by Cindi Madsen
I’d texted Will, the paper’s tech guy, to see if I could get him to meet me at the office early. Luckily he’d agreed, but when I walked inside, he wasn’t typing on his computer as usual. His curls were askew, his eyes were half-closed, and he had a blank look on his face.
“Thanks so much for meeting me.” I set a cup on the desk in front of him. “I brought you tea.”
“Much obliged,” he said, lifting the tea for a sip and then giving a happy sigh.
The staff of the paper came and went as schedules allowed, but I’d never seen the newspaper office so empty. The news didn’t stop, but reporters obviously needed to, and this one wanted to sprawl across the desks and take a nap.
Ain’t nobody got time for that. Not with classes to attend, projects do be done, and a hockey fundraiser event to cover mid-week on top of everything else—Lindsay had insisted that yes it was important, and no I couldn’t miss it.
I set my heavy bag on the edge of Will’s desk, and then rolled a nearby chair next to his and plopped in it, grateful I had a little time for sitting.
“So basically,” I said, now that Will looked more alert, “I’ve found that it’s hard to get people to stop to answer a few simple questions, and I feel like I’m not getting their full opinion.” I’d tried in front of the library again yesterday, thinking a Monday would have people refreshed from the weekend, but I’d had even less people stop than on my Saturday attempt just over a week ago.
I had pages and pages of research, but I wanted the story to be more personal, so it would have a bigger impact, not just be the article people skimmed and tossed away without another thought.
Will scratched at the side of his head, the other hand still gripping his cardboard cup. “You have an idea, yeah?”
“I started thinking that if the questions were online, then we might have a better chance at reaching more of the student body. Without me standing there with my pen and notebook, people wouldn’t feel as much pressure, either. Plus it takes out any bias I might accidentally throw into it.” Before, it would’ve been against athletes, but after having such a great time with the guys at the party…admittedly, I felt myself softening a bit.
Which just proved that I needed to keep certain lines in place. Like no thinking about how Hudson had helped me get in with the team, or how he’d taken me home when I didn’t have a ride. Not to mention the dance we’d shared, his warm, firm body pressed against mine. The temperature in the room rose a few degrees, and I fought the urge to fan myself. Okay, seriously, stop.
I grabbed my own cup of tea and tipped it to my lips. I’d decided it tasted better than coffee—especially with a lot of honey added—but I needed to drink twice as much to get enough caffeine. “Also, people think of stopping to answer questions as a waste of time, whereas they don’t equate it the same way online.”
“That’s true,” Will said. “It’s why I find myself filling out so many of those damned which hero/villain/Disney Princess are you quizzes on Facebook before I’m like, what in the bloody hell am I doing?”
“And which Disney Princess are you?” I asked.
A shy grin spread across his face. “Rapunzel. Something about being creative and optimistic and believing in my dreams.”
“I’m Snow White. Gentle and loving to all creatures, empathetic and trusting, sometimes to a fault.” The quiz had warned me to watch for poison apples, but my weakness came in hot guy packages—that was why I needed to catalogue Hudson’s moves, not be naive enough to fall for them.
The key to getting past this part where I was still tempted by delicious-looking guys with smooth lines was to put all of my energy into my article and my future career. With that in mind, I refocused on the task at hand—I had to be across campus in twenty minutes and couldn’t afford to waste time. “We agree online is where it’s at, then?”
Will nodded. “Definitely.”
“Awesome. I’m not sure how to go about setting it up, and I didn’t know if we’d want it tied to the paper, as that might create bias. Plus, it might make it harder for me to keep up my guise as just a sportswriter. None of the hockey players are going to talk to me if they’re pissed at the paper.”
Will slammed down his cup, turned to his computer, and started typing. I assumed that meant he had an idea about how to set up an online survey. “There’s this app where people can share anonymously. People are sorted into groups, so I can find the one for BC and post there. It’ll have a bunch of hits by the end of the day, I guarantee it.”
I scooted closer to try to see what he was doing without crowding his space.
“We won’t be able to track demographics of the students.” He shot me a sideways glance. “Unless we use…thorough means.”
I’d worked long enough at the paper to know that that meant Will would have to use his hacking skills. “Right now I don’t need the demographics. Let’s just focus on trying to find out what people really think.”
“Brilliant,” he said, by which I knew he meant “cool” or “sounds good.” But at the moment, I felt pretty brilliant in the super smart way.
…
The desk in the back corner of the large classroom gave me a good vantage point to observe the interaction between the professor and the hockey players he had in his class. There were three, and I was sure it wasn’t a coincidence.
I spotted Dane Kowalski, head down, his large body nearly dwarfing his desk. Clearly he’s not very involved in the lecture.
Ryder “Ox” Maddox sat next to him—after the party the other night, I’d had to look up his real name, wanting to better put players to their numbers and positions. He also looked like a giant sitting in a little kid’s desk, and at least attempted to stay awake, though his blank stare didn’t imply much engagement in the lecture, either.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I covertly slid it out and glanced at the text.
Will: Check it out.
