Talk to Me

by Clare James

  My first week on the job was a blur of hair and make-up appointments; jersey fittings; tours of all the pro and college stadiums in the Twin Cities; meetings with the other girls and crew; and study sessions about the Wild lineup. I was selected as the new ambassador of hockey.

  “Pass me that chicken cutlet,” Mackenzie said, looking at me through the mirror as she fussed with her cleavage.

  I was getting ready to do my promo spots for the season and Mack was about to head out for her Monday Night Football cut-in. While I was new to hockey, Mackenzie had covered Vikings football for the past two years.

  “The what?” I asked, confused as to why she wanted to eat a piece of chicken when she was almost ready to go on air.

  “That fake boob over there.” She nodded to the table behind me. “The piece of silicone that looks like a chicken cutlet with a nipple on it?”

  “Oh.” I slapped a hand to my forehead. “Of course, the chicken cutlet.”

  Mackenzie sighed, clearly annoyed with my sarcasm. Yes, she might have looked like a bimbo, but she wasn’t stupid.

  “Don’t judge,” she said. “I’m trying to up my ratings and not all of us are blessed with a spectacular rack like you, K.C.”

  She paused between each letter, over annunciating my on-air name. All the Sports Girls went by their first name only. Some real; some fake. I had the feeling Mackenzie was really born a Jill or Jane. She loved to go for the more elaborate (shall we say, enhanced) version of herself. Her name also allowed for some fun banter with her viewers — mainly a bunch of horny college boys and middle-aged men who were fond of saying they were having a Mack Attack.

  Our sports producer, Phil, loved her. She brought in the best ratings and her public appearances were standing room only. She made him look good, and that’s really all he cared about.

  Phil was a bit older than I, maybe late twenties, and on the fast track. The guy lived at the station and ate fast food round the clock. He had a paunchy belly and skin so pale it looked like he hadn’t seen daylight in years. The crew called him The Mole. And though his appearance was unpleasant at best, his personality was even worse.

  When I told him I didn’t want to use a stage name, that I’d rather use my given name of Casey Scott so that I could put my stand-ups on my reel when I applied for actual reporting jobs, he dismissed me with a pat on the head. I shit you not.

  “Well, for one,” he began, taking great pleasure in schooling me, “you’re not allowed to use your last name. There are creepers out there and we don’t need anyone stalking you. And two, we need something a little more memorable. Let’s at least spice up your first name. Use the initials K.C. instead of the spelled-out version. It’s more fun that way. And shit knows, we need all the fun we can get with you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  “Look,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

  I shook it off and took a step back.

  He groaned. “See, this is what I’m talking about. Jonathan recommended you and I respect him. You had a great audition and your looks obviously fit the bill. You’re a hot girl. It’s just that you’re too serious. Our viewers like easy, breezy. This isn’t CNN for fuck’s sake. Can you just take it down a notch?”

  I hated that little mole right from the start.

  “Sure,” I said, all sweet. “I get it now. You want me to go out there, introduce the players and games, give a slice of life as a fan, shake my tits, and pretend I don’t have a brain in my head? Is that the gist?”

  “Now you got it.” He laughed. “Work on your reel on your own time. And if you bring me a good story, I might even air it.”

  He was such a dick, but he was right.

  That’s exactly what I had to do — spend every spare second working on my reel. I’d come up with something so good, Phil wouldn’t be able to resist. The only issue was that he usually worked on longer pieces for the sweeps ratings periods (just four times a year in November, February, May, and July). With only a few weeks left in the month, I wouldn’t have time to get something in for November sweeps, but I could make the next period in February. Still, I’d have to work fast to come up with something that would get his rocks off.

  In the meantime, I would have to stay on his good side.

  I passed the chicken cutlet to Mackenzie and watched her primp, hoping to get some tips.

  Like the man said, CNN this was not.

