Page 17

ANDY

H APPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR Candace. Happy Birthday to youuuuu, we all sing in various keys. Candace winces at our lack of musical talent, then blows out the candles on her chocolate layer cake. Joy, Candace’s girlfriend, starts passing out slices.

This cake is really good, Dawn says. Joy beams. She shopped, decorated, baked, and herded us all here. It’s a sure sign of her devotion.

I can give you the recipe if you want, she offers.

You’d have to give me your baking skills too, Dawn replies. Give it to Andy instead, then she’ll have to make it for my birthday.

Baking is all about following instructions exactly. Which is not Dawn’s forte, I explain.

You two are so well matched, Joy says. Too bad you’re not into each other.

This party is half made up of Joy and Candace’s lesbian friends, so there’s a low-key sexual vibe that most girls’ nights don’t have. Still, the female energy is welcome after all my time either hanging out with the men’s hockey team or editing articles about them.

I’m here to celebrate Candace’s birthday, of course.

But I also have a couple of ulterior motives, since most of the women’s hockey team is here.

First, to talk to Ella Smith, the player who fractured her leg last season.

I’m hoping she’ll agree to be the subject of my first athlete profile.

Second, I’m hoping to find someone to cover the women’s hockey games.

The women’s team has already been appreciative of our rudimentary game summaries, since they had almost no coverage last year.

Apparently, Title IX doesn’t apply to newspaper sports sections.

But I want more. Maybe I won’t find someone like Jacob, but there has to be someone who can do more than simply list the goals and assists.

So, I leave Dawn to go do some mingling. Now that I have a better knowledge of hockey, it’s easier to make conversation with jocks of all genders.

Hey, are you Andy Robson? The sports editor? asks a smiling woman with short blonde hair and red-framed glasses.

Depends on whether you have a complaint about the Messenger or not. It’s possible I’m still scarred from the comment sections of my first hockey stories.

Her laugh is infectious. The opposite, actually. I’m really enjoying the new sports section, and I wanted to toss bouquets at you.

I raise beckoning palms. Then I am Andy. Toss away.

I love everything about it. I can’t believe that I care about the wrestling team now! Turns out that the heavyweight guy is in my creative writing class. She extends a hand. I’m C.J. Baker, by the way.

I shake her hand. Nice to meet you. What’s your connection to Candace? I ask.

Oh, I do social media for the women’s hockey team.

Then I’m a fan of yours too. The women’s hockey team posts videos that highlight players or upcoming games. It’s more educational than amusing, but that’s exactly what I need.

She scrunches up her nose. You may be the only one. I’m getting hammered for not being fun or going viral. In fact, I’m losing my job to a freshman who has more social media clout.

Whoa, that seems unnecessarily cruel. Why would they dump someone who’s passionate about the team?

She sighs. Okay, I’m exaggerating. It was actually my idea to replace myself, since I was only racking up about nineteen views on a YouTube post. That means not even the whole team watched. She throws her head back as she laughs. I like this woman. Time to make my move.

So, creative writing? That means you can write well? I ask.

Not according to my prof. But my mom thinks so, she jokes.

I’m looking for someone to cover the women’s games for the Messenger . Is that something that would interest you? Normally I wouldn’t ask without at least seeing a sample of her writing, but C.J. is giving me great vibes. I assume you have a good knowledge of hockey.

She nods. My tender bonding years were spent with my father, the hockey fanatic. I even played hockey—not at the level of the women here, but I still play rec.

I cross my fingers behind my back. Are you interested?

C.J. nods. Very. But don’t you want to make sure I can at least spell forecheck ?

If she only knew that the men’s hockey reporter can’t spell at all. It’s not spelling I’m worried about, I want the stories to have more oomph. More detail about players, opponents, standings, stakes.

I’m ready to give it a try. But, as I mentioned, I’m not good at being entertaining. See my failed influencer career. She grimaces.

It’s hard to believe that someone with a great sense of humour like yours isn’t funny.

And, to let you in on a little secret, as a writer, you get time to think up amusing tidbits you can insert.

It’s not like video, where you have to do it all on the spot.

Plus, you get an editor: me. We can give it a trial, and then you can decide.

Andy, this is awesome.

She wraps me in an unexpected hug. I have to tell you, I’ve always wanted to work at the Messenger .

