Chapter 2
The Newsy Room
ZOE
The buzz of KBVR’s fluorescent lights makes me feel twitchy, especially now as I’ve got a little over four minutes to cobble together a sports highlight reel. Why?
Because Donny Dexter—our sports anchor—is MIA. Again. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve covered his spray-tanned ass, I could buy a yacht. Not that I’d want one, I get seasick. But still.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, splicing together clips of last night’s high school basketball game with some footage from the Boise State match.
Continuity? Who needs it when you’re four minutes from dead air.
The countdown clock in the corner of my monitor reminds me that my four years as an assistant producer at KBVR W2Beaver might come to an explosive end if I don’t pull another miracle out of this ancient laptop.
“Three minutes fifty seconds, Zoe.” Jerry’s voice crackles through my headset. “No sign of Donny.”
“On it. Prepping backup package now.”
If Donny wasn’t tight with Marcus Steele, our station manager, he’d be out.
The door bangs open, and the interns jump.
There he is, Dickens’ golden boy himself, his hair spiking in that “I used a can of gel” kind of way.
“Lane!” Donny shouts my last name, waving a USB stick over his head. “Got the footage right here, baby!”
My eyes are dying to roll, but I’ve become an expert at stopping them. “Two minutes, Donny. You’re cutting it close.”
“That’s how I live. On the edge.” With a wink that makes my stomach churn, he slides the USB stick across my desk. “My own edit.”
“This isn’t how this works.” I grab the stick. “I have no time to check it—”
“Trust me, it’s gold.” He backs away toward makeup, where Tina waits with her rolling cart full of powders to hide the evidence of what I’m guessing was a four-tequila night. “Just plug and play, Lane.”
I jam the USB into my laptop, muttering things that would not make my conservative parents proud. The file loads, and I check that it’s the right length and format. At least that much seems fine.
“Lane.” It’s Jerry again. “Package. Now.”
“Coming!” I grab my laptop and head into the control room, queue up Donny’s file, and send it to the system. “Loaded and ready, station two.”
I throw on my headphones and grab my coffee—the cup I poured at five a.m. to get me through the morning show since I’m working a split shift today.
I brave a sip, and good God, when I swallow back the cold bitterness, I swear hair sprouts on my chest. Maybe this is why I’m still single.
That, and the fact that my dating pool consists of men like Donny who think a personality is something you develop through Instagram filters.
Donny slides into his sportscaster chair, his cheeks streaked with the makeup that Tina didn’t have time to blend. He jams his earpiece in, flashes his Vegas smile at camera two, and we’re rolling.
“Good morning, Dickens!” His voice drops for his on-air persona. “Donny Dexter here with your sports roundup. Lots of action on the courts and fields last night, so let’s dive right in.”
Jerry cues the footage, and I hold my breath, half-expecting a blank screen or color bars or, God forbid, something Donny recorded at The Stagger Inn last night.
Instead of anything sports-related, we see Donny shirtless in his kitchen, flexing as he makes a smoothie. My jaw drops as the audio kicks in.
“I’d be an amazing bachelor for the next Groomsman to Groom because, well...” he flexes a bicep, “I know how to make women scream in pleasure. With my batting average, of course. Given my record playing baseball for the Seattle Rainiers.”
I choke on my coffee sludge. Jerry looks at me, eyes the size of pizzas. The phone lines light up, and I can practically feel Marcus Steele’s office door about to burst open.
But then I check our ratings monitor, and they’re spiking. Hard. Like, record-breaking hard.
In a split-second decision that’ll either get me fired or promoted, I grab my headset mic. “Donny, don’t panic,” I say into his earpiece. “Roll with it. Make it look planned.”
Donny’s eyes dart around.
I instruct, “Say: ‘Well, folks, the crew here at KBVR wanted to do me a favor and use my Groomsman to Groom tryout footage to help find me a girlfriend.’”
To his credit, Donny repeats my line verbatim, managing a chuckle.
“Now say: ‘I guess they were tired of me complaining about how ready I am for that special person in my life, so here we are,’” I continue, watching the ratings climb even higher.
Donny follows my lead, his newscaster training kicking in.
“Perfect. Now: ‘If you’re single and want a date with me, apparently KBVR producers have set up a place to send in your application, which will go live on our website by the end of the day.’”
He shoots me a desperate look through the camera, but repeats the line.
“Now wrap with: ‘With that said, we’ll be back with a sports highlight reel you don’t want to miss. After the break.’”
Donny signs off, and the second we cut to commercial, he rips out his earpiece. His face contorts as he storms off set, making a beeline straight for me. I don’t even brace for impact—at this point in my career, the yelling rolls right off me. Besides, he was the bonehead with the wrong footage.
But before Hurricane Donny makes landfall, Marcus Steele intercepts him. Our station manager’s usually stern face crumples into a deep scowl. “What the hell was that, Lane?”
My eyes flick to Donny to see if he’ll fess up. His mouth opens and closes like a damn fish. “It was—” he begins.
“Actually, it was Donny,” Jerry pipes up. “He brought in the wrong footage, and Zoe turned it into ratings gold.”
When Marcus looks at the ratings monitor, his face splits with a rare smile. “Holy shit. We just broke our all-time record for the five p.m. slot.” His gaze flicks to me, eyebrows raised. “So, Lane, this was your quick thinking?”
I straighten my shoulders. “Just making lemonade, sir.”
Marcus nods. “Well, it’s some damn fine lemonade.”
