Callie had merely accepted the challenge before her and gone back to work. It was something Max hadn’t quite been able to do in her life, no matter how much she’d tried. What sort of inner fortitude did this woman possess that she lacked?
Callie felt Max’s gaze on her as surely as she felt the ice under her feet. She was used to throwing pressure shots with the game on the line. There was no reason for the indifferent inspection of a single bystander to throw her off, and yet the hair on the back of her neck stood on end when Max watched her. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. Turning around, she asked, “Do you have any questions?”
Max stiffened as if the question had caught her by surprise, and Callie checked her tone.
“I mean, if you want to hover over there like a stalker while I work, that’s fine, too, but I can talk and practice at the same time.”
“With an offer like that, how could a girl refuse?”
Callie shook her head but fought a smile. Maybe Max just possessed a sardonic sense of humor.
“Where’s the rest of your team?”
“Layla will be here later. Ella and Brooke are only here on Sundays and occasionally Wednesday if we have an event coming up.”
“They only practice twice a week?”
“No.” She shot back quickly, a natural defense against the scorn building in Max’s voice again. “We only practice together twice a week.”
“Why?”
“Brooke lives in Rochester. Ella’s a little farther away, and honestly that’s closer than most elite curling teams. Most of them only get to practice together around major tournaments.”
Max’s brow furrowed.
“We make do with what we have,” Callie said, trying to cut off another insult before it could be delivered. “Curling’s not like most team sports. We don’t pass to each other like basketball or football. Our team works because everyone on it plays their own part to perfection, and we can each practice our parts at our own clubs.”
“So, you just do this by yourself day in and day out?”
Callie nodded. “At least an hour every day, plus I generally work out with Layla off the ice every day, and on the ice three to four times a week. I also play in two different pickup leagues.”
Max grinned. “I bet the poor local dudes love to show up to their beer league and see a professional across the ice from them.”
Callie smiled at the second joke in that many minutes. “Yeah, they call me a ballbuster, but I suspect some of them secretly like having their asses handed to them by a girl they can’t have.”
“Wow.” Max’s eyes lit up a little. “That’s some edgy psychology there, Doc.”
She shrugged. “I call the shots. It’s my job, and the title is ‘Skip,’ not ‘Doc.’”
“Skip,” Max repeated, as if committing that tidbit to memory so she could use it later.
The silence fell between them again as Callie reset her stones and launched another shot. She managed to take out both of the stationary stones again, but still finished about two inches from the center of the button. It wasn’t off by much. Most people would have called it a perfect shot, but she thought she could probably do a smidge better, and in curling sometimes a smidge made all the difference.
“What about you?” she asked, as she moved her foot to put the red rocks she used as targets back into place. It actually would be nice if Max helped with this job. It didn’t exactly take any great skill to slide stones into place, but she knew better than to ask her to step back onto the ice. “What’s your title?”
“Right now? I guess I’m a sports reporter,” Max said, as if she wasn’t at all sure of that.
Callie straightened her shoulders, bracing for an argument about the legitimacy of curling as a sport, but when she met Max’s eyes, she saw more doubt there than she’d expected.
“I used to call myself a journalist,” Max continued slowly. “I could be an on-air personality or broadcaster at some points, too. Probably will hit that target on this assignment, along with some blogging, and multiple kinds of commentary.”
“Which do you prefer?”
She shrugged and looked away as if she wouldn’t answer, and Callie felt a prick of disappointment. She didn’t know why she wanted to hear the answer, but she did. She’d almost given up hope, though, by the time Max finally spoke.
“I like big, comprehensive pieces,” she said slowly. “I cut my teeth on reporting scores and doing play-by-play, but I prefer the intersection of human interest stories and epic battles in the physical arena.”
“Like during the Olympics, when they run the five-minute features on who the athletes are and what they had to overcome to get to the podium?”
“Yes,” Max said, more quickly this time. “I did a bunch of those in Rio, and I had a blast, but they’re never long enough to really get under the skin. I’m talking about really studying athletes. What drives them? What pushes them to break their bodies in pursuit of near superhuman performance? I love the thrill of finding that fulcrum point in a life or a season or a game when a person has to either crumble or willingly bear the mantle of a near impossibility.”
Callie nodded, spellbound, as Max came to life in front of her. Her eyes changed, her voice changed, her entire body language changed. It was almost as if she was pulling from the qualities she spoke of seeking. Callie didn’t doubt she was an amazing storyteller.
“I mean, I’m sure you don’t see much of it in curling, but I’ve watched the way sports teams or performances can lift an entire region.”
Callie’s mouth twitched a bit at the curling dig, but she didn’t want Max to stop talking. She liked this side of her. She could identify with it.
“I did a cover story for Rolling Stone last year about Elise Brandeis and Corey LaCroix, who came out as both gay and a couple at the Olympics two years ago.”
Callie nodded at the now household names of America’s favorite skier and snowboarder. “That’s a big story.”
