Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The Grindstone Coffee Shop occupied that perfect sweet spot in Springfield's modest downtown—close enough to the newspaper office for convenience but far enough from the arena that Libby rarely ran into athletes she'd just critiqued.
The peeling paint on the bathroom door and the mismatched mugs were comfortingly familiar, like an old sweatshirt that should have been thrown out years ago but somehow still felt right.
"I still can't believe Shea's beard made you Twitter famous," Clara Lucas said, stirring her latte with scientific precision.
"I've been covering corporate acquisitions for six months and the closest I've come to viral is when I accidentally included a cat GIF in my email to the central office managing editor. "
Libby grinned at her best friend across the scarred wooden table. “Oh, which one?”
"It was the cat knocking a plant off a shelf with the caption 'me sabotaging my own career,'" Clara admitted. "Weirdly prophetic."
Unlike Libby, who cultivated a look she called "professional adjacent," Clara always dressed like she was prepared for an impromptu job interview—crisp blazer, sensible heels, not a strand of her red hair out of place.
They'd graduated from the same journalism program with identical GPAs, but their career paths had quickly diverged.
Clara had chosen security at SportsBiz Daily, covering the financial side of athletics with ruthless efficiency.
Libby had chosen passion and poverty at the Springfield Gazette.
"How many followers are you up to now?" Clara asked, pulling out her phone to check.
"Twenty-three thousand as of this morning," Libby replied, still unable to fully process the number. "For context, the Gazette's main account has eight thousand."
"And they gave you… what exactly for this sudden audience?"
"A hearty congratulations and the honor of continuing to cover a team that won't sniff the playoffs again until the next presidential administration."
Clara's expression turned serious. "You know you could leverage this into something real, right? SportsBiz is looking for someone to cover league revenue strategies. It's not sexy, but it's a foot in the door with actual benefits and a 401k that isn't just a punchline."
Libby's nose wrinkled involuntarily. "Covering luxury box sales and corporate sponsorship negotiations? I'd rather—"
"Have creative freedom and journalistic integrity while eating ramen at thirty?" Clara finished for her. "Look, I get it. But the sports journalism world isn't exactly rolling out the red carpet for women who actually want to analyze the game."
Libby sighed. "Besides, SportsBiz means no actual game analysis, no player interviews—"
"No hockey butts," Clara interrupted with mock seriousness. "Let's be honest about what you'd really miss. I know how much your analytical mind appreciates the biomechanics of a well-developed gluteus maximus."
"I do not—” Libby protested, her voice rising an octave. "My interest is purely professional. The way players generate power through their lower body is actually fascinating from a sports science perspective—"
"Uh-huh." Clara's grin widened. "That's why you replayed D'Arcy's overtime goal three times last week. For the 'biomechanics.'"
"I was studying his edge work!"
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Jane made it," Libby pointed out, desperate to change the subject.
"Jane has a medical degree and fixes torn ACLs.
She doesn't tell multimillionaire men what they're doing wrong on national television.
" Clara leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the nearly empty coffee shop.
"They'll either dismiss you as a diversity hire or assume you're sleeping with the players.
Those are basically the only two boxes they have for women in sports media. "
Libby swallowed, recognizing the truth in her friend's warning. She'd seen it firsthand at the college level, watching female reporters being asked if they understood offsides while male bloggers with half their knowledge got locker room access.
"So what, I should just give up and write about sports business? Or focus on human interest fluff because that's 'more suited' to my delicate feminine sensibilities?"
Clara sighed. "No. You should keep being brilliant and stubborn and a better analyst than half the men with broadcast deals. I'm just saying… prepare for what's coming. Especially if this viral moment gets you noticed."
"It was just a silly soundbite born of exhaustion and frustration," Libby said, the same thing she'd been telling herself since yesterday. "It'll be forgotten by tomorrow when some player posts a picture of his breakfast and somehow that becomes news."
Her phone rang, an unknown number with a Boston area code. Probably another spam call about her car's extended warranty.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Clara asked when Libby made no move to answer.
"Unknown number. Probably—"
"Could be destiny," Clara said with a dramatic flutter of her eyelashes, an impression of Libby's mother that was unfortunately spot-on.
