“Lucas Stone? The drool-worthy morsel of hunky-hotness who’s been your best friend since forever?”
I blinked up, jaw practically in my lap. “Um…yeah?”
Kat chuckled, head leaning like the Tower of Pisa. “See, while searching for you on social media channels, I came across your book blog.” She lifted a piece of paper from off her desk. “Confessions of a Bookaholic?”
My breath hitched, and not in the way it happens for so many book heroines.
“Your blog is genius, relevant for this age when romance novels breathe life into women—and men—who crave an escape from their everyday world. Three weeks ago I subscribed to your blog, even downloaded the app, as a part of our vetting process before granting the HR team approval to extend a welcome to interview for our winter internship.”
Putting two and two together, my cheeks felt hot, embarrassment plunging to the pit of my already nerve-rattled stomach. “So, you must have read…”
“Your digital diary,” she finished, gaze switching from unreadable to warm. “I loved how readers,fans, thousands of followers, gave you a virtual hug, flooding your blog with such uplifting, supportive comments and, oh, my gosh”—she held her belly while containing her laugh—“those who thought it was an exclusive excerpt from an upcoming novel simply made my day.”
Failing to grasp what was going on I said, “I do have some of the best followers.”
“Indeed, you do. Readers flock to bloggers they feel a connection with. Someone real, authentic, relatable, whose novel choices aren’t influenced by one, or all, of the big-five publishing houses who they may indirectly sponsor. I’ve gone back and read your reviews, and appreciate how you’ve critiqued, not only books by traditionally published authors like Nora Roberts, Danielle Steel, and Nicholas Sparks, but also by indie authors whose literary talent sometimes goes unnoticed.”
Kat rose from her chair, red-bottomed heels click-clacking against the pricey floor as she made her way over to the window. Letting out a sigh, she crossed her arms while peering out at New York City. “I’ve teetered back and forth with ideas of adding a book review column toHot Shotfor quite some time now, trying to decide what would be the appropriate platform, the perfect tie-in to our chic and well-represented brand.” She spun around, face beaming brighter than a thousand suns. “Which is why I’m prepared to offer you and your fabulous creation,Confessions of a Bookaholic,a full-time position atHot Shot.”
“What?”Sage bit into an egg roll, wide green eyes nearly jumping out of her head. “She offered you ajob, job?”
“Well,” I cautioned, swallowing a forkful of chicken fried rice. The three of us were eating dinner atSun Sai Gai,the last stop on our New York City touristy-things-to-do list. “Of course, nothing comes easy. I’ll need to charm investors and board members by pitching a plan that construes howConfessions of a Bookaholicwill bring more readers toHot Shot.”
Chloe slurped egg drop soup into her mouth, shoulders shimmying in excitement. Working for a well-known magazine had been our dream and I was one step closer to living it out. “Oh, my gosh! See? Sage and I knew only good things would come out of your one-on-one withtheKat Agassi.” She paused, curiosity knitting her brows together. “Wait, when is this presentation thingy supposed to happen? I mean, we fly back home early tomorrow morning.”
I explained how a few candidates—myself included—were to remain in New York for the weekend, all working collectively on a presentation for our group pitch to investors and board members Monday morning.
“So, you’re gonna skip tomorrow night’s homecoming game?” Sage asked, mouth pouting.
The reality of missing the game—especially one against a long-standing rival—painted a ring of guilt around my heart. “Yes, but I’m sure I can stream it on UCChat.”
“Well, girl, you deserve thefuckout of this,” Sage said, chopsticks pointed in my direction. “And, please”—she glared at Chloe—“don’t you dare tell me to do squats. After this long-ass week, unleashing that F-bomb felt better than sex.”
13
“Tonight’s just another game.” Coach K stood in the middle of our pregame huddle, his scruffy voice, brawny power pose in full effect. “But, let’s remind these assholes whose house they’re in.”
Homecoming.
Normally, it would’ve been no big deal to me.
But this one?
This homecoming represented the end of an era, my last big college game—apart from playoffs—before getting drafted by the National Football League.
Roars filled Rose Bowl Stadium, our marching band inciting fans with UCLA’s Fight song, and as we were finally announced, chills coursed through my veins, a sea of blue and gold cheers erupting in the stands as fans welcomed us onto the field.
Bruins! Bruins! Bruins! Bruins!
God, I loved our fans. They had this undeniable spirit that could fuel an army, carry a brigade of gladiators to battle, and homecoming games had a tendency to draw in a combination of fans, old and new. Everyone I knew was mounted in those stands: my parents, classmates, frat bros, professors, friends, frenemies.
Everyone.
Except Macy.
Hey, not going to make tonight’s game. Got tied up in New York. I’ll watch via UCChat since they won’t be playing it here on TV. Good luck!
Macy’s text pinched my heart.
