Page 2

LIAM

T he October sun streams through the windows of Kellan's Jeep as we peel out of the arena parking lot, my hair still damp from the quickest shower of my life.

Coach Murphy's words echo in my ears: "Sullivan, get your head out of your ass and into the game!"

Not exactly the pep talk I needed after the most brutal morning practice of the season.

"Dude, you're gonna be late," Kellan says, jerking the wheel to avoid a squirrel with a death wish. "Bennett hates when people are late for interviews."

"I know, I know." I check my phone: 9:41 a.m. Nineteen minutes to sprint across campus. "Murphy just had to make me stay behind for that 'special chat' about my 'attitude problem.'"

"To be fair, you did tell him his drill was about as effective as a chocolate teapot."

"It was!" I scroll through my texts. "Who puts defensemen through figure-eight puck handling when we've got Brampton breathing down our necks next week?"

My phone buzzes with the team group chat.

DEREK

Where's Sullivan? Thought he had that radio thing at 10?

RYAN

Probably still getting his hair perfect. You know how he is.

Says the guy who owns more hair products than my sister

RYAN

It's called self-care, caveman

KELLAN

I've got him. We'll make it. Probably.

"Probably?" I echo, glancing at Kellan.

He shrugs, narrowly missing a bike messenger. "Depends if campus security is watching the faculty lot."

My stomach knots.

I've never been good at the academic side of university life.

That was always Connor's thing—perfect grades, perfect interviews, perfect everything.

Six years later, and I still catch myself wondering what he would do in these situations.

"Hey," Kellan's voice pulls me back. "You'll be fine. It's just some student radio thing, right?"

"Yeah, but Professor Bennett will be there. The journalism guy who wrote that book about sports ethics? Derek says he's got NHL connections."

"The guy who trashed the league's concussion protocols?"

"That's the one." I attempt to flatten my unruly curls in the side mirror. "Apparently he's helping with scout recommendations this year."

Kellan whistles. "No pressure."

"None at all."

My phone buzzes again.

DEREK

My sister starts at that station next week. Don't embarrass me, Sullivan

Since when do you have a sister at UB?

DEREK

Since she transferred this semester. Try to keep up.

RYAN

She's hot. In a scary, intimidating way.

DEREK

Shut it, Martinez

I snort, about to type a response when Kellan slams on the brakes, sending my phone flying.

"Dude!"

"Sorry!" He swerves into the faculty lot. "Some freshman on a longboard came out of nowhere."

I dive for my phone between the seats. "If I break this screen again, my mother will actually murder me."

"Less phone, more running," Kellan says, screeching to a halt. "You've got twelve minutes."

I grab my bag and tumble out of the Jeep, my still-sore muscles protesting. "Thanks for the ride!"

"Knock 'em dead!" Kellan calls. "And tell Wren I'll pick her up at seven!"

"Tell her yourself!" I yell back, already jogging backwards.

"Phone's dead! She's in the library!" He waves before peeling away, leaving me alone with my impending doom.

I take off across the quad, dodging sleepy students clutching coffee cups.

The Journalism building sits on the opposite side of campus, because of course it does.

My phone buzzes again.

RYAN

Coach wants to know where you left his clipboard

Running late. Can't talk

RYAN

He's turning that special shade of purple again

Tell him it's under the bench by my gear

I shove my phone in my pocket and pick up the pace.

The Journalism building comes into view, all ivy-covered brick and pretentious architecture.

Just as I reach the final stretch of lawn, my foot catches something—could be a frisbee, could be a squirrel. Either way, I go down spectacularly, face-planting into the grass.

My bag flies open, scattering protein bar wrappers, hockey tape, and my carefully prepared interview notes across the lawn.

"Nice form, Sullivan!" someone calls. I look up to see Ryan standing nearby, phone raised, definitely recording.

"What the—" I sputter, grass in my mouth. "How are you even here?"

