Page 20 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Claire

S lipping my phone into my bag, I step into the Wolford Administration building.

My co-workers love me, but if Barb and Linda caught me scrolling or texting, I would no longer be the darling of the Campus Life Office.

I’m not a pick-me in any way, shape, or form.

I’ve never thrived on other people’s admiration or sought their acceptance.

Until Barb and Linda.

They’re both in their early sixties and counting down the days until retirement.

Seriously. There’s a countdown calendar in the breakroom featuring naked men and strategically placed sticky notes.

These two are more cynical than I can ever hope to be, and I love them for it.

They know everything because they have done everything, and they are over everyone’s bullshit. Except mine. They love my bullshit.

They also love that I’m ten minutes early every day and that I’m not afraid of the telephone like most people my age.

I stroll past Linda’s empty desk to stow my bag in the bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets.

This is my first day back on the job since classes ended last semester and the office looks completely different than it did a month ago.

Gone are the motorized reindeer and the twinkle lights.

Plaid bows and festive wreaths have been stored in plastic bins until next December arrives.

The office isn’t completely bare, though.

Barb may have said goodbye to her Santa collection, but her army of snowmen is here to usher in the new year.

“Claire!” Barb’s voice radiates excitement as she turns in her office chair and slides her readers down her nose to get a good look at me.

“How was Florida? Did you get a tan? Did you really get to swim with the dolphins? I’ve always wanted to do that, but my Roy hates the beach.

He says it’s too sandy. Can you imagine? ”

I strike a quick pose, showing off my bronze-y glow.

“Florida was great,” I say. To my credit, I don’t elaborate and tell her that the best part by far was all the sex I had with Bainbridge Hockey’s burly defenseman.

Barb’s a progressive gal, but I think she’d draw the line at hearing all the sexy details.

Either that, or she’d set her sights on Pete. Poor Roy would never recover.

Logging into the computer at the back of the office, I pull up my schedule for the day as Linda strolls in, a coffee carrier from Drip clutched in her right hand.

“There’s our girl,” she says, beaming. My heart grows half a size because I know that the list of people who bring a smile to Linda’s face is a very short one, and I’m honored to be on that select list.

She hands me a cookies’ncreme-ucino and I take it gratefully. “What’s this for?” I ask, before taking a sip.

“You’re back,” Barb says, smiling, just as Linda crows, “And that means Stephen is gone!”

I nod in understanding. Stephen is a grad student who also works in Academic Affairs and covers for me when I’m on break. He’s allergic to phone calls and takes breaks that are longer than his allotted ten minutes, so he is no one’s favorite.

“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip. “I missed you ladies. I had fun at Marine World, but it’s good to be back.”

I’m sure they’re going to ask to see pictures, but Kathy’s phone rings just as the door opens and a flustered-looking freshman wanders in, so I turn to my computer to get started on my task list.

I’ve been working at the Campus Life Office since the beginning of freshman year.

This work study supplements what my scholarship doesn’t.

I started out helping with clerical tasks, but when the ladies saw some pictures I took over fall break that year, my duties changed.

My primary job in this office is to take photos for campus events and promotional materials.

I cover events for the paper, too, but this job is a little broader.

On the docket today is a new set of photo IDs for the daytime maintenance staff and a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the library.

An alum donated funds to recarpet half the library, so there’s a small ceremony.

That’s in two hours, so I’ll be able to get both jobs done today.

I have to make and remake IDs often enough that we’ve set up a little photo booth in the rear corner of the office. My first appointment starts in ten minutes, so I sip my coffee while I wait for the staff members to arrive.

I am so tempted to reach into the filing cabinet and steal a glance at my phone. I’m antsy, and this coffee isn’t doing anything to calm my nerves. Go figure. My date with Russ is tonight, but that’s not what has my blood pumping overtime.

The latest issue of The Howler drops this afternoon and I’m anxious to see how my article lands.

I was critical, but fair. I wrote my honest opinion and backed every detail up with facts.

I’m fully aware that this article is going to piss a lot of people off, but I hope it wakes a lot of people up, too.