  As I looked at myself in the mirror with my limp shoulder-length dark hair, olive skin, dark eyes, and long lashes (which I used as my excuse for not needing make-up), I realized I absolutely should follow Mackenzie’s lead. Though she was right, I didn’t need the chicken cutlets. But a push-up bra, some lip gloss, and a proper hairstyle might do wonders.

  Yes, I could play nice at the station and work on my stories on my own time. I just needed a good lead. Crack one story and I could be on way.

  Then I could tell Phil to go fuck himself.

  I indulged in that fantasy for the rest of the afternoon.

  ***

  For the next week, I studied the sports archives, kept my ears and eyes open, and racked my brain for a story that would blow Phil away. But even after seven days, I had no good leads. And my unfortunate job was really getting in the way.

  “Case, you have to mix it up with the fans,” Jonathan said during our shoot outside the Xcel Energy Center — the arena for the Wild. “A few MOS interviews, please.”

  Ugh, I fucking hated man-on-the-street interviews.

  “Easy for you to say,” I told him. “Did you see that teenage boy grab my ass the first time I tried it?”

  “I promise,” he said. “You get the interviews, and I’ll watch your ass.”

  “Super.” I glared at him.

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “Let’s just get ’er done.”

  “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t say that.”

  Ignoring me, Jonathan flipped the camera up on his shoulder and put in his ear bud, indicating it was time to move. I nodded and headed toward the people shuffling into the X. The handheld microphone slipped in my sweaty palms as I scanned the crowd for a friendly face.

  After several minutes under Jonathan’s impatient gaze, I found two of them.

  “This way.” I motioned toward an elderly couple. They must have been in their eighties and completely smitten with each other. They held hands as they walked toward the arena decked out in their Wild gear.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m with KXAA —”

  “You’re one of those Sports Girls,” the older man interrupted. “How sweet.”

  The woman slapped him on the arm. “Don’t mind him,” she said. “That man doesn’t get out much. What do you need, dear?”

  “I’m gathering interviews for tonight’s game and would like to ask you a few questions. Would that be okay?”

  “Are you kidding?” the woman said, pointing to her husband. “That would make this one’s week.”

  So I got my first interview of the evening: The Bednerskis from Northeast Minneapolis. The Polish couple was a riot, and they had the best stories about Minnesota hockey. I loved how they played off of each other without even trying and the way they were always touching. I envied them and could’ve talked all night, but after a good ten minutes, Jonathan signaled to me that it was time to move on.

  Later, I chatted with some high school girls who came down from the Iron Range; a young guy who was planning to propose to his girlfriend; and a few families.

  Then, in the middle of my very enlightening interview with a three-year-old boy, he walked by.

  My eyes instantly zoomed in on his scar. It was the first thing I noticed. A jagged line that began at the middle of his forehead and disappeared into his dark eyebrow.

  It was him. There was no doubt. But he was in disguise.

  Yes, he could hide everything else. His tight athletic body under ill-fitting sweats. His piercing gray eyes under a pair of dark sunglasses. His s
culpted face (which, incidentally, should’ve belonged to a classic movie star rather than a hockey player) covered under a week’s worth of scruff.

  His scar, however, was not meant to be hidden.

  Finn Daley got that badge of honor in his first NHL game. It made a bloody mess of the ice, not to mention his beautiful mug. Somehow, on him, the scar worked. A flaw to show he really was human.

  It was a risky move, coming to the arena. The place he announced his retirement just a few months earlier.

  Number four hadn’t given any explanation that May day. The Wild had made it to playoffs, but lost in the second round. At a press conference after the game, Daley announced he wasn’t coming back. The team, the coaches, the players, and the rest of Minnesota were left stunned. Nobody knew why, or at least nobody was talking.

  I decided then and there to change all that.

  When I saw him walk by, two things happened simultaneously. I abruptly ended my interview and my body buzzed at the sight. Then I used my phone to take a photo for verification. My brain knew what to do, even if my body couldn’t quite process it. Finn Daley was spectacular, even in disguise.

