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ANDY

I ARRANGE FOR the least arrogant of the male volunteers at the Messenger to cover the next home game—subject to my editing, of course.

But I attend anyway, both to watch the game and to carry out my recruiting mission.

Emily is delighted to accompany me again, and screams extra loudly when Jack scores a goal.

Our defence sucked last year, so it’s great to have someone new and good, she declares.

Don’t go all fucking artsy on me, says the short, stocky one, who is clearly in charge. I just want straight-up edits, not seizure-inducing flashes and cuts.

It makes the game more exciting, whines the thin guy with glasses.

Hockey is exciting enough without any doodads.

Exactly my reporting philosophy.

Jacob? I ask.

They both whirl around in surprise.

Yeah? the shorter one acknowledges with suspicion.

I adopt my most charming smile. I’m Andy Robson. We’ve been trading emails.

Recognition dawns, and his lip curls. Oh, you. What part of ‘I’m not interested’ do you not understand? Jacob turns away and motions towards a small room with a couple of monitors. Alex, can you start uploading the game film?

Alex is busy gaping, wrongly categorizing me as some desperate woman with a crush on Jacob. Being the sports editor is a non-stop rollercoaster of humiliation.

But I’m determined. Jacob Johnson is the guy that Mats recommended. After a fruitless email exchange, I’m here to convince him in person.

How did you even find me? he asks.

I sniff. Please. It’s a journalistic skill.

Some might call it stalking, but you do you.

Alex has finally disappeared into the video room, so I switch to the more important topic. You haven’t given me a real reason why you won’t write the game stories.

Look, there must be dozens of students who are dying to cover hockey. He pushes a hand through his thick, dark hair. He looks very unfriendly, but I assume that’s not his natural expression.

Yes, but they’ll all churn out the same kind of pieces. I’d like to upgrade the hockey coverage, and you are exactly the right person for that.

I’ve done all the reading that Jack and Mats suggested and found sports stories that are funny, educational, inspiring—so much better than I expected sports stories to be.

Now I have a real goal: to elevate our sports coverage at the Messenger .

Sure, I could find someone on staff who can cover hockey as it’s always been done.

But Jacob helps with stats and game film for the Mustangs, so he understands the minutiae of the game.

He even knows hockey analytics, which I’ve learned are statistical insights.

Jacob scowls. How can you say that? You’ve never even seen anything I’ve written.

It’s not about writing, it’s about knowledge.

You understand hockey analytics and you have access to game films. Anything you write will be far more insightful than any regular reporter.

I follow him to the entrance of the video room.

Besides, Mats said you’ve always wanted to be a sports reporter. So, explain why you won’t at least try.

I don’t want to be a sports writer for ye olde newspaper. I was thinking video, like everyone else who’s not still living in the nineteenth century, he snaps.

Oh, burn, I say. Well, you can join the Monarch College television station. Oh, wait, it doesn’t exist.

Of course, we do have people producing videos for the college social media accounts, but those jobs only go to people who are highly photogenic and typically Minnesotan. Neither Jacob nor I could make the cut.

Jacob acts disinterested as he rifles through equipment, but I can tell he’s tempted. Another valuable journalistic skill is being able to distinguish a hard no from one that calls for more persuasion.

He lowers his voice. Okay, I’m not sure why Mats didn’t tell you this part, but…I’m not a good writer. He studies the floor as if our shoes are fascinating.

Don’t worry. I’m an excellent editor. If you get the hockey part right, I can do the rest.

Instead of looking relieved, Jacob scowls at me. Oh, for fuck’s sake, I can’t do it. I’m dyslexic.

Oh, this explains why he’s so prickly. Obviously he’s sensitive about this, so I tread gently. Well, how does your dyslexia manifest?

My dyslexia manifests … he mimics my voice sarcastically, …in my inability to write anything half-decent. I can’t spell and my grammar sucks.

Thus his curt emails. You don’t seem to have any trouble telling me off with perfect grammar.

Duh. That’s because we’re talking. So, can you fuck off now, so I can get to work? He motions into the video room where Alex has the game frozen on the screen. He’s definitely eavesdropping.

Could you dictate the stories to me? Either on the phone, or via an app? I ask.

At least he doesn’t reject this solution immediately. I watch over his shoulder as Alex replays Jack’s goal, and I can see his delighted celebration over and over. Finally, Jacob asks gruffly, Why would you go to all that trouble for me?