He grins. "Kellan texted. Said you needed moral support." He pans his camera to follow a protein bar wrapper being carried away by the wind. "This is definitely going in the team compilation."

“Have I told you lately how much I really hate you? I scramble to gather my shit. "And you're supposed to be finding Coach's clipboard."

"Already did." Ryan squats beside me, still filming. "Under the bench, like you said. Want to tell the camera what happened at practice?"

"Not if you want to keep your teeth." I snatch my notes from the ground, now decorated with a muddy footprint.

"Touchy, touchy." Ryan helps me collect the last of my scattered belongings. "Nervous about the interview?"

“Hell no,” I huff, stuffing everything back in my bag. "Just don't want to be late."

“Sure you aren’t.” Ryan checks his watch. "Seven minutes, by the way."

"Shit!" I jump up and take off toward the building.

"Break a leg!" Ryan calls after me. "But not literally! We need you for Brampton!"

I dash through the doors, skidding on the polished floor. A stern-looking woman at the front desk raises a single judgmental eyebrow.

"Journalism department?" I pant. “WUB radio?”

"Third floor." She points to a sign that clearly says, 'Journalism Department – 3rd Floor.' "Radio station is in the basement."

"Great, thanks," I mumble, heading for the stairs.

Three flights up, I realize my mistake and curse under my breath.

Back down I go, taking the steps two at a time until I reach the basement level.

9:57 AM. Still time.

I follow signs to "WUbr Radio," my heart pounding more from nerves than exertion now.

The doors to the station are locked, so I press the intercom.

"Name?" crackles a bored voice.

"Liam Sullivan. Hockey team. Interview at ten?"

There's a pause, then a buzz as the door unlocks.

I step into a hallway lined with album covers and broadcasting awards.

At the end sits another reception desk, this one manned by a kid with more piercings than face.

"You the jock?" he asks without looking up from his phone.

"That's... one way to put it."

"Studio Three." He jerks his thumb toward a corridor. "She's waiting."

She?

Nobody mentioned this would be female interviewer.

I smooth my shirt, suddenly conscious of how I must look…

Windblown, grass-stained, and smelling like a combination of aftershave and hockey gear.

I follow the numbers to Studio Three and take a deep breath.

I only have to do three things in the next hour.

Nail this interview. Impress Professor Bennett.

Oh, and don't say anything stupid about the NHL.

Simple enough, right?

I check my reflection in a darkened window, attempt once more to tame my hair, and push open the door.

A woman with chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail sits at the control board, back to me, headphones on as she adjusts levels.

Not what I expected for a sports interview, but who am I to judge?

"Hi, sorry I'm late," I call. "Practice ran over and then I had a close encounter with the quad lawn."

She spins around, and for a split second, an expression of pure panic flashes across her face.

Then it's gone, replaced by a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Perfect timing," she says in a voice that sounds like she's reading from a script. "You must be my new co-host."

Co-host?

Before I can correct her, she's gesturing to the chair opposite hers, pressing buttons, and sliding a pair of headphones toward me.

"We're live in thirty seconds," she says, her smile growing more strained by the moment. "Just follow my lead, okay? It's going to be great."

What the actual?—

"And we're live," she announces, flipping a switch. "Welcome to the premiere episode of 'Love & Logic,' where we explore relationships through research and real-world experience. I'm Piper Olive, and this is my co-host, UB hockey star, Liam Sullivan!"

Love and WHAT?

Her brown eyes lock with mine, pleading and threatening at the same time.

"Liam's going to share his unique perspective on dating in the digital age," she continues. “Aren't you, Liam?"

I start to argue, but something in my interviewer’s expression—desperation wrapped in determination—make me hesitate.

And then I do what I've always done best when caught off-guard.

I grin and play along.

"Can't wait," I say, leaning toward the microphone. "But first, maybe you should tell our listeners what makes you qualified to give relationship advice, Piper?"

Her eyes widen, but her smile doesn't falter.

Game on.