Chapter 4
brYCE
T he nervous butterflies refuse to stop as I walk into the Sportsverse Magazine office building in downtown Chicago. Public transportation did not help my hair this morning because it was so hot, and I’m pretty sure all my makeup has dripped off my face.
I press the elevator button and ride it up to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and it feels as if people are tumbling in my stomach while I stare at the Sportsverse logo on the wall.
You’ve got this, Bryce.
You deserve this.
Do not fuck this up.
I step out and take a breath before turning to the right to see a large reception desk. Although I was already here for my final interview, I have no idea where to go, so I stop in front of the frazzled-looking woman.
She keeps pressing buttons on the phone and asking people to hold before clicking on another line. I hate to even bother her. A delivery guy who rode up the elevator with me stands next to me, staring at her. She blows a piece of her hair off her face and holds her finger up to us .
“She must be a temp,” the delivery guy says to me. “She’s not the normal receptionist.”
I nod.
“What are you here for?” His gaze falls down my body and never makes it back up to my eyes.
Instead, it rests on my legs, and I reprimand myself for wearing this pencil skirt.
If it wasn’t my luckiest one, I would’ve worn something else.
But I wore this when I got my job at the Chronicle , and I was wearing it when I got the call from Sportsverse .
Good things happen when I wear this skirt.
“Today is my first day,” I say.
His eyebrows lift.
I sigh. “Yes, funny thing, women in the world know a lot about sports too.”
He holds up his free hand. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to, your body language said it all.” I used to be tighter lipped when men gave me the all-too-familiar look when they found out I’m a sports reporter, but I’m done with that.
“So you’re a reporter then?”
I nod, waiting for the receptionist, but she’s still fielding nonstop calls. “I am.”
“For women’s basketball or something?”
I spear him with a look. “Why would it be women’s?”
He holds up his hand again. “I was just asking. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’ll be reporting on hockey.”
“The Hawks?” he asks.
“Tundra.”
“Oh.” He says it in a tone that implies that this makes more sense to him.
I fucking wish I could’ve said the Hawks. There’s a lot to report on with the Tundra. More shifting of players. Bringing them up, bringing them down. The ins and outs are fascinating, and I’m excited to report on them. But they aren’t a national team, so it isn’t considered as prestigious.
I turn back to the receptionist because I no longer want to talk to this man.
She finally stops and looks at me as if she’s about a second from tears. Oh, I know that look.
I round the desk and pick up a second phone which must be used by a second receptionist who isn’t here. Sometimes you just have to step in and take control of a situation.
“ Sportsverse Magazine ,” I answer. “Please hold.”
With the two of us double teaming the phones, me placing people on hold and her transferring them where they need to go, it’s only a few minutes before there’s a break in the calls, and everyone is taken care of.
“Thank you so much. Both receptionists called in and I’m a temp.” She signs for the package and places it on the desk.
“Good luck, you two,” the delivery guy says, and I roll my eyes.
“And what can I do for you?” she asks, turning her attention to me.
“Well, today is my first day. I’m to report to Bill Osterman.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She shoos me away with her hand. “I’m holding you up. Mr. Osterman’s assistant was adamant that I send you to the conference room as soon as you arrived. I guess it’s a team meeting or something.” She presses a button on the phone system. “I’ll show you there.”
“I’m sure I can find my way,” I say.
“No. Better I do it. I already messed it up.”
“Okay.”
She leads me down the hall to a fishbowl of a conference room, which means I see them all before I enter.
It’s filled with all the reporters I’ve read for years. Some I’ve looked up to for the majority of my career, and now I’m going to enter that room and be one of them. Sure, I’m not covering a national team—yet—but it’s a stepping stone.
“Here you go. Knock ’em dead.” She winks and rubs my arm as she walks away.
I inhale and exhale, place my hand on the door, and wrench it open, sliding through a sliver and trying not to be noticed, but Mr. Osterman is on me right away.
“Bryce!” he exclaims, as though I’m his daughter who just returned from college as a surprise.
I nod. “Hello, Mr. Osterman.”
“Come on over.” He waves me to the front of the long boardroom table where he sits.
I swallow, and it feels as though there’s a walnut stuck in the back of my throat. Regardless, I walk over to him, putting on my best smile.
“Okay, gang, here’s our newest reporter, Bryce Burns.
She comes to us from the San Jose Chronicle, where the majority of her reporting was on the Kingsmen.
” He looks to me for confirmation and I nod.
“I think you’ll find she’ll be a great asset to the team.
She’s known for her toughness, her no-holds-barred assessments of all players. ”
“Especially Miles Cavanaugh,” a guy I don’t recognize says. “What did you have against that guy?”
Mr. Osterman looks at me to answer. I don’t report to that guy, and this is the kind of question you ask in a break room, not a boardroom.
I clear my throat. “I don’t have anything against him. I’m not going to sugarcoat it when I see a player underperforming. If they have flaws, it’s my job to report them just as much as I commend their talents.”
Mr. Osterman nods, and the man looks pissed off.