“Look at our socials—we’re trending locally already,” Jerry says. “And the phone lines are jammed with women wanting Donny’s number.”
Marcus turns back to Donny. “Looks like you just scored from all this—high ratings and a bunch of dates.”
Donny blinks, the wheels turning behind his eyes as he realizes this disaster might actually benefit him. “Right,” he says finally. He doesn’t thank me—shocker—before stalking off toward his dressing room.
Marcus gives me an appraising look.
Come on, Zoe. This is your chance. Say it. Now’s the time to mention the promotion I’ve been angling for. Executive producer—the brass ring I’ve been killing myself for over the last four years. The thing I’ve sacrificed weekends, holidays, and any semblance of a personal life to achieve.
Plus, I could really use the extra cash that’d come with it.
My studio apartment’s above the Sparkling Suds laundromat, and my old Jeep could crap out at any moment.
I’ve been making a few extra bucks with my podcast, Zoe Knows, where I discuss news events with humor and jokes.
It’s a newsy radio host type of deal on Spotify, but it’s just me at any time of day or night, whenever I can squeeze in my take on something timely.
I’ve amassed a decent following, but it’s hard with a demanding job and not enough income to invest in the podcast. I have zero money for advertising, PR, social media growth, equipment… the expenses go on and on.
So yeah, let’s talk about that promotion, Marcus.
He pats me on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work.”
“Thanks.” I try not to sound disappointed, but I am. He’s been dangling the executive producer position over my head for years now, and I’m starting to think he’s never going to give it to me.
Jerry signals that we need to load the sports highlight package to play after the break. I dive in, sending it to camera number two.
As the next segment wraps and I return to my desk, Donny saunters by, much calmer. “Saved my ass again, Lane. What would I do without you?”
It’s a thank you, and I’ll take it.
“Last time, Donny. I mean it.” I don’t look up from my monitor.
He laughs as if I’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard and continues on his merry way, probably off to check all the date requests on his socials.
On my way back to my desk, I get a high-five from Rick Chesson, our anchor.
I’m focused on the next segment when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number. I don’t like answering those, but in this business, you never know when someone’s calling with a hot tip.
“Zoe Lane, W2Beaver.” I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder as I continue working.
“Jonah Holt’s heading to the Dickens police station with two officers.” The voice is male, low, and unfamiliar. Before I can ask who’s calling or any follow-up questions, the line goes dead.
I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Jonah Holt. The name sends an electric current through my body, a complicated mix of annoyance, attraction, and embarrassment.
Jonah Holt, pro hockey player for the Boise Trout.
Jonah Holt, my best friend Sydney’s older brother.
Jonah Holt, the guy I’ve had a secret crush on since I met him at Sydney’s birthday party four years ago.
The guy who almost kissed me at Sydney’s family Christmas party a few months ago, only to call things off right before, then ghosted me.
Talk about a blow to my already fragile ego.
Jonah’s had some trouble with the law, but that was years ago. Nowadays, he can be a hard nose and a jerk at times, but he’s a good person who stays in his lane. Unless he’s regressed.
But getting in trouble in Dickens? He has a place here, but he spends most of his time in Boise. and he has a big game in two days against his former team that he should be prepping for. Not that I’m tracking him.
Another buzz from my phone: a text from an unknown number again—a photo this time.
I open it to see Jonah being escorted to a police car by Officers Stevens and Roads, two Dickens PDs I know from covering local stories.
The image isn’t great quality, like it was taken from a distance and zoomed in, but it’s definitely Jonah.
His auburn hair is unmistakable, as is the barely-contained fury in his posture.
I tap my pen against my desk, thinking fast. This could be a real story. Local NHL star in police custody would be huge for our ratings. Plus, I have contacts at the station who might tell me what’s going on. This could be my ticket for that elusive promotion.
I pull up Officer Krista Patel’s contact. We went to high school together, and she owes me for keeping her brother’s DUI out of the news last year. I text:
Me: Hey, Krista, heard Jonah Holt’s at the station. What’s the story?
While I wait for her response, I draft potential angles for the piece. “Local Hockey Star in Legal Trouble.” “Boise Trout Defenseman Facing Charges?”
I’m not being petty about the Christmas incident. Really. This is just business.
The fact that he humiliated me and then ghosted me has absolutely nothing to do with my journalistic interest in his current predicament.
My phone buzzes with Krista’s reply:
Krista: Not what you think. Family matter. Not under arrest. But WEIRD.
Family matter? Jonah’s parents live in Dickens. Sydney used to, but now lives in Boise with her fiancé, Brooks.
Sydney! I need to tell her what’s going on. I go to text her and realize I can’t tell her this before her own brother does. Also, she’s out of town—with her parent at her aunt’s house to help her aunt recover post-surgery.
Yikes, poor Jonah. He has to deal with whatever this is without any of his family around.
I grab my bag and jacket, slinging both over my shoulder as I head toward Jerry in the control room.
“Following up on a lead,” I say. “Need to step out.”
Jerry waves me off without looking up. “We’re good till tomorrow. Go.”
As I head for the parking lot, I remind myself I’m going as a news producer, not as someone who cares about Jonah and whatever mess he’s in.
I’m going for the story and, yeah, for my career.
Not because I still think about how blue his eyes looked in the Christmas lights, how his strong hands felt so good against my skin before he chickened out, or how his laugh sounded when I made a joke about his hockey stick.
I’m just doing my job. And if it happens to blow up Jonah’s life a little bit?
Well, if I don’t do it, someone else will.