I clicked the link he’d sent. At first I thought he was just showing me how the survey looked, but then I noticed that quite a few people had already answered.
Me: Awesome. We’re gaining traction.
Will: Check the comments. We’re getting more than traction.
I glanced toward the front of the room. Since the professor looked like he’d be lecturing for a while, I figured I was safe. I scrolled down to the comments. As I began reading them it was clear that we were an online generation, one that felt more comfortable saying exactly what we felt—sometimes to the point of being brutal—from behind a computer.
Athletes are treated like royalty, and when they need it, help is provided for free, if the grades aren’t smudged altogether. I can’t afford my food, rent, or medical bills, but no one cares that I’m in college to become a surgeon.
We work 24/7 on our game to keep it where it needs to be, and on top of that we have to work to keep our grades high enough to play, so we’re doing three times the work as everyone else. So hell yeah we deserve everything we get.
Someone should teach him what 24/7 means. And that while he has to maintain a 2.3 to play, the average for students hoping to get into medical and law school is over 3.4. Not to mention tests like the MCAT for the surgeon hopeful.
Athletes basically have a full-time job on top of going to college. Not only should we get special privileges, we should get paid money to entertain you people.
“Whoa,” I said.
A few students glanced back at me, so I must’ve said it louder than I’d realized. Dane caught my eye, and I froze in place, like that’d keep him from noticing me. He nodded and I nodded back.
After the attention from my outburst died down, I went back to the comments. Did that person seriously think college athletes should be paid a salary? Because they “basically had a full-time job?”
Seriously, cry me a river, because there were other students with full-time jobs who had to earn their grades, no sympathy to their situation because it didn’t involve feeding the school money.
> Right now I was struggling to keep up with classes, studying, and my job. I worried my grades were slipping, my studies neglected in order to prove I could do the job I was studying for, so that someday I could reveal injustices in the world and be the voice of people who couldn’t speak for themselves. What made playing a sport more important? Note the word “playing,” which was much different than “working.”
The “you people” made my blood simmer, too. Yes, I was learning to enjoy hockey, but I’d been to two football games to watch Trevor play when we were together and “entertained” was the last thing I’d call myself during those never-ending games.
I blew out my breath, telling myself to remain calm—this was only the beginning—and then I read the last two comments.
College sports are now more of a business than a “sport.” Face it. Athletes are employees, not students.
By giving athletes special treatment, the administrators and teachers are only perpetuating athletes’ belief that they’re above the rules. It’s unfair, and it’s hurting our society.
Well, I definitely struck a chord. Pride rose up. I’d always wanted to push the boundaries and create a reaction—all good journalists did.
The professor announced the end of class, and several students shot out of their seats and rushed out of the room, their business faces on—us normal people had to get to our next classes on time.
The strap of my bag had somehow looped itself around the leg of my chair, so I bent down, lifted the chair, and wiggled the bag loose. It sent shooting pain through my neck, and now I missed what I’d only thought had been painful. Having to hold my head a certain way was nothing compared to the incessant stabbing that made me scared to move for fear the muscles would snap for good.
When I managed to return to an upright and locked position, Dane stood in the aisle. “Hey, Whitney. I didn’t know you were in this class. I can’t believe I never noticed.”
That’s probably because you were too busy sleeping.
Well, and because I don’t actually have this class, but that’s neither here nor there. “Oh, I’m not in this class.”
The utter confusion that pinched his features nearly made me laugh. Then I realized I needed an excuse. “I just ducked in at the end because I need to talk to the professor. For the paper.”
“Oh. So you do more than sports?”
I gave a non-committal head wobble.
“Well, Professor C’s the best.” Dane leaned in. “If you ever need help with your math classes, let me know. I got the hookup.”
“What kind of hookup?” I asked, doing my best to pull off casual innocence.
“Depends on what you need.” His gaze drifted to the clock at the front of the room. “Shit, I gotta go. Catch you later.”
When he did catch me later, I’d have to see if I could get more information about that hookup, and if it involved cheating or calling in favors. I glanced toward the door where he’d just disappeared.
It was kind of nice for him to offer, though… I mentally scolded myself for being flattered for a couple of traitorous seconds. Cheating was cheating, and unfair was, well, not fair. Being nice didn’t make it okay.
Pushing away all hints of niceness, I let the hard-hitting reporter mask descend, then I walked right up to the professor and said, “I was wondering if you’d like the chance to defend yourself before the truth about how many perks you give the hockey players goes to print.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hudson
“I saw Whitney on campus today,” Dane said as we walked into the weight room. “She was nice to me—you might have some competition.”
A toxic burning churned through my gut, stopping me short. Today and I weren’t getting along as it was, and the last thing I needed was another thing to piss me off.
“Bro, I was kidding. I mean, she was nice to me, but not that nice. You should’ve seen your face, though.”
“Word to the wise? Don’t anger your spotter before you lift, or accidents might happen.”
Dane simply laughed it off, the way he did most everything. He moved over to the bench, slid the weights into place, and then lay back and gripped the bar. Between pumps, he attempted to talk, but it came out all choppy. “So how’s…everything…with…your class?”
