Chapter 5
As I zip up my suitcase, my hands tremble ever so slightly, betraying the nervous energy that courses through my veins. A bead of sweat forms on my forehead, yet another example of my inner feelings betraying my calm exterior. My heart pounds in my chest, thumping so loudly that I can almost hear it echoing in my ears.
With a deep breath, I try to control my racing thoughts, reminding myself of the countless hours I’ve spent preparing for this moment. The meticulous packing, the extensive research, and the carefully crafted notes are all evidence of my dedication to making my first solo broadcast a success.
Yet, despite my thorough preparations, doubt creeps in, whispering in the back of my mind. What if I stumble over my words? What if I forget an important detail? The weight of the responsibility feels heavy, threatening to overwhelm me.
In between battling my apprehension and nerves, a flicker of excitement shines through. Arizona awaits my arrival. I know it will be nothing less than perfect. Arizona is an amazing place of untapped stories and potential opportunities. The sense of adventure stirs within me at a rapid rate. The opportunity to become more than the sad, single girl working a job not meant for her. I can be anyone, the person I am meant to be. The prospect of being on air and sharing these stories with an audience fills me with a sense of purpose again.
As I glance one last time at my packed bags, I remind myself that no detail is too small to overlook. Every piece of equipment, everything I've prepared for this trip, is essential to capturing the essence of all things hockey and delivering a compelling broadcast. I find comfort in the fact that I’ve done everything within my power to be as prepared as possible.
With a renewed sense of determination, I grab my bags and head toward the door. The nervous energy still lingers, but it’s now accompanied, maybe even overshadowed by, a glimmer of hope. I am ready to face the challenges and embrace the unknown, for this solo broadcast is not just a test of my skills, but also an opportunity for personal growth and professional development–a chance to prove myself in the world of broadcasting.
I specifically picked a special set of carry-on notes for the plane ride. As the plane takes off, I immerse myself in my research, studying every detail about the players I am about to interview. My neurosis kicks into high gear, leaving no room for deviation from my perfectly prepared plan. I will be over prepared and maintain complete control throughout this broadcast. Even though I may consider this assignment beneath me, I refuse to let it show.
Of course, ACN didn’t swing to get me first class to Arizona. That would have been “excessive,” according to some guy who handles the travel plans. I’m stuck back here with the regular people. At least I have a window. Thank god I’m not in the middle. Although, I’m still stuck beside some middle-aged man, who keeps looking at me like he’s got something to say. He better not start talking–now’s the time for the headphones. As I reach for my headphones, he opens his big trap. “Got a big assignment, huh?”
I give him a deadpan stare before briefly glancing down at my research, maintaining my composure. I nod. “Interviewing the players for a hockey league broadcast tomorrow.”
The man gives me something one might call an encouraging smile. “Impressive. You seem fully prepared.”
With a small, fake smile, “Sure am. I’ve done my homework. Can’t afford to miss any details.”
The man then proceeds to chuckle at me, “Well, sounds like you’ve got it all under control.”
My eyes return to my notes, determined not to let anything distract me. Yet, I keep responding anyway, “Absolutely. I won’t let anything slip through the cracks.”
The man gives me an admiring look. “That’s some serious dedication. Good luck with your interviews.”
I give him a somewhat genuine nod of appreciation because at the end of the day, everyone can use some good luck. “Thank you. I’ll make sure it’s a broadcast to remember,” I say as I put my headphones in, determined to not have to talk to anyone else again. I dive back into my notes, leaving no room in my life for complacency. I will succeed no matter what.
Arriving in Arizona is an absolute disaster. First, the baggage claim is a nightmare, with my bags practically being the last ones, taking an eternity to appear. Then, the driver the network arranged to be my ride to the hotel is like something out of a bad comedy, complete with no sense of direction and endless detours. By the time I finally get to the hotel, I’m seething.
Approaching the front desk with a forced smile, I say, “Hi, I’m here to check in. The name’s Azalea Blackwater.”
The front desk clerk doesn’t even give me the time of day. EXCUSE ME. Typing on the computer, distracted, she replies, “One moment, please.” She pauses for dramatic effect, then continues, “Ah, yes. Ms. Blackwater. We have you booked for three nights. I just need your ID and credit card.”
Getting increasingly impatient, I hand over my cards. “Here you go. Can we speed this up a bit? It’s been a long day.” The woman takes them from me slowly, typing like a computer is an ancient relic.
