Hot Mic, Cold Ice (Hit Behind the Net #1)
Chapter 1
You want to know what is worse than living anywhere other than New York? The utter lack of sophistication. You can’t get a decent bagel to save your life. And the so-called “city life” of Atlanta? Please. TRAFFIC. Don’t even get me started on the traffic. It takes anywhere from 30 minutes to 3 to 5 business days to get anywhere from anywhere else. The people here have zero fashion sense and no one understands the art of a good espresso. Basically, the worst part about it is that it isn’t New York. It’s like living in a perpetual episode of some second-rate reality show. Ugh.
If I hate not living in New York, then why did I leave, you ask. What an excellent question. I was just minding my own business living my best life in New York City, where the world is at your feet and the possibilities are endless–day in, day out, soaking up the unparalleled energy of Manhattan until the fateful day in June when my boyfriend of four years was moved to Atlanta, Georgia by his company. And before you even start, yes, I know Atlanta is a “big city.” But let’s be real—it’s not New York, and it never will be. It doesn’t have the atmosphere, the sophistication, or the charm. So, let’s move on because there’s no point in pretending anything can compare to the greatest city on Earth.
Being the dutiful girlfriend that I am, and against my much better judgment, I packed our things, quit my job, and made the move to Atlanta. To the South. I mean, can you even believe it? It’s like some dirty little secret I have to whisper when telling anyone I actually left NYC. Me. Leaving NYC. Absurd, right? Anyway, totally getting off-topic here. So, we made it a grand total of three months in the so-called “Hollywood” of the South before my now ex-boyfriend decided to break up with me and move out. He actually had the nerve to say there was “too much opportunity” here to stay in a relationship that was going nowhere. NOWHERE? Excuse me, but I thought we were doing a hell of a lot more than going nowhere. Honestly, some people just don’t appreciate what they have.
From the moment I first stepped into the apartment, it was clear it had seen better days. The walls, once likely a vibrant color, now bore the dull, faded marks of age and neglect. The carpet was threadbare in places, with mysterious stains that hinted at a long history of previous tenants. Yet, despite the creaky floorboards and the persistent dust that clung to every corner, there was a charm to its shabbiness. It was small, the kind of place you could cross in a few short strides, with windows that looked out onto a brick wall, but it was mine. The kitchen was more a kitchenette, squeezed into a corner with outdated appliances that groaned and wheezed when used. Yet, this tiny, rundown apartment was my first step into a new life, a space I could call my own as I figured out my next moves.
The ex was at least kind enough to wait until I found a new job and signed a year lease on an apartment I can’t afford before he fully put the last nail in the coffin that is my life. So here I am, four months into my twelve-month prison sentence in this backwater city. Working at ACN–Atlanta Cable Network–a national basic cable network headquartered here. I took literally the first job I could get, which is so far beneath me it’s almost laughable. My extensive background in national news and degree in broadcast journalism isn’t going to save me in the realm of sports. The affiliate that hired me? Their network only covers live sports. Nothing else. Can you imagine? I went from aspiring to be the next Barbara Walters to being stuck in sportsball hell. Honestly, if they knew how much talent they were wasting on this nonsense, they’d be embarrassed. But no, they’re all too busy cheering over touchdowns and home runs to notice. It’s shocking that anyone would even give me a paycheck to work in sports. I am one thousand percent faking it through the day to survive.
Currently, I wake up every morning in my boring apartment alone, even further away from my life’s goal of dazzling the nation on primetime news, cursing myself for ever following a man anywhere. I get up reluctantly, dress in my designer clothes, and get all dolled up to at least look the part of someone who hasn’t completely lost control of her life. I go to work, and hope for the best so I don’t royally screw up. Then I come home to a bottle of overpriced Chardonnay, to live a sad and lonely existence in a town where I know no one and don’t really want to try to get to know anyone. It has been exactly one week, two days, and some odd hours since I was dumped. Not that I’m counting or anything. I’m not sad. Please. I don’t even really miss my ex-boyfriend. I’m just pissed. Pissed at my ex, pissed for moving my entire life for him, and above all, pissed at not being in New York City. Instead, I’m stuck in Atlanta, enduring this ridiculous charade of a job. Every single day feels like a cruel joke, and honestly, I’m sick of it.
Until the last 30 minutes or so, I was relegated to mainly doing grunt work—nothing on air and nothing that required any actual sports knowledge. But of course, my luck ran out. Turns out, I’m the pretty face they hired to replace the on-rink commentator who recently stepped back, needing to avoid traveling while pregnant. I mean, really? They couldn’t bother to mention this crucial detail during the interview? Typical.
Right now, I might sound like a big, whiny, scaredy-cat, but trust me, that’s not me at all. I’m a boss bitch, and as long as I don’t get fired for knowing less than zero about hockey, I will dazzle ACN with my magnificence. Then, when my lease is up, I can apply for a top-tier network position back home in New York, where I truly belong. Until then, I suppose I’ll have to start pretending to care about hockey.
My new position will be covering the Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon games. The only glaring plus side to this dreary job is all the traveling, which equals more time spent away from Atlanta. My first game is coming up this week. I’ll be flying out on Thursday for my first attempt at commentary for Sunday’s game. While interviews and interacting with people are second nature to me, and honestly, who wouldn’t want to talk to me? I’ll still need to at least pretend I know what I’m doing. The only way to do that is to start taking notes. Sometime between now and then, I’ll magically transform into a hockey expert. My type A personality will allow nothing less because, obviously, if I’m going to be stuck in this ridiculous role, I’ll still be the best at it.