Rolling her eyes, Libby picked up. "Elizabeth Bennet-Cross."
"Elizabeth? This is Sullivan Reid, sports editor for The Boston Herald."
Libby's heart stopped. The Boston Herald. With a circulation roughly twenty times the Gazette's. She met Clara's curious gaze across the table and mouthed Boston Herald.
"Yes, hello," she managed, professional instincts kicking in despite her shock. "What can I do for you, Mr. Reid?"
"Call me Sully—Mr. Reid was my father, and he wrote obituaries," he said with a chuckle. "I saw your coverage of the Falcons this season, especially that power play analysis piece from last month. Sharp stuff. Then that post yesterday—perfect mix of humor and actual hockey knowledge."
"Thank you," Libby said cautiously, waiting for the catch. Editors from major papers didn't just call out of the blue to compliment your work. Especially not female sportswriters covering minor league teams.
"Here's the situation," Reid continued. "Our Steel beat reporter, Jackson, is down with a particularly nasty case of food poisoning.
Team catering at the last home game—never eat the seafood pasta at TD Garden, by the way.
Doctor thinks it might be norovirus. He's basically living in his bathroom and our medical insurance doesn't cover exorcisms."
Libby managed a squeaking laugh over her pounding heartbeat. "That's… unfortunate."
"More than unfortunate. We're heading into a critical stretch of playoff games and I've got no one to cover the Steel.
The usual fill-ins are on other assignments.
I need someone who knows hockey and can hit the ground running.
Your work shows you've got the analytical chops, and that viral moment proves you can connect with readers. "
Libby's mind raced. Was he actually offering what she thought he was offering?
"Are you—are you asking me to cover the Boston Steel?" she asked, needing to hear it explicitly.
"For the playoff run, yes. It would be a freelance arrangement, standard day rate plus expenses. We'd need you in Boston tomorrow for practice, first game coverage the day after. Assuming you're interested?"
Interested? It was like asking if she was interested in oxygen.
"Yes," she said quickly, then moderated her tone. "I mean, yes, I'm definitely interested. I'd need to check with my editor here, but I'm sure we can work something out."
"Good. I'll have my assistant email you the details. Welcome aboard, Elizabeth."
"Libby," she corrected automatically. "Everyone calls me Libby."
"Libby it is. See you in Boston."
The call ended, and Libby stared at her phone in disbelief.
"Well?" Clara demanded. "What did Boston's third-largest newspaper want with Springfield's finest hockey analyst?"
"They want me to cover the Steel for the playoffs," Libby said, the words sounding surreal as they left her mouth. "Their regular guy has food poisoning from team catering."
Clara's eyes widened. "Holy shit. That's… that's huge."
"It's temporary," Libby cautioned, as much to herself as to Clara. "Just for the playoff run. Freelance."
"It's a foot in the door," Clara countered. "A massive, steel-toed boot in the door, actually." She raised her coffee mug. "To Libby Bennet-Cross, who's about to show Boston what real hockey analysis looks like."
Libby clinked her "World's Okayest Journalist" travel mug against Clara's ceramic one, a giddy lightness bubbling in her chest. Then reality crashed back in.
"Oh god. I have to tell my mother."
Clara winced. "Maybe call from Boston? Like, when you're safely out of earshot?"
"Too late," Libby sighed, gathering her things. "Jane's coming over for Sunday dinner tonight. If I don't tell them, she'll find out at work tomorrow and then I'll never hear the end of it."
"Your funeral," Clara said cheerfully. "Text me when Linda starts planning your wedding to the backup goaltender."
"Not funny," Libby called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. But she was smiling as she stepped into the spring sunshine, her mind already racing ahead to Boston.
"MY DAUGHTER IS GOING TO BOSTON!"
Linda Bennet-Cross's voice reached a decibel level that probably violated Springfield's noise ordinances. Libby winced, already regretting her decision to break the news before dinner rather than after.
"Mom, it's just a temporary assignment," she tried, but her mother was already in full celebration mode, practically dancing around the dining room table where the family had gathered.
"Jane! Did you hear? Libby's coming to Boston! You'll be together again! My two oldest girls, conquering the big city!"