Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I lay in bed for a moment, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling.
The walls and ceiling in my apartment in Phoenix had been standard drywall.
The ceilings in the first floor of my parents’ three-level walk-up was a drop ceiling, not unlike something one might find in an older office complex.
But it hid the aging HVAC system and muffled any noises I might hear from the second-floor neighbors whom I’d yet to meet.
First real day.
I reached for my laptop, which was never very far away.
I sat up in bed, adjusted my sleep-tousled ponytail, and checked my email.
Someone from the network had sent team notes—line changes, injury updates, probable milestones for the game that night.
Callahan was listed as probable. Lower body, managed minutes.
I lingered on Dani’s name for half a second too long, and then kept reading like it didn’t matter. Because it couldn’t. Because it didn’t.
Social media came next. I looked up what was going on around the league and found footage from Boston’s morning skate. There was a clip of Dani taking a few extra reps. Her stride looked fine. I jotted it down anyway.
The production call kicked off at eleven. The Zoom screen populated slowly with new faces. Predictably, I only recognized my new boss, Mark, in his worn Boston Red Sox hat. No one bothered with the mute button; they chatted freely in a shorthand I didn’t know yet, referencing people I hadn’t met.
I steeled myself against the reflexive urge to grab my phone, if only to keep my brain busy before the meeting officially started.
No matter how many markets I’d worked in, how many new crews I’d joined, the awkwardness of being the stranger in the room never really went away.
I’d get to know all of them soon enough, I told myself.
Mark clapped his hands once and got things moving.
“Alright, quick intro before we start,” he said. “We’ve got a new face on the call. Reese Marlowe’s joining us—she’ll be covering women’s sports and working rinkside tonight. First game with us.”
Every Zoom square seemed to turn in my direction.
“Hi,” I said, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt. “Really excited to be here.”
“Alright,” Mark said. “Let’s run through.”
We ran through that evening’s broadcast—the open tease, intermission timing, bench assignments. I listened intently, jotting down notes, and staying quiet until Mark asked if anyone had anything to add.
I cleared my throat.
“Dani Callahan stayed out late at morning skate,” I said. “If she’s limited, it doesn’t look like it. Might be worth watching how often she jumps into the rush early.”
“Good,” Mark said. “Let’s track that.”
I muted myself and exhaled. It was a small thing, but it felt nice to contribute right away, like I was more than just a body with a microphone.
I got to the arena a little after three.
Security waved me through as soon as they saw my credentials, and the familiar hum closed in around me—the low buzz of generators outside the production truck, carts rattling over concrete, the faint smell of popcorn already drifting through the loading dock.
It was a soundscape I knew how to maneuver, even when everything else felt new.
I hesitated at the door to the production truck before stepping inside.
Inside, it was tighter than the national broadcasts I’d worked on—one narrow aisle, a short wall of monitors showing warm-ups and test graphics.
Only a handful of people, everyone doing two jobs at once.
And at the monitor wall was Mara Klein. I recognized her immediately from the earlier production meeting.
“Hi—sorry. I’m Reese,” I said with a brief, awkward wave. “Sideline.”
She looked up and smiled, quick and easy. “Mara Klein. Associate producer.”
Mara was pretty in an unshowy way. She wore minimal makeup with dark hair pulled back so it stayed out of her face. She dressed for utility, not attention. I noticed her sneakers immediately, which made the high heels in the wardrobe bag slung over my shoulder feel like I was trying too hard.
I watched her consult her wristwatch. “You’re early.”
“I know,” I said. “It’s my best quality.”
Mara chuckled and slid a printed rundown toward me. “You’ll be reporting from bench side tonight. Your cameraman’s Sam. He’s grabbing a cable, but he’ll find you.”
As if on cue, a figure filled the doorway behind her.
“Cable’s good,” came a masculine voice.
Sam was impossible to miss. He was tall and lanky—obviously well over six feet tall.
He looked like the kind of guy who ducked automatically when he walked through doorways.
A clunky, oversized camera rested on his shoulder like an extension of his body, somehow perfectly balanced against his gangly frame.
“Sam,” he introduced himself. “Guess you’re mine?”
“Looks that way,” I replied.