  This story could be as big as Lance Armstrong doping or the Tiger Woods sex scandal. The thought of breaking it made me all tingly inside. I wasn’t sure at the time how I would pull off a story of this magnitude. All I knew was that I needed him — needed his story to help me with mine.

  Still, as I watched him, I found it incredibly sad that he was out here sneaking around, going into the arena to watch the game by himself when he should’ve been out there on the ice. But I was also too giddy to let my heart have much play. As a reporter, not many stories land in your lap, and this was a career-making lead. If I could find out why Finn Daley left hockey, I would be well on my way out of this stupid gig and into a real newsroom.

  And getting close to such a fine specimen to uncover his story? Well, there were some perks to this job after all.

  “Okay, J,” I said. He’d already shot my intro and the fan interviews were done so I had a little bit of time to track down Mr. Daley. “I think you got some good stuff.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Great stuff, actually. I’ll get in the truck and beam it back.”

  “Okay, then.” I continued watching Finn from the periphery. He was almost at the door. “I’m going to go in.”

  Jonathan stopped, grabbed my arm, and studied my face. “I’ve seen this look before, Scott. What are you up to?”

  “Don’t know yet,” I said, not ready to tell him about the story I had taking shape in my head. “I just have a few ideas floating around.”

  “Go after it then,” he called out.

  But I already broke into a run. “Meet you inside for our first live shot.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  I went in through the same doors I saw Finn enter. I flashed my media badge and searched for a tall frame in a blue cap. I don’t know who he thought he was fooling with the get-up. Of course, with my dry spell, my radar for hot man meat was at an all-time high.

  Inside the arena, there was no sign of him. I paced the floor and took inventory of every man over six feet. No luck. I knew I lost him, so I went up to the press box to watch the game.

  It was lively as usual. Two rival reporters from the Minneapolis and St. Paul newspapers were in the middle of some argument about the Wild versus the North Stars, the hockey team the state lost to Dallas in 1993. It was a discussion that got heated fast and one that led to another comparison: Dino Ciccarelli of the old North Stars versus Finn Daley of the new Wild.

  My ears perked up as the men hashed out the best and worst of each player.

  “Point is,” the St. Paul reporter said. “We’ll never know just how great Daley was because his career was over before it ever really began.”

  “What I would’ve done to be a fly on the wall when Daley told the staff he quit,” the Minneapolis reporter said.

  I took in their every word, thinking to myself, what I wouldn’t give to be the person to tell the whole story.

  Before this job, I had little interest in hockey. But the more I watched and learned, the more I enjoyed it. There were a few little scuffles, one full-on fight, some blood, and quite a good track of songs to go with the action. Plus, the Wild were up by two. It was really beginning to grow on me.

  “Hey,” Jonathan said when he caught up with me in the middle of the first period. “Good news. Phil said everything was fine.”

  “Fine,” I huffed.

  “And, the ten o’clock producer loved your interviews, especially the Polish couple. He’s using that one as the kicker tonight.”

  “Really?” I practically squealed. The kicker is just the fluff piece at the end of a news broadcast, but it’s still news. And my story was going on air!

  “Really,” Jonathan said. “That’s a first step. Now if you’d just hurry up and get that story for sweeps.”

  Oh, I got it, my friend. I so got it.

  I left Jonathan to scout out a location for our live shot, skipping my way down the hall, unable to take my mind off Finn Daley.

  Chapter 4

  Finn

  Anchor/Kiki Stuart: So, you first saw her outside the arena?

  Finn Daley: Yeah. That’s right.

  Anchor/Kiki Stuart: Why were you there, Finn?

  Finn Daley: I couldn’t stay away from the guys. The team. The game. Plus, I had been toying around with an idea.

  Shit. The goddamn cameraman snuck up on me. I usually avoided them at all costs, but I didn’t even notice this guy approach. I was not on my game tonight.