“Of course. Just a moment,” she says as she glances down at the screen and frowns. “Um, it seems like there’s a problem with your reservation.”
My finger starts tapping on the counter in a frenzy, not matching my fake, forced calm. “What kind of problem?”
The clerk gives me this sheepish, awkward smile. “It looks like we have you booked for next week, not this week. I’m afraid we’re fully booked tonight.”
“ Next week?” I shout, with my eyes going wide. “How is that possible? My company booked this room, they assured me the dates were booked. This is unacceptable!”
Then, as if the situation isn’t bad enough, the woman starts to laugh. And ugly laugh at that! “I understand, Ms. Blackwater. Let me see what I can do.”
I watch as she calls who I hope is her manager, and whispers into the phone. I can’t hear anything she says. My frustration builds, my foot now tapping incessantly. I cross my arms and let out a huff. This is just perfect. As if today couldn’t get any worse.
A stringy looking man approaches me cautiously, with a strained smile. “Ms. Blackwater, we apologize for the inconvenience. We can arrange for a room at our sister hotel nearby, and we’ll cover the transport.”
I will admit, it’s not my finest hour when I screech out in exasperation, “A sister hotel? Do you know how much I have to prepare for tomorrow? I don’t have time for this!”
The useless man does what he can to try to be helpful, “I understand. We’ll make the transfer as quickly as possible and ensure you have a suite for the trouble.”
Knowing when to admit defeat and move on, I give in but still sigh dramatically, “Fine. But this better not delay me any further.”
The front desk clerk tries to get my attention as she hands back my ID and credit card. I must admit, I forgot she was even there. She quickly reiterates, “We’ll have the shuttle ready in just a few minutes. Here’s a complimentary drink voucher for the bar while you wait.”
I snatch my cards and the voucher from her. Muttering to myself, “Great. Just great. First the bags, now this. What next, a hurricane?”
For some unknown reason, the manager chooses this time to be funny as he says, “Well, this is Arizona, so unlikely.” I shoot him a death stare as he continues. “We really do apologize, Ms. Blackwater. Please, make yourself comfortable while you wait for the shuttle.”
I roll my eyes at them and storm off to the bar. Comfortable. Right. Just what I need after this disaster. From the bar, I can still overhear the two of them whispering. I hear the clerk say, “She’s not going to have a good stay, is she?” I take a deep breath as the manager sighs, saying, “Let’s just hope the sister hotel has better luck.”
Deciding to be just as difficult as I can be, I glance back over to the front desk and say loudly, to no one in particular, “I swear, if tomorrow doesn’t go perfectly, heads are going to roll.”
It takes the length of time I need to drink an espresso martini for the shuttle to get there. Luckily, the ride to the new hotel and check in is much less eventful. They must have known I was coming because I get checked into my suite in no time flat. Even with the painful travel, I refuse to let it derail my focus. I unpack my things with military precision, placing every item exactly where it belongs. Once that’s done, I dive straight into prepping for the next day. No distractions, no deviations. I will not tolerate anything less than perfection, even in the face of chaos.
Channeling my upset, nervous energy, I dive into memorizing information about the players I’ll be interviewing from the compiled detailed notes that cover every conceivable fact about them. I will bring them perfection, so I rehearse potential questions and scenarios until they become second nature. No stone is left unturned; every statistic, every career highlight and personal anecdote is at my fingertips. Despite the gnawing nerves, I refuse to deviate from the plan I’ve crafted. I hype myself up, making sure I don’t forget my expertise and capabilities, ruthlessly pushing back any self-doubt. Failure is not an option, and I am determined to show everyone just how indispensable I am.
The first of my work events is attending an Arizona Red Wolves sponsored event at the local aquarium. Seriously? It’s a total waste of time, a frivolous distraction from my primary task of nailing this broadcast. As I stroll through the ocean mood lighting of the exhibits, watching fish swim lazily in their tanks, I can’t help but think of all the valuable research time slipping through my fingers. My irritation is through the roof. Why on earth did anyone think this would be a good idea for a sponsored event? It’s not like interviewing sea turtles is going to make me any better at my job. Still, I put on a polite smile, determined to make the best of it, even if it feels like a colossal detour from what I should really be focusing on.