“That’s exactly why she was hired. I’m done with the favoritism our prestigious magazine gets accused of year after year.
Look at this morning, Grant. You reported on the Panthers training camp, and people are saying the GM wined and dined you so that you’d write that they’re the team to beat this year.
You know how many calls we’ve fielded this morning from other teams saying you’re not playing by the rules? ”
Holy shit, the guy who gave me a dirty look is Grant Thorn.
He’s the most well-known reporter here, and I did a whole report in college about his reporting style.
The headshot he uses must be at least fifteen years old because he looks way younger in his picture, so I didn’t recognize him at first. He allowed a GM to lead him to write a story he might not really have believed.
Despite that, he still seems to always land on his feet.
“I told you I want to talk to you about that privately.” Grant looks at Mr. Osterman as though he’s the one who holds the power around here.
Then again, he might. I’ve heard about places where a reporter has more say than the top brass, and editors don’t want to piss off their best and most popular reporters.
“And I said I was going to address it in the team meeting. Now, we’re delayed enough. Everyone welcome Bryce.” He turns to me. “Have a seat. Shelly was just about to give us her take on the Grizzlies this year.”
I smile and slide into a chair at the back of the room.
I know that Shelly Breckles reports on the Grizzlies because, in the end, it’s her job that I want.
I love all sports, but football is my favorite.
One thing my dad did for me over the years was bred my love for the sport.
But I’ll get there eventually, I know it.
And hopefully by then, Miles will no longer be playing for the team.
“I was at training camp last week, and it was exciting seeing Cooper Rice and Damon Siska work together. But watching Miles Cavanaugh on defense was what was really impressive.” She looks at me.
“Sure, he joined the team late last year, but I think the trade messed with his head because he didn’t perform to his caliber. ”
That’s putting it nicely. It’s like he was lost out there which, I’m sure she’s right, had to do with the trade.
Every week, the Kingsmen were getting closer to the Big Game, and he was letting people get past him.
His head wasn’t in it, and Shelly should have called him out for it, but I’ve read enough articles to know that she’s a fan of his.
Miles and I may not see eye to eye on much, but I want to see him succeed.
It’s not my job to prop up his ego though.
“I’ve always liked him. He’s not flashy. Quiet demeanor. Shit, what other player gets his picture taken in public, reading on a park bench?” one of the men I don’t recognize says, and the entire room laughs.
“He’s definitely the opposite of his college teammate, Damon,” another one adds.
“Which is why I feel like we should spin his story narrative this year,” Shelly says. “My gut says this can be the Grizzlies’ year, and if we cast him as the underdog, which readers will love, they’ll be cheering him on all year.”
“You’re delusional if you honestly think the Grizzlies have a chance this year,” Grant says. Everyone groans, and he raises his hands. “Regardless of what people say, I believe in the Panthers.”
The room erupts in laughter.
“Didn’t their star wide receiver just return from knee surgery? And their quarterback is a baby, drafted last year and not even first-round,” an older woman says, and everyone nods. She makes good points.
Everyone takes turns talking about what they’re covering until we’re dismissed. As everyone files out of the room, Grant approaches me. My heart beats out of my chest as though I just swam across Lake Michigan.
“Just so you know, and I don’t say this because what people are saying about me is the truth, people can’t pay me off for my opinions, but you can’t go into this like a guard dog protecting its bone.
You’re in the big leagues now, and you’re lucky Miles Cavanaugh is as easygoing as he is because there are other players who will blacklist you.
I suggest that you take this opportunity with the Tundra to learn the fine art of creative criticism.
You have to boost the ego higher than you hurt it.
Wait until you travel with a team, and you’re with those players twenty-four seven who you like to be so ‘honest’ with.
” He puts the word “honest” in air quotes then sighs.
“Good luck, but I don’t really expect to see you around much after this season. ”
I stare at his back without saying a word, which is rare for me, but he literally stunned me silent. Though I can feel the rage creeping up my chest into my neck. My face will probably be bright red in a minute.
“Don’t listen to him. He’s a jerk,” a woman says next to me.
I turn toward her. She has chestnut-brown hair cut to her chin in a sassy bob. Her wide-leg plaid pants paired with a blouse is a cute and sophisticated look. I’m pretty sure I own something similar. She looks a little younger than me, as if maybe she’s just done with school.
She holds her hand out to me. “Rachel. I cover the suburbs baseball team.”
“Nice to meet you. Bryce. Which you already know.”
She smiles. “Don’t worry about Grant. I interned here for two years through college, and he’d always give me advice, acting like he was my mentor. It was never good advice.” We both laugh. “I’ve read some of your stuff.”
“You have?” I blink in rapid succession.
She shrugs. “I applied for your position but didn’t get it. I wanted to hate you, but I love your take. Just because they’re professional athletes doesn’t mean they’re above criticism and always have to get their way.”
“Do you want to go out for a drink tonight?” I ask, eager to be on friendly terms with at least one person at my new job.
“I’d love to.”
I think this move will be good for me.