mirror. Long auburn hair still damp from the shower, bright green eyes practically glowing with excitement.

“Alright, Olivia,” I tell my reflection, “let’s go make some history.”

I grab my gear and stuff them into my bag. Oscar gives me a questioning look as I head for the door.

“Sorry, bud,” I say, giving him one last pat on the head. "Only stuffed dogs allowed in the arena.”

He tilts his head as if to say “Your loss.”

With one final glance around my apartment to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything crucial—like pants—I head out into the cool Minneapolis evening.

The ride to Howl Center is a blur of thoughts and traffic lights. By the time I arrive, the sun is setting behind the towering arena, casting long shadows across the pavement.

The arena buzzes with energy, a tangible hum of excitement as fans stream through the gates. My press pass swings from my neck, occasionally getting caught on my earrings as I weave through the crowd. The scent of popcorn and the distant roar of the crowd hit me like a wave.

Once inside the press box, I find an empty spot and start setting up. The view is perfect—center ice with a clear line of sight to both goals. I double-check my recorder and flip open my notebook, scribbling down some initial observations.

The arena fills quickly, fans decked out in ice blue and silver chanting team slogans. The anticipation is electric, a live wire ready to spark.

"First time covering a Wolves game?" A voice to my left startles me.

I turn to see a man about my age, wearing a media badge as well. His dark hair falls into his eyes as he adjusts his camera.

"Yeah," I admit. "Olivia, Minneapolis Star Tribune."

He nods appreciatively. "Bryan, Chicago Sun-Times."

Ew. The enemy. But I school my features and grant him a forced smile.

"Big game tonight, eh?" he asks.

"Tell me about it," I reply, tapping my pen against the notebook. "First game since Ethan Reynolds trade. I heard from a reliable source that he wasn't going to be in attendance tonight."

Bryan's eyes widen, almost as if he didn't expect me to be up to date with sports news.

"I heard the same," he adds. "Not a way to get on the fans good side if you ask me."

I've come to realize that most male journalists think that because you have a vagina, you should know more about makeup and fad diets than hockey. Not this gal. Not when you spent every Sunday morning with your dad watching highlights over breakfast.

I’m lost in thoughts about the first big game, when my phone buzzes. Glancing at the screen, I see a name I haven’t thought about in months: Matt.

My stomach churns.

Matt: Hey Liv, can we talk? I miss you.

I delete the message instantly, but that doesn't stop the memories from pouring in. Six months ago, I stood in our apartment, heart pounding as Matt stammered through his confession. Bailey—my best friend—had become something more to him than just our usual lunch companion. The betrayal sliced through me like a hot knife.

“Olivia, it wasn’t supposed to happen,” he’d said, eyes pleading.

“Save it,” I’d snapped, stuffing clothes into a suitcase. “You’ve made your choice.”

“Liv, please.” His voice had cracked, but I didn’t care. I grabbed my keys and walked out without looking back.

The memory hits me like a freight train. My hands shake as I grip my phone tighter. Deep breaths, Olivia. Focus on the now.

The lights dim, the intro music starts, the perfect distraction to get me in the zone.

"Let's go Wolves." I mutter to myself. "Give me something to keep my mind off shit."

The game is a whirlwind. My eyes scanning every direction, capturing every moment. Liam, “The Wall,” lives up to his name, blocking shot after shot with an intensity that has the crowd roaring.

“Liam’s on fire tonight,” I mutter, into my voice recorder. “Unstoppable defense keeps Wolves in the game.”

Beside me, Bryan glances over. “Makar’s always been a beast. But did you catch Noah’s last breakaway?”

I nod, watching as Noah weaves through Chicago’s defense with the grace of a dancer. “Lightning fast. He’s like a ghost on the ice.”

Noah snags the puck and bolts down the rink, dodging opponents with ease. The crowd holds its breath as he takes the shot—goal! The arena erupts in cheers.

“Noah Kane strikes again!” I type into the newspapers live feed. “Blistering speed and precision give Wolves the lead.”

The energy in Howl Center is next level, each cheer vibrating through my bones.

The game is tight; Chicago isn’t backing down either. Their captain, known for his ruthless playstyle, slams into Liam but gets nothing but solid muscle for his effort.

“Chicago retaliates but can’t break ‘The Wall,’” I say quickly, eyes flicking between my screen and the action below.

Coach Bergman stands behind the bench, barking orders like a general leading troops into battle. His gruff voice carries over the noise as he yells at the players to keep pushing forward.

“Bergman looks ready to jump on the ice himself,” I say to Bryan.

“He might if they don’t pull ahead soon,” Bryan jokes.

The final minutes of the game are nail-bitingly tense. Both teams fight tooth and nail for control of the puck. The crowd’s roar crescendos as Noah makes another breakaway attempt, only to be thwarted by Chicago's goalie in an impressive save.

“Noah’s speed unmatched but denied by Chicago’s goalie,” I note down hurriedly.

My fingers ache from pressing record and typing so fast, but there’s no stopping now. The Wolves need this win to climb to first place in their division and secure home-ice advantage for the playoffs.

“Come on, guys,” I mutter under my breath as Liam intercepts another pass and sends it hurtling back towards Chicago's zone.

Liam takes one last powerful shot as time winds down—a cannonball that whizzes past Chicago's goalie and hits home just as the buzzer sounds.

“Howl Center explodes!” My final update reads: “Liam Makar secures victory in thrilling finish!”

As the players celebrate on the ice, high-fiving and hugging each other, I sit back and exhale deeply. This was more than just a game—it was a battle, hard-fought and well-earned.

I bolt towards the press room. My heart pounds with adrenaline, the Wolves' victory still fresh in my mind. The corridor is a labyrinth of cables and equipment, but I navigate it with practiced ease.

The room is already packed, a cacophony of voices competing for dominance. I squeeze through the throng of reporters, my eyes scanning for a spot with a decent view. Just as I find one, I catch sight of Liam Makar entering the room. He’s flushed from the game, dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead.

I lock eyes with him across the crowded room. For a moment, everything else fades—the noise, the other reporters, the post-game chaos. It's just us, connected by an intense look that makes my stomach flutter. I quickly squash the feeling, reminding myself why I'm here: my career.

Liam’s gaze doesn’t waver. He’s confident, commanding even. The kind of look that could make you forget your own name if you let it. But I’m not here to swoon over hockey players.

I'm here to get intel to produce a bad ass article that just might but me on the map. No distractions.