Page 34

ANDY

W AS THAT AN easier class, or am I actually getting stronger? I ask as I pull on my sweater. Emily, Dawn, and I have been attending the early boot camp sessions pretty regularly. Now that it’s too snowy to run outside, it’s a good way to exercise.

It’s you. You’re so full of energy these days. And you’re always in a good mood, says Emily. Are you taking vitamins or something?

Vitamin J, maybe. She’s getting regular injections, says Dawn.

Very funny. Of course, Jack and I are still having amazing sex. But beyond the sex, we have issues. I’m really happy with the way things are. It’s way too soon to talk commitment. Except that’s exactly what Jack wants, which makes me feel guilty. Ugh .

Since I worship at the altar of avoidance, I change the subject even with my girlfriends. Did you ever get together with Tyler Bergstrom, Dawn? For your sculpture class?

Dawn flushes and drops her gaze—for the first time ever. Um, yeah. We met up at the studio and I did a casting of his torso.

When she doesn’t continue, Emily probes, How did it go?

The casting went fine. The sculpture turned out well. Dawn pulls out her phone and shows us a photo of an armless, headless chest.

Wow, Emily says. That looks like a real Greek statue. What’s it made from?

Plaster. I made a mold from his actual body, then cast plaster in that.

It’s odd that she doesn’t say anything else. Dawn usually loves to share all the details of her artistic process.

I peer at her phone. Bergy is more muscular than I expected. Not as built as Jack, of course, who has ruined me for all future boyfriends.

So, the sculpture turned out. But did something else go wrong? Emily presses. We’re both suspicious of how Dawn is reacting.

It’s clear that Dawn is mentally debating whether to put us off or tell the truth. She sighs and settles for the latter.

When you make a cast of someone, you wrap them in plaster cloth—thin sheets of gauze covered in plaster that you wet first. Like what doctors use to make a cast. When the cloth dries and hardens, you cut it off and make a mold from the dried shell.

But first you protect the model’s skin with a layer of cling wrap and Vaseline, especially anywhere with hair.

I did all the steps, but I didn’t use enough Vaseline, so…

Dawn gives us a guilty look.

Well, when I removed the plaster cast, I basically exfoliated Tyler’s chest and underarm hair. And part of his happy trail. She grimaces.

I wince. Ouch. How bad was it?

Beyond all the initial screaming—who ever said hockey players are tough—he’s totally hairless now. I’m pretty sure they’ve been teasing him in the dressing room.

Emily and I collapse into snorts of laughter, but Dawn doesn’t join in.

You haven’t even heard the worst part. I felt so bad that I agreed to go out on a date with him. I’ll probably end up giving him a handie out of guilt. She puts a hand to her forehead. One must suffer for art.

Apparently Bergy did, I say. This explains some of the teasing I’ve heard lately when I’m at Jack’s house. His roommates are like his second family, and I envy him that. Not so much the constant insults though.

Emily and I are still giggling by the time we head off for our classes.

A FTER MY LAST class, I head over to the newspaper office.

Although I avoid going there as a rule, I’ve been trying to maintain more of a presence lately for C.J.

She needs to make connections if she’s going to be a good sports editor next year.

Naturally, Bryce wasn’t happy with my choice for deputy sports editor, but given that she knows so much about hockey, he couldn’t object.

Besides, Bryce has barely spoken to me since I let him down, but that’s a silver lining.

Honestly, he should be happy. The sports section is still humming along.

Margot Ford ended up taking over as opinions editor, and she’s doing a good job so far.

Travis wasn’t happy about being the one without a chair in the game of musical editors, but that was his own fault.

No, to be fair, Bryce created the whole mess—something he could have avoided if I’d stayed the opinions editor in the first place.

Of course, that would also be a life without Jack.

I blush like a silly schoolgirl just thinking about him.

I walk into the newspaper office. Bryce is here, of course. There’s also Jaz Nelson, the deputy editor-in-chief, Margot, Heidi, and a couple of freshmen researchers.

Andy. Exactly the person I need to see, says Bryce by way of greeting.

Really? What’s up? I slide into the seat beside him. He stops working on whatever journalistic pearls he’s polishing and turns to face me.

He’s smirking like a cat that not only ate the canary, but an entire case of Fancy Feast too. Uh oh .