“It was, and everyone was telling it from the same cutesy angle, but there were all these different layers of grit and fear and physical pain and personality clashes that went deeper than hers-and-hers gold medals. I had almost a whole ten pages to dive in. Few places let you go that deep as a sportswriter.”
“So, you like long articles better than the short video interludes?”
“I’d like not being forced to choose. I’d love to use every tool at my disposal to tell a truly multifaceted story, like a great sports documentary. That’d be the dream.”
“You could do that here,” Callie said, more out of a desire to see Max thrive than out of any self-interest.
Max snorted softly.
“What? You’ll have the time. You’ve got months, and the better part of a season to construct a narrative.”
“But I’m not sure curling can give me the gripping content I’m looking for. I need a sport with enough drama and heartbreak to inspire people from outside that circle to be better humans.”
“I’d think that if you were a good enough reporter, you could find a way to convey the humanity of anyone who was actually human.”
One corner of Max’s mouth curled up, and she glanced over her shoulder to the dry-erase board. “That sounds like a challenge, Skip.”
She hadn’t meant it that way at all, but she didn’t hate the hint of a thrill in Max’s tone. Instead of transitioning back into her numbness, she seemed to be sparking her stubborn defiance into something close to a more engaged bravado. Callie couldn’t help but get swept up in the undercurrent of excitement as Max met her eyes once more and said, “You make good on your challenge, and I promise I’ll make good on mine.”
Chapter Five
“So, how’s the reception at the curling club since your last piece came out?” Flip asked, his voice pouring through the speakers of Max’s rented Subaru as she merged onto the highway heading out of Buffalo.
“It’s, pardon the pun, ‘icy,’” she admitted, but didn’t go
into any details.
“You better find a way to heat it up, because it’s been two weeks since I’ve seen anything new from you.”
“I’m working on it. I’ve been to practice every day this week.”
“How’s the team?”
“They’re . . . working hard.” She made the vaguest statement possible because she didn’t want to admit she hadn’t actually seen the team function together. She’d watched Callie frequently and had observed a joint workout with her and Layla, but this afternoon would be her first session with the whole team. She felt a twinge of nerves when remembering how “well” it had gone the last time she’d tried to approach anyone else at the club.
When she didn’t elaborate further, Flip tried a different angle. “And what about you? How hard are you working?”
“Did you call me to bust my ass?”
“Yeah,” he said, without a hint of guilt in his tone. “I went out on a limb for you on this job, and so far all I’ve got is one humor piece mocking the people I sent you to work with, nearly two weeks ago.”
“I didn’t know we were running a paper mill here. I’m getting acclimated to a sport most Americans know nothing about and have no interest in watching. It’s not exactly an easy sell. You need to give me a little time.”
“You’ve had a little time, but it’s running out, which is why I’m busting your ass right now. Our first TV coverage of the season is next Saturday. I have a cameraman arriving in Nova Scotia on Thursday to start shooting filler, and right now I have no advance press from you. None.”
Panic rose in her chest, amplified by the doubt in his tone. She’d been aware she was pushing the deadline, but she hadn’t let herself think about the full implications of not seeing something through. She’d already mucked up her career beyond recognition. If she got fired from covering curling, she’d be done. She would probably also take Flip down with her if what he’d said about going out on a limb for her was true.
“I’ll get you a couple of blogs by Wednesday,” she said resolutely. “You can have them online at the start of the tournament, and then we’ll film a few short vignettes to have on air by the weekend when we go live with coverage. You can have your play-by-play man cut to me on the sidelines if you need to.”
Flip groaned, and she heard a dull thud like his head might have hit the desk.
“What?”
“You are my play-by-play man . . . or woman, or reporter. I can’t cut to you because you will be on the screen. Did you even read the damn contract?”
“I skimmed it.”
“Did you make it to the part that says whenever the team you’re covering is playing, you do the broadcast?”
“Yeah, but like color commentary.”
“This isn’t the big leagues anymore. We can’t even guarantee a two-person broadcast. It’ll just depend on who your team is playing.”
Her stomach roiled now as she took the exit toward the curling club, her foot a little heavier on the gas pedal than it had been moments before.
“If you can’t handle this, you need to tell me now so we can replace you.”
All the air left her lungs in a silent sob at the words “replace you,” and she bit back the emotion threatening to explode out of her again. She was not replaceable. She wouldn’t let herself be, not now, not again. “I’ll get the work done. Email me the specs on what you need and when. I will not miss the deadline.”
“Yeah, but what about—”
“I’m at the club. Email or call later, but let me do my damn job right now.”
“Fine—”
She’d heard enough and pressed the end-call button on her dash, then skidded to a stop in the gravel lot. Practically sprinting down the alley, she threw open the door and crossed the lounge in three strides, then pushed through into the ice area with so much force the door hit the wall with a clatter. People turned to stare at her, but she didn’t have enough chill to act chagrined. She looked past all of them, searching for Callie, finally spotting her at the far end of the closest sheet of ice.
She stood stock still and straight in the middle of the rings with her broom out in front of her, hazel eyes wide in surprise.