His arms shook as he worked on the last few reps, and I gave it a second to see if he’d need me. He pushed the bar home and metal clanked against metal.
“We’ve got a quiz this week, but I’ve been hitting the books hard and I’ve got another study group scheduled, so I’m on top of it.” I hoped so, anyway. If it required any more study time, I didn’t know how I could possibly pull it off, because I could hardly keep up the pace as it was, and neglecting my other classes in favor of statistics meant the rest of my grades would start slipping soon.
“What about things with your mom?” Dane sat up and mopped his face with the bottom of his shirt.
“Same old same,” I said, switching spots. To prove I could take on more, I added weight to the bar before lying back.
“Liar,” Dane said. He waited until I nearly maxed out my reps, then added, “I know something’s up.”
I did two more slow, grueling reps, set the bar in place, and sat up with a sigh. “She’s getting married.” Saying it out loud was a relief in a way, but the anger came fast on its heels, scorching it within seconds and burning through my body.
Dane blinked at me, reconciling whatever he’d been expecting with the news. “Oh. I was worried that she was drinking again. Maybe getting married will help keep her from slip—”
“To Raymond.” I curled my fists tighter. “She’s getting married to Raymond. Day after Christmas.”
Dane clenched his jaw and I realized mine was clenched, too, so tight it ached. “How could she…? Shit, bro.”
“I tried to talk her out of it at first, but, as usual, she won’t listen to me. She claims he’s changed. Not only does she want my support, during one of her guilt-trip phone calls she told me she wants me to walk her down the aisle.”
Another form of manipulation, no doubt. She’d begged me to give Raymond a second chance, even though it’d be more like his hundredth chance. I still remembered the day she’d told me, “Trust me, Hudson, it’s over between us and I’m never going back, I promise.” I’d been so relieved, and then two weeks later I came home from school to find him on the couch like he’d never left.
I didn’t trust her, and I sure as hell didn’t trust him—and I never would. Since I’d refused to take any part in the sham of a wedding, her newest attempt to get me to change my mind involved asking if I’d give her away. Like she’d ever belonged to me in the first place. I was always the complication, the thing that got in her way.
“Punching bag?” Dane asked, jerking his chin toward the hundred-pound one in the corner.
“Yeah.”
We rotated around the room, from bag back to weights, pushing our muscles until our arms and legs felt like wet noodles.
While pushing myself to the limit had helped cool the rage, the irritation and anxiety remained. My mom had told me she’d give me time to think over her request, but that she hoped I knew how important it was to her that I be there for her big day.
Never mind that I thought it would eventually be her downfall. And I wouldn’t be there to pick up the pieces this time. More than once I’d thought I might have to forget school and hockey to keep her sober and on track, but I couldn’t go back. I’d get sucked into the drama, probably end up arrested for assault, and then my life would spiral out of control right along with hers.
At some point, she needed to be the adult, even if her decisions proved she never would.
The messier my thoughts became, the worse my anxiety. I needed a distraction. A blond one who quoted Star Wars and had a laugh that made everything seem like it’d be okay.
Instead of waiting for the next game, or a fortuitous run-in, I decided to take things into my own hands. I’d dropped he
r off the other night, so I knew where she lived. I showered and drove over to her place.
When I walked up the stairs to the second floor, I noticed the cool bite in the air, a sure sign of an oncoming snowstorm—I’d bet money that tomorrow Boston would wake up to a dusting of snow.
Guilt rose, dragging my footsteps down. No more bets. The one I’d made was eating at me enough without adding more to the mix.
I hesitated at the first door, unsure if it’d been this one or the next that Whitney had disappeared into. I eyed the second, decided it was the right one, and then took a couple of large strides over to it and knocked.
A moment later, Whitney answered the door, and I did an internal fist pump that I’d chosen correctly. I flashed her a wide smile. “Hey.”
She frowned at me. “What are you doing here?”
I’d been hoping for a less chilly reception—after the other night, I thought we’d be over the prickly starts to every conversation, but apparently not. Now I was thinking of Dane’s claim that she’d been friendly to him, and the jealousy I’d felt at the mention rose again. Suddenly I wanted to shove through the door and see if she had a guy over, which was three kinds of crazy, I knew.
“Just wanted to swing by. I thought maybe we could grab a bite to eat.” I attempted another smile, but her frown remained in place. She wasn’t wearing her glasses, and despite the grumpy expression and her tired eyes, the intensity of the unimpeded blue called me closer.
“I’m kind of in the middle of something,” she said, glancing back inside again, and I had to force my feet to remain glued to the cement walkway. “And I just ordered a pizza.”
I craned my neck for a peek, afraid my control might snap if she did have company, but unable to help myself. The only thing I saw was a couch and coffee table covered with stacks of paper.
She shoved her hands into my chest, pushing me back from the entryway. “Just…give me a minute.”
Before I could even say, “Okay,” she shut the door in my face. I stuck my hands in my pockets and hiked my shoulders against the cold—my coat was back in my truck, no good to me there, but too far away for me to bother going for it.