Andy, my editor, was hesitant to run it, but he caved because I don’t back down to cowards.

He’s worried about backlash, but I’m not.

The truth needs to be told and if people don’t like what I’m saying, they should spend some time reflecting on why that is.

I know my expose on the marine bio minimester is solid journalism, and I’m proud of it.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because a line has started to form outside our office.

I’m swamped for the next hour and a half.

By the time the last badge is handed out, I have to hustle over to my next gig.

I clean up my space, put all the supplies back where I found them—there’s a reason I’m the favorite around here—and wave a quick goodbye to Barb and Linda before heading toward the library.

My phone buzzes as I pull it from the depths of my bag. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but when I see Andy’s name, I swipe to receive the call.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“On my way to take some photos for my work study. What’s up?”

“You’re walking across campus now?” he asks.

Good Lord. His deductive skills need work if he’s going to make it as a reporter. “Yep,” I reply.

“Has anyone started chasing you with pitchforks yet?”

“The article dropped, huh?” I ask, before taking an exaggerated look around, as though he can see me. “Nope. Not yet.”

“Well, be on the lookout. There’s a post up on the WolfWire and the comment section is not kind.”

“That’s odd,” I quip. “Comment sections are known for being heartwarming and life-affirming. ”

“I’m just saying, brace yourself. We could get some serious flak for this.”

“We’re journalists, Andy,” I remind him. “Flak is part of the territory. My reporting was fair and responsible. Now did you call to be the prophet of doom, or do you need something? I have to head in.”

Andy sighs. “You’re not going to like this, but I think it’s going to end up being a good thing. You heard Taryn’s out for a few weeks, right?”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. Our best junior staffer pens a series called “Taryn Tries It,” and over break she tried snowboarding for the first time. It did not go well. “I heard she took a nasty fall on the slopes, but that’s all.”

“She wiped out,” he confirms, “and figured she’d be sore for a couple of days. But the pain just got worse, and she can barely walk. Her roommates to her to the ER and I’m still waiting to hear if she broke her tailbone or just bruised it.”

“Ouch,” I say, because that sounds painful. “What do you—oh, no way, Andy.” I’m shaking my head vigorously, but I know that what he’s about to propose is a done deal.

“You’ve got to take it, Claire. “Taryn Tries It” is our most-read feature after “Am I the Dumbass?” We can’t drop it and no one else on staff has the chops you do to pull it off.

Besides, people are already pissed about the expose, and it’s only been out for an hour.

This will soften the blow a bit. Make you seem more human. ”

I laugh. “Make me seem more human? Wow, thanks, Andy. Good to know you also think I’m an other-worldly freak.”

I can practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose with frustration. “You know what I mean. And you know you’re the only one qualified. Swing by the office tomorrow so we can brainstorm some ideas. ”

“Let’s meet at Drip,” I suggest. “The least you owe me for doing this is a sugar-laden coffee.”

“I’ll have your drink waiting for you here. If we meet at Drip, there’s a fair chance you’ll get pelted with coffee beans, and I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”

I’m so frustrated now, but I know in my chosen career field, there will be plenty of times where I’m assigned a piece that I have no actual interest in.

This is just good practice for the future, at least that’s what I tell myself.

I think about the article that just hit the website, and I get a rush of adrenaline.

That’s the kind of thrilling story I want to chase.

I don’t want to spend my days trying eight kinds of self-tanner or sampling the new boba place and filling everyone in on which flavor to try first. Ok, those wouldn’t be terrible, but they’re still fluffy.

Dammit, I want gritty. I’ve had a taste of real journalism, and I want more.

I’ve been reading The Prentiss Report since junior high school, and that’s what I’ve wanted to do ever since.

Prentiss tells hard-hitting stories. They don’t shy away from controversy.

Their coverage is fearless, and that’s the kind of writer I aspire to be.

But for the next few weeks, it looks like I’ll be living the try-it life.

“Hey, Andy,” I say, because I can tell he’s about to hang up.

“Since I’m filling in for Taryn, don’t you think the series needs a new title?

How about instead of “Taryn Tries It, we go with something like, ”Claire Conquers It. ” Catchy, right?