Staying on the solid platform, Max skirted the ice until she stood only a few feet away from her. “Hey, what are you doing for practice today?”
“Well, hello to you, too, Max.”
She rolled her eyes. She didn’t have time for pleasantries. Her mind had already slipped into work mode, and she needed an angle. “This is a full team practice. You’re the boss, right?”
“I’m the ‘skip,’” Callie corrected. “I call the shots for the other three players on my team. That doesn’t make me their boss, though—more like a leader.”
“But you don’t play lead.”
Callie laughed lightly. “I’d never thought of that before. I’m the leader to my lead.”
Max didn’t find the wordplay nearly as clever as Callie seemed to.
“But Brooke calls the shots for me,” Callie continued. “She’s my vice.”
“Vice,” Max repeated. “Vice like sin? Vise like the grip? There’s a play there.”
“Vice as in vice-skipper, like vice president.”
She frowned. Not nearly as interesting.
“But vise like the grip might be relevant today,” Callie said jovially.
“Why?”
“Because here she comes, and she’s not happy with either of us.”
She turned just as Brooke slid to a stop less than a foot away, her long, stick-straight black hair still stirring on the breeze of her approach. “What’s the problem, Skip?”
“I was just explaining our positions to Max. Have you two met?”
Brooke shook her head. “Nor do we need to do introductions in the middle of a simulation.”
Callie shrugged and turned to Max. “She’s not wrong. We’ll talk later.”
Then, before she could stop her, Callie scooted off down the ice.
Max made a move to follow, but Brooke shot out an arm to block her. She opened her mouth to argue, but when she met the dark, defiant eyes staring back at her, she closed it again, finally understanding Callie’s comment about “vise grip.” Stepping back, she decided that perhaps quiet observation might not be the worst tactic.
There were more rocks in the rings than she’d ever seen before, and a few out in front of them, too. Both red and blue handles were equally represented, and they were scattered more than clustered. All good observations, but what did it mean?
She heard a low rumble like a far-off jet engine, a sound she’d come to recognize as a rock sliding toward her. Callie had released a red one, arcing it around the ones out front of the rings, but it was losing speed.
“Yep, yep,” Brooke called, and two women with brooms pounced in a scrubbing frenzy.
“Get it there, get it there,” Brooke encouraged. “Hard.”
The rock curved more and more as it entered the rings before finally spinning to a spot on the second biggest circle.
Brooke threw a big thumbs-up in Callie’s direction, and the two sweepers headed back down the ice without so much as a glance toward Max.
“So, that was a good shot?” she asked to Brooke’s back. She got about as much response as she expected, as in none. Instead, the vice plucked a blue stone and placed it right up next to Callie’s and walked back to position.
“Simulation,” she whispered, remembering what Callie had said. They were placing the other team’s rocks in hard positions and trying to work around them. The thought piqued her interest. There weren’t many sports where you could actually simulate a scenario better on your own than with an actual opponent. She gave Callie a nod of respect as she threw again.
This time the rock followed much the same line, but a tick faster.
“Gotta curl,” Brooke called, then glanced down at a stopwatch in her hand. “It’s hot.”
The sweepers seemed to understand what those cues meant and stayed full
y upright as they walked along beside it.
“Cleared the guard,” Layla said, in another term Max didn’t understand.
“Curl, baby, curl,” Brooke urged, but the rock remained neutral to her pleas, only bending back toward the rings slightly.
Ella shook her head. “Not enough.”
“It might get there,” Layla said hopefully.
“Naw, let it go,” Brooke instructed, as the rock slowed, then spun itself out a solid foot from where Callie’s first rock sat.
“Sorry,” Callie said, and Max startled to see her so close all of a sudden. She’d been so focused on the rock’s trajectory she hadn’t even noticed her approach. “Want to go again?”
“I just don’t think a little tick is going to do it here,” Brooke said, holding up her stopwatch as some sort of evidence. “You have to lose too much to get around the guard.”
All four women stared down at the rocks for a few seconds.
“Push back?” Callie finally asked.
“Split the guards?”
“Or try to drive ours through.”
Brooke frowned. “Tough angle.”
“That’s why we practice.” Callie turned and glided away, while the others shook their heads.
“What’s a guard?” Max asked.
No one answered.
“Seriously?” she asked a little louder. “Not even a vocab lesson?”
“We’re a little busy here,” Layla said without looking up.
“Can you at least tell me if a pushback means you’re going to try to hit one of the rocks out of the middle?”
“No,” Ella said and walked away.
“No as in you won’t tell me, or no as in that’s not the play?”
Again, no answer as everyone assumed their previous position.
Max’s frustration rose. She was used to a general distrust in the press, and she understood all too well why someone might not want to bare their soul to her, but stonewalling a legitimate network contact in an official setting and capacity was unheard of. No one on the ice seemed to have the slightest clue how to be a professional athlete, and she thought about telling them that, but then she remembered the article stuck to the dry-erase board behind her. Maybe she needed a new tactic if this was the result her goading had yielded.
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