  My first thought was that he was following me. Until I spotted her.

  I used to be the kind of guy who would openly gawk at beautiful women. I had no filter — never learned control or respect because I didn’t need to. I had always been a sports star. Even as a kid, people treated me differently because of hockey — which meant a lot of free passes. My poor mom was never in a position to teach me any better and Dad was always checked out, too consumed with Mom and her issues. Childrearing, needless to say, came in a distant fifth or sixth on their list of priorities.

  The girl in front of the camera almost stopped me dead in my tracks. Almost. Survival meant I had to keep walking. When I glanced in her direction, she tipped her head at me and smiled. Right in the middle of her interview. A familiar sensation pulled low in my gut, and I sized her up in seconds. Curvy brunette; fresh-faced and bright eyes; seemingly oblivious to her beauty as she talked to a little boy.

  A year ago, I would’ve sent someone over to bring her to me without hesitation. Then, I would’ve kept her up all night exploring every tempting inch of her body.

  I was no longer that guy.

  Pity.

  I pulled my hat down and hurried into the arena, relishing in the putrid smell I couldn’t believe I missed. The crisp chemical fragrance of the ice and Zamboni; the old beer spilled on the floor; the popcorn scents in the stands.

  It was home. And also a place I could be recognized at any second, which was why I rarely left the house. Sometimes I didn’t know why I put myself through this. Looking over my shoulder constantly, all the while feeling the eyes burn into my skin.

  I may need to grow a full beard if I planned to come to any more games.

  The guys filtered out and the fans cheered. It had the adrenaline pumping thick through my veins and I craved an endorphin rush. The scratching sounds on the ice and slap of the sticks were music to my ears. I was lost for a while, until I felt the eyes on me again.

  I desperately wanted a beer or something to take the edge off. Too bad that wasn’t on the menu anymore. Instead, I got up to walk it off. Most likely a stupid mistake. Getting up probably drew even more attention my way, yet I couldn’t sit still.

  It didn’t help when I went out to the concourse and saw her again. She stood in a corner by one of the hockey memorials, assessing herself in the reflective glass. She smoothed out her T-shirt and messed wit
h her hair. Not primping really, more like minimizing.

  I wanted to get closer, get a better look at her.

  “Looking good,” I called out to get her attention. It was an amateur move, but I wanted to see her eyes again. She didn’t turn around. Instead, she raised her arm, flipped me the bird, and went back into the arena.

  A laugh ripped out of me so deep, it took me by surprise. Because she took me by surprise. Feisty little tiger, that one.

  It wasn’t all bad, her retreat allowed me to enjoy the view of her tasty ass shaking the entire way inside.

  ***

  Back in my seat, I tried to get the girl out of my head to focus on Nate. He was the only person I kept in contact with in this world. The only link to my past. Though, he thought I still had a future.

  He was the only person who knew the truth.

  Nate and I came up to the NHL at the same time. And shit, had he grown as a player in the three short years. He practically flew across the ice and it was like he could see the opponents’ plays even before they happened. He was always at the right place at the right time.

  It was no different tonight. Nate played an impressive game. He scored the winning goal and I warmed with pride. He deserved all the attention and glory that had finally come his way.

  Walking out into the night, instead of fucking off with the guys in the locker room, hurt more than I cared to admit. I missed rehashing the game with the guys. Missed talking trash with Nate.

  Finally pulled your head out of your ass to make a shot, I texted him when I got home.

  Better late than never, Hack, he replied.

  Celebrating then I assume? I asked.

  Just a small group at the house. Stop by?

  I waited a beat, remembering all those small gatherings at the house. I didn’t miss the partying, necessarily. The women, though. That I missed.

  Gina’s here, Nate provoked.

  Don’t think so.

  Despite the dry spell, the idea of spending the night with her did nothing for me. Maybe because all my dirty thoughts involved the girl at the X.