I went in to check it out in my freshman year.

But all I know is hockey, and the sports editor at the time told me that he already had enough hockey staff.

As a bonus, he said nobody was interested in reading about women’s hockey.

So, I gave up and got involved with the hockey team directly.

I groan. The sexist lunkhead she spoke to could have been any of our sports editors.

Okay, full disclosure. I’m not an expert in hockey or any other sport.

The whole reason I’m the sports editor is a cautionary tale.

If you join me, we’ll be the staff pariahs, so don’t expect bonding at the office Christmas party.

But I am a good editor, and I’m determined to make the sports coverage better and more extensive than it’s been before.

A new idea occurs to me. If C.J. works out, she could become my deputy sports editor. That position hasn’t been filled yet, so there’s nobody in training to be next year’s editor. Two female editors in a row? I feel like cackling and rubbing my hands together.

C.J. is practically hopping with excitement. That’s all fine. I’m so excited about this! And being a Messenger reporter will look great on my résumé, she says.

Not as good as deputy sports editor , I think. But I keep that to myself for now. We exchange contact info, and I promise to send her more details tomorrow.

Since I’m on a roll, I go over and talk to Ella. She’s very modest and can’t believe she’s interesting enough to rate a profile, but agrees to an interview. She’ll be very inspiring to anyone who has had to recover after a physical setback, and I can’t wait to chat more.

After fulfilling the business requirements of my night, I’m free to relax. I plop down beside Dawn and decide to unload the 6’3” problem that’s been weighing on my mind.

I try sound casual. Hypothetically speaking, what would you think if I went out with someone I swore I’d never date?

She crosses her arms. I’d lock you in your room until you came to your senses.

Uh oh . Usually Dawn is the first person to urge me to get back out there.

Her eyes narrow. You said no takebacks. And after the way he’s messed with you about the sports editor thing, I can’t believe you’re even giving Bryce the time of day.

Bryce? Euw! I would never go out with Bryce again. I meant Jack Sinclair. I didn’t realize how extensive the list of guys I’d never date was. Also, I’ve blown my whole hypothetical ruse.

Now Dawn lights up. The naked hockey hunk? Woohoo! She waves her arms like she’s at a gospel church, then calls out, Emily, get over here.

Emily rushes over and perches unsteadily on the arm of the couch, thanks to Senor Tequila. What up, chicas?

Andy’s finally going to go out with Jack. So, you win, Dawn says.

I scowl at the two of them. You guys are betting on my love life? That’s terrible.

It’s not exactly a bet, it’s more of a pool, Dawn explains. We both knew it was going to happen, the only question was when you were going to give in.

Come to your senses, more like. How have you spent so much time with him and not noticed his… Emily motions like she’s trying to pull words from the air. Complete and total sexiness?

I shake my head. That’s going overboard. Boyish charm, maybe. But then I’m back in the gym, staring at Jack’s sweat-soaked T-shirt outlining a sculpted chest and hard abs.

T-shirt? Heck, I’ve seen that torso in its full maple leaf—inked glory.

So, when did he ask you out? Dawn prods.

The first time? The day after we met, I confess.

You mean that time I met him at the Student Union? Dawn asks. I knew he was into you. But you were all, ‘Oh no, not a jock.’

Yes, he asked me out when he came by to collect his stuff. But I turned him down.

Emily gawks at me. Why?

Obviously, he’s attractive in a physical sense, I begin.

Dawn snort-laughs. No, really? What alerted you? Was it the broad shoulders, the squared jaw, the flowing locks? Or perhaps that spectacular ass? Wasn’t he naked when you first met him? There’s no way you couldn’t have noticed.

He’s gorgeous. Imagine dating Jack Sinclair. Emily closes her eyes and lets out a luxurious sigh. Seriously Andy, how have you resisted hitting that?

I lean back into the couch. Well, at first, I didn’t like him. No sane woman would date a guy who is a huge player.

Then there are many insane women on this campus, Dawn concludes.

And that’s another strike against him. Every time we’ve been out somewhere, women have hit on him.

I recall the phone number scrawled on his arm, the women sending over drinks at the pub, the fans hanging around after games.

Which only made me question Jack’s motives further.

Why would Jack like me—out of everyone on campus?

How did he change your mind, then? Dawn asks.