Sam walked with me down to ice level and explained the camera cues as we went—where to stand so I didn’t block the bench, how far back I needed to be so he could frame me without cutting off my head, where the lighting was best. I tried to memorize everything.
“Best advice?” he said. “Trust me. If I tug on your elbow, don’t fight it.”
I nodded once. “Noted.”
Up in the booth, the game’s announcers were already settling in. Tom, the play-by-play guy, had the polished cadence of someone who could describe paint drying and make it sound dramatic. His color-commentary partner, Rick, sipped from a ceramic coffee mug that read Hockey Dad.
The press box felt a world apart from the chaos of rinkside action.
From there, Tom and Rick had the luxury of seeing the rink as a whole: formations, shifts, zone entries.
They could call plays and track stats, but there was nothing they could see at eye level—the subtle exchanges on the bench, the micro-adjustments in a goalie’s stance, the way a player skated differently when their legs were tired. That was my territory.
“Ah, our sideline savior,” Tom said when I walked into the press box. “First one with us?”
“With this crew,” I said. “Not my first rodeo though.”
Rick smiled knowingly. “Ice’ll keep you humble.”
“I’m counting on it,” I easily returned.
They asked smart questions—what angles I liked, how much chatter I wanted in my ear, whether I preferred cues or silence before hits. It felt like an initiation, and I passed it without embarrassing myself.
Hair and makeup came next. That part of the process always felt surreal, like something happening to someone else.
I watched myself in the mirror as powder erased shine and mascara darkened my lashes, trying to reconcile the polished version of me with the woman who’d woken up in a borrowed apartment earlier that morning, staring at a ceiling she didn’t recognize.
Pregame warmups pulled me back into my body.
I took my position near the boards, my earpiece snug and a mic discreetly clipped onto the lapel of my blazer. Despite being inside, my breath fogged slightly in the cold. The job was the same, but my surrounding environment might as well have been a foreign planet.
Out on the ice, skates carved the glassy surface in tight arcs. Pucks cracked against the boards with a violence you could feel in your chest. I reminded myself to observe everything—not just the one face my eyes kept finding.
Dani skated past without looking at me.
Good.
“Check, check,” I said quietly.
“Got you.” Mara’s voice came through my earpiece. “You’re up in two for pregame.”
The light on Sam’s camera clicked on, and my pulse thudded in my ears. The red light flashed, and I opened my mouth.
I delivered my first hit like a practiced veteran—which I was.
I talked about Boston’s defensive adjustments, the importance of disciplined forechecking, the energy in the building.
My voice sounded like mine: confident, grounded, and professional.
The words landed where they were supposed to. Thirty seconds, clean and sharp.
When I tossed back to the booth, my hands were shaking—but only a little.
Sam hefted the camera off of his shoulder and gave me a small nod. “Nice job.”
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
By puck drop, I was settled near the bench, IFB snug in my ear, my trusty notebook tucked against my side.
The game itself was relentless. Hockey didn’t pause for anyone—not broadcasters, not storylines, not nerves.
I tracked shifts, scribbled notes in my notebook between whistles, and listened as Mara fed me context and corrections.
First intermission came fast.
“Reese,” Mara said in my ear. “We want Callahan.”
My stomach dipped. Of course they did.
I took the handheld microphone and scanned the area as players exited the ice and peeled toward the tunnel that led to the locker rooms. Dani emerged a few seconds later, her helmet off and cheeks flushed from the cold.
She slowed when she saw me.
“Dani—” I raised my voice, “can I grab you for a quick interview?”
Her smile widened. “You can grab me for whatever you want.”
I grimaced when I heard Sam snicker.
“Keep it professional, Callahan,” I warned under my breath.
She held up her gloved hands in mock surrender, but the glint in her hazel eyes was anything but innocent.
The camera light came on.
I straightened my spine to stand a little taller in my heels. On neutral territory, Dani’s 5’11” stature still dominated my 5’7” frame. Her skates added an extra two inches. The blister currently forming on the back of my heel was the price to pay so players didn’t completely tower over me.
This player especially.
“Dani—thanks for taking a moment,” I started. “First period looked intense. What adjustments will you make going into the second?”
Dani leaned against her stick. It was a routine question as far as interviews went. Her eyes drifted back to the playing surface rather than look at me or the camera.