It’s not that much trouble. I’d have to edit your story anyway, and I’m a fast typist. And I’m doing it because you’d be a fresh voice who would make our hockey coverage more insightful.

You’re a real pain in the ass, you know? But he gives me his first smile. Well, the corners of his mouth lift a little anyway. I’m counting it.

Okay, we can give it a try. But if it doesn’t work out, you’ll have to accept my decision.

I clap my hands. Yes! It will work out.

At minimum it will be much better than anything I could write. Bryce has been leading off the editorial meetings with a list of sports coverage problems, and it’s really getting stale. Criticizing me seems to be his new hobby, and I hate it.

One more thing. You have to put both our names on the stories, Jacob says.

All stories get edited. Why not take the glory? I ask.

Yeah, well, I get special accommodations when I write exams. How would I explain to my TAs that I’m suddenly the star sports reporter for the Messenger ?

I laugh merrily. I’m elated at getting Jacob on board. He’s the first step in my plan for an improved sports section. We decide that he’ll start with tomorrow night’s game in Duluth and make all the arrangements.

Looking forward to working with you, I say.

Of course you are. Jacob’s surly overconfidence is restored. But I suspect he’s pleased too.

As I’m making my way down the hallway, I can hear grunts and curses from the weight and exercise room. Although I may be the only woman on campus to say this, I’ve already seen enough undressed hockey players for a lifetime, so I speed up as I pass the door.

Andy! Hey, Andy, a cheery voice booms.

I sigh and walk backwards until I can see inside. Jack is beckoning enthusiastically. How come the person who played an entire hockey game has more energy than the person who sat in the stands and ate stale popcorn?

I’m only two inches into the room when I’m hit by the stench. The dressing room was bad, but sweaty hockey players in an even smaller space? Yikes. I breathe through my mouth and weave my way through the various machines. To my surprise, a few guys nod at me. Maybe my first story has been forgiven?

Jack’s perched on a stationary bike. He’s wearing a Monarch Hockey T-shirt, shorts, and running shoes.

His long, tanned legs are pedalling furiously.

The damp fabric of his shirt clings to his broad chest. His glistening face strains with the physical effort.

Is this what his face looks like during sex?

My breath catches and I flush pink—where did that thought come from?

What are you doing here? he asks with his usual enthusiasm. Even though I said we were all even, he seems to believe he still owes me help. He’s been messaging me with all kinds of hockey info: sites to check out, videos to watch, random bits of team gossip.

I came to see Jacob about doing the game stories, I say.

The smile fades from his face. Oh. So you won’t be covering us anymore? He must be the only person in the entire college who wants me to continue doing this.

I’ll still attend some games, I offer. It must be Jack’s hangdog expression that causes this promise to come out of my mouth. I act out of character whenever he’s around.

Oh, that’s great. Did you see my goal tonight?

I’m distracted by a bead of sweat travelling over the unshaven bristle on his chin, then I snap to attention. Oh, of course. Congratulations, I say.

He gives me a cocky grin. It was the game winner.

Really? How does that work?

My goal was the third one, so if the game ended and the score was 3-2, we still would have won. The fourth goal is like a bonus. Jack is endlessly patient with my lack of hockey knowledge.

Too bad you don’t get to interview me about it, he adds.

Truly a shame. But he looks so disappointed, I relent. I pull out my phone and extend it to him. Let’s pretend. Well, Jack, tell me about your goal tonight.

He slows his frantic cycling and leans closer.

A drop of Jack-sweat hits my wrist and I shiver.

When he speaks, his tone is serious and his voice even deeper than usual.

I’m happy to contribute to the team in any way I can.

Back in junior, I was an offensive defenceman, so I’m hoping to be the same here. But whatever the coaches want, I’ll do.

My serious reporter facade cracks as I start giggling. Well done. You make the perfect humble hockey player. I’ve watched enough boring interviews by now to spot the stereotype. I slip my phone back into my bag.

Jack resumes cycling and watches me. Did my goal impress you? Even a little?

Of course. And I was happy for you. You looked so excited.

After Jack scored, he raised his arm in celebration before he was mobbed by his teammates.

But I hadn’t seen the joy on his face until I watched Alex’s video replays.

Jack seems like a happy person, but playing hockey well raises him to another level.