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Chapter 1
Willow
DespitetellingmyselfthatI’m ready for this, my stomach still protests as nausea threatens to take over. It feels like I’ve been standing still for hours even though I know, realistically, it’s only been a couple of seconds. And those couple of seconds are all that I’m allowed before the production manager, Kenny, whacks me on the back of the head with his clipboard to get me moving.
I think I have a few more blissful seconds to panic until that becomes a reality, trying to wrap my head around the three words Kenny had shouted over at me just now that has me frozen in place.
“Willow, you’re up!”
I can feel my heart thundering in my head as clearly as I can feel it in my chest, excitement and nerves not knowing what to do with themselves within my body. Vivian, the head sports journalist for Front Runner News and the woman I admire and have been working as an assistant journalist for, had to leave suddenly because of a family emergency. And because Vivian is the picture of professionalism, everyone knows she wouldn’t leave at the last second unless it was extremely important—hence the situation I’m in now.
Because I’ve been working under Vivian for the better part of a year—mostly behind the scenes in a seen-not-heard capacity—and because of my very loud and obvious desire to be a sports journalist, it makes sense that I’m the person Kenny turns to, to take over for Vivian. She had been telling me for weeks now that pretty soon, I will have an opportunity to show my skills in front of the camera and on the field, interviewing the football players for the post-game segments. I don’t think she, or anyone, realized it would be under these circumstances.
But I’m ready for this. I am.
I have been waiting all of my life for this moment, to be the one holding the microphone and standing in front of the camera and chatting with athletes about their plays and the game. I have been working toward this for so long, and I’m not going to let the suddenness of it all throw me off my game.
So, snapping out of my stupor, I use the next few seconds fixing myself up, using my phone’s camera to make sure I look presentable enough to be on live television. The idea of speaking in front of a camera, with millions of people watching, doesn’t terrify me like one might think. If anything, it gets the blood in my veins pumping, the nerves present but dying down, and excitement and determination taking over. The rumble of the stadium adds onto the anticipation, hearing the cheers of the crowd as our home team, the Chicago Rebels, win yet another game, setting them on the path toward the Super Bowl, the ultimate goal.
“Alright,” I whisper to myself after capping my lip gloss and shoving it in the pocket of my slacks. “I got this.”
I work almost automatically, going to find Kenny who then, amongst the chaos of the end of the game, adjusts the earpiece in my ear and then guides me to the sidelines of the field. It’s impossibly bright in the field with the stadium lights, and deafeningly loud. Audience members are cheering on the team, while some can be seen moving to leave in hopes of beating the post-game traffic. Good luck with that, folks.
Several journalists and reporters are already on the field with their cameramen, talking to the players and getting their insight on the games they have played. As I’m led to our cameraman, Michael, I run through the questions I have seen Vivian ask the players in all of the interviews of hers I have watched and taken notes from. She and I both take notes during games so we know the best questions for her to ask afterward, and she had shoved her notes in my hands before taking off. Hell, most of the questions in general are ones I came up with for her to ask, so it’s easy not to get lost in my own head as I think up a list of quick yet insightful questions based on today’s game’s notes, given that there is a time limit on how long I can chat with the players.
Kenny puts a hand on my shoulder and gestures toward a specific direction. “You’re interviewing Maxwell first, then Mackenzie and Bennett. Here comes Maxwell now.”
Unable to help myself, my mouth drops open in protest, but Kenny has already disappeared through the crowd of reporters, players, and family members alike. My grip on the microphone tightens, staring at Michael almost helplessly, and he offers me a sympathetic smile from behind the camera which, thankfully, isn’t rolling yet.
Of all the players I had to talk to for my first on-camera interview,whydid it have to be Reed Maxwell?
As professional as Vivian is at work, she has told me, behind closed doors, how insufferable the star quarterback for the Rebels is when it comes to giving interviews. Reed Maxwell hates giving interviews, but because it’s in his contract, he has no choice but to do so—but that doesn’t mean he’s going to make it easy for the reporters. Vivian doesn’t particularly enjoy interviewing him, but because he’s arguably one of the best players Chicago has seen and is definitely going to carry us to the Super Bowl, interviewing him is the priority—no matter how difficult he makes it with his one-word, curt answers.
God, why couldn’t I get Jaxon James? The running back is always all smiles and a riot to interview, and is endearingly referred to as JJ by everyone.
The earpiece crackles. “Cutting to you in ten, Willow,” comes Kenny’s voice.
Okay. Whatever reservations I have about interviewing Maxwell, I shove them aside and let the mask of professionalism slip on, one I have been waiting to wear. Michael already has the camera propped on his shoulder and I square mine, taking a breath as I see Reed approaching.
Even from the corner of my eye, I can make out his tall, bulky figure, and the sweat that glistens on his tanned skin under the blue and white uniform. But that’s all I get to glimpse at, for now, as I’m signaled that we’re live.
The smile I give the camera is genuine.
“Good evening, everyone, I’m Willow Burke and we’re live from Soldier Field, where the Chicago Rebels have crossed off another win.” My voice is steady, my grip on the microphone not too tight. “I have with me the Rebels’ quarterback, Reed Maxwell—so tell me—” I turn to finally look at him, and there is a split second where I can feel myself falter under his dark-eyed stare. He’s looking down at me with an unreadable look, although from the purse of his lips, I know he’s impatient to get this over with. I don’t let that—or the sight of his strong jaw, high cheekbones, and slightly crooked nose deter me. I charge on, smiling, as I inquire, “You’ve just won another game; what’s fueled your improvement as the season has progressed?”
With the camera on us, I look up at Reed and try not to let my smile falter under his intense gaze, his face all sharp angles with nothing soft about them. There’s nothing kind, nothing welcoming about his features, and it would be enough to make anyone’s insides shrivel up, but I refuse to buckle under his stare. Instead, I keep my smile on my face, my microphone pointed toward him, as I drown out the ongoing and rumbling chatter going on all around us while waiting for him to speak up.
“Winning the Super Bowl,” finally comes Reed’s unsurprisingly clipped response, his voice a deep rumble.
No shit, Sherlock.
I keep smiling, though; not only because I don’t want to let this man know that his obvious and unimpressive answer pisses me off, but because I refuse to let him ruin this incredibly big moment for me. I just have to get through this interview with Reed and show that I did try, and then I can get real substantial answers from my interviews with Leo Mackenzie and Caden Bennett.
Bringing the microphone back toward me, I ask, “Last season, the Rebels failed to advance during the conference championship.” I see the way his jaw tics at my words, and it makes my smile easier, knowing I may have flicked a nerve. Anything to get him to not be such a robot in front of the camera. “What are you and the team doing differently this year to make it further than before, and potentially win the championship?”
Reed eyes me for a moment, dark eyes locked onto my green. I keep my mask on, refusing to bristle under his gaze despite the indescribable tickle I feel in the pit of my stomach. The man is unreadable, and while my goal is to focus on the interview and do a good job, I find myself wondering what, exactly, he’s thinking.
“There’s nopotentiallyabout it,” Reed says, voice hard. “The mistakes made last season won’t be repeated this time around. The focus is on being a solid team, no distractions, nothing.”