Amidst the tanks and bubbling water, I cross paths with my first hockey player in the wild. Elliot St. Germain, the star goalie everyone seems to idolize. I’ve memorized his fact sheet already. Right away, I can tell he is completely insane, something not mentioned in my fact checking. His tall frame makes me feel slight in comparison, dark curls surround his face like they have a mind of their own and his deep brown eyes look like their secrets hold secrets. When they said particular, they meant crazy. He has this wild look in his eyes that screams unpredictability. Our interaction is charged from the get-go, filled with an awkward tension. He shoots a quick look at my press pass.
“So, you’re the infamous new barnacle they sent to cover us,” he quips with a smirk, his accent making the words sound almost endearing, despite their bite.
“Barnacle? How dare you!” I shoot back.
Elliot chuckles, “Hey, it seems like it fits.” I can’t believe he’d say that to me. I decide to accept his challenge.
“And you must be the shark everyone warned me about,” I say, still processing how offensive he is.
His grin widens. “Maybe I am. But let’s see if you can keep up with me in this tank.”
I scoff, “Oh please, I can handle myself just fine, thank you.”
He shakes his head, his features an odd mix of amusement and something more intense. Standing there among the serene sea life, our conversation feels anything but peaceful.
Before turning and walking away, he departs with, “We’ll see about that.”
Back in my hotel room, I can’t shake the bizarre encounter with Elliot. The way he called me “barnacle” hit a nerve, got under my skin in a way I didn’t appreciate. Is he going to undermine me when the time comes for my interviews with him? His unpredictable nature is definitely going to be a challenge. He will keep me on my toes, I'm sure. I channel my frustration and curiosity into fine-tuning my plan, ensuring everything will be flawless. Practicing my on-air presence in front of the mirror, I focus on projecting absolute confidence and control. No way am I going to let anyone, especially some crazy goalie, throw me off my game.
I wake up at the crack of dawn, my mind already buzzing with today’s tasks. I review my notes one last time, ensuring every detail of the day is perfect. My signature liquid eyeliner and red lip? Check. Not a flyaway in my perfectly curled hairstyle? Check. A tight black pencil skirt paired with a colorful blazer? Check. And last but not least, all my equipment is ready to go. Over a light breakfast, I try to keep my nerves in check, reminding myself that I am more than prepared for this. Arriving at the rink, I take in the pregame atmosphere, the buzz around the rink, the clatter of every moving piece coming together. From the mental preparation, a surge of determination builds. I spot Elliot among the players, his intense presence impossible to ignore. A strange mix of irritation and anticipation bubbles up inside me, making me feel like today will be anything but ordinary.
Once all the prep is complete, I adjust my blazer, holding my microphone like a shield as I navigate my way through the arena’s underbelly. Determined to get some exclusive pregame sound bites, I stride toward the locker room, my heels clicking confidently on the concrete floor. Reaching the door, I hesitate for a split second before pushing it open and stepping inside. The room falls silent. It takes only a moment to realize my mistake. My eyes widen as I take in the sight of half-dressed players, towels slung over shoulders, and the unmistakable smell of dirty shoes heavy in the air. Oh no, the panic sets in, my professional veneer cracking, as I stand frozen in the doorway.
“What the hell?” one of the players yells, grabbing a towel to cover himself.
The room erupts into chaos, shouts of “Get out!” and, “You can’t be in here!” bouncing off the walls. My heart pounds in my chest, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. I lock eyes with Elliot, who stands out in the crowd, clearly in the middle of his game day routine. His intense gaze burns into mine. He is halfway through taping his stick, his bare torso glistening with a fine sheen of something. His eyes flash with a mix of annoyance and something else indescribable.
“Barnacle, you seriously can’t be here,” Elliot’s voice cuts through the chaos, firm and unyielding.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Utterly paralyzed, my brain scrambles to process the scene unfolding before me. The players continue to yell, but their voices seem distant, muffled by the ringing in my ears. “Get out!” another player bellows, snapping me out of my stupor. I stumble backward, tripping over my own feet as I flee the locker room, the door slamming shut behind me.
Outside, I lean against the wall, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The sting of embarrassment burns throughout my entire body, but I fight back the urge to cry.
I whip my head to my cameraman, “Why didn’t you stop me?”
He looks me over and laughs, “You should’ve known better. Now you won’t make that mistake twice.”
I had to make a mark, to show everyone how capable I am. Instead, I just made my mark by looking like a colossal fool. Oh my god, I’m being taught a lesson. Taking a deep breath, I compose myself, adjusting my blazer. There is no time for self-pity. I have to regroup and refocus. But the image of Elliot’s piercing eyes and the chaos I caused will be hard to shake off.