Ah, yes. Our esteemed sports editor. He leans back and tents his fingers together like the supervillain he strives to be.

Andy, something important has come to my attention.

What is it? I ask impatiently.

One essential detail. His dramatic pauses are beyond irritating, but complaining will only prolong this. He’s still smiling. I swallow uneasily.

When I discovered you and Jack Sinclair making out downstairs, you neglected to mention he’s a member of the varsity hockey team. His prim tone sounds like a scandalized Victorian parent.

The newsroom is deadly quiet—nobody is even pretending to work now. The words making out certainly caught everyone’s attention. I’ve taken a ton of crap from Bryce this year, but this is beyond comprehension.

Discovered? We were in the middle of the lobby, Bryce. Besides, how is my personal life any of your business? I manage to keep my voice calm even though I’m furious.

Is he actually your boyfriend? Or just some hookup? Bryce leans back with his arms crossed nonchalantly behind his head. He’s acting as if he doesn’t care what the answer is, but he’s watching me intently.

Are you serious? Are you trying to confirm a story for your new gossip column? I have actual work to do here, so stop wasting my time. I rise, but he motions for me to stay.

The fact that you refuse to answer my question proves you understand the issue perfectly. As the sports editor, you’re in a conflict of interest.

I hiss, You must be joking. My relationship with Jack in no way impacts my reporting. Besides, I’m not even writing the hockey stories, I only edit them.

So it is a relationship, then. Bryce nods slowly. That’s definitely a problem. Aside from the fact that editors have multiple ways to affect the interpretation of a final story, you write profiles on athletes, he says.

And I’ve never written one on Jack. Come on, Bryce, this isn’t the Washington Post , it’s a student newspaper at a small college!

It would be more unusual if we didn’t have connections to anyone in our stories.

My voice rises as I try to keep my anger in check.

This argument makes zero sense. Show me a single example of favouritism in my stories. One.

It’s not the stories per se, rather their priority and positioning. Men’s hockey stories lead off all your sports coverage, he insists.

Unable to remain still, I jump up from my chair. This is insane. You know that hockey—specifically men’s hockey—is the number one sport at Monarch. The men’s hockey stories get the most page reads. Of course I lead with hockey, just like every sports editor in the entire history of the Messenger .

Bryce rises to his feet as well, but maintains his smug composure as we face off. He’s enjoying this.

But perhaps it’s a chicken-and-egg issue. Maybe people read hockey stories because they’re prioritized, he posits.

While you’re accusing me of a men’s hockey bias, have you actually done any kind of analysis?

I’ve added coverage of women’s hockey, as well as other sports that have long been ignored, like wrestling and intramurals.

Compare that to last year’s sports section.

I blink furiously. I absolutely do not want to give Bryce the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

He waves my protests away. I’m sorry, Andy. But, as editor-in-chief, I have to avoid even a hint of impropriety. You really should have come to me as soon as the relationship started so we could deal with the impact. You can’t let our past affect your professionalism.

Our past? I’m not some lovesick ex who avoids Bryce because I still care, I avoid him because I can’t stand him! As if anyone at this newspaper would announce to the EIC that they were in a new relationship because it might impact their reporting.

It’s truth time. I straighten and look Bryce right in his arrogant, smirking face.

“The only person here letting personal feelings affect work decisions is you. You’ve already admitted that you made me the sports editor out of spite over our breakup.

The fact that I succeeded must have been a huge shock for you.

Now you’re punishing me for not taking back the op-ed job when you begged me to clean up the mess you made.

Why are you so obsessed with my personal life? You’ve clearly moved on. I motion towards the spellbound Heidi. When are you going to realize that your petty decisions affect the quality of the newspaper and everything we work so hard to do here?

Bryce’s faint smile is infuriating. My hands are clenched at my sides and my body is almost vibrating with fury.

Andy, be rational here. Let’s say there were rumours of misbehaviour by hockey players. I think sexual assault is their crime of choice, isn’t it?

I can’t let this horrific exaggeration pass. That’s a disgusting thing to say. You can’t judge all hockey players based on a few awful ones.

He waves away my protest again. Fine. Hazing, drug use, whatever. The real question is, would you be able to report on that story? Would you be able to blow the whistle on your boyfriend’s best buddies? Could you handle the blowback from the team afterwards? Tell me the truth.