1
Kelsey
* * *
I step into the San Francisco Infernos’ pressroom to conduct interviews after a home game and smile hello at the familiar faces of my colleagues.
You’d think that after being a sports reporter for a few years, the nervous knot wouldn’t still sit like an anchor in my stomach, but it’s still as prominent as my first day. There was a time when I didn’t think my aspirations would ever come true. Ever since I took the job at WHFI, the Bay Area’s largest TV station, I’ve been living my dream.
Rob Murdock’s gaze flickers over my curves when I pass by him and it’s a good reminder of when there was a time that I didn’t think I’d have an opportunity to work in the sports field.
Typically, a natural blonde with a 32DD chest, blue eyes and a slight Southern accent isn’t the one reporting a big game.
Sure, there are more women now hitting the airwaves on the sports channels, but that wasn’t the case when I was hired. And even then, I had to fight against the stereotype that a woman doesn’t know sports as well as her male colleagues. As though having a dick is a qualification.
I know, I know. I’m not throwing myself a pity party because people use the fact I’m pretty against me. But I can tell you, my Dolly Parton physique makes a lot of people assume I’m stupid. It’s not until I open my mouth and say something intelligent that they’re surprised I have a brain.
So, finding work in my field was an uphill battle, but thankfully my boss, Mr. Jeffries, gave me a chance a few years ago and the rest is history. I’ve earned the respect of my colleagues. Rob Murdock is just a sleaze and the exact reason I only wear dress pants and a blouse buttoned up to my neck when I’m working.
I can’t help the way God built me, so I learned to downplay my assets when necessary to benefit my own good.
“Hey, hot stuff. You gonna let me take you out soon?” Rob asks as I pass by him.
I roll my eyes and continue without a word. See what I mean? Yuck.
Another female reporter, Kayla, who works for a competitor of my news station stops me before I reach my usual spot on the far side of the room. “I swear, that guy needs a knee to the nuts. Does he think it’s 1950?”
I chuckle. “Tell me about it. But it’s a man’s world. Afraid I don’t know when that will change.”
A few of the male colleagues’ gazes slip our way for a moment before darting away. Then there are those types of guys. The ones who know it’s wrong but act like thirteen-year-old horny teenage boys who can’t control their hormones.
“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” she says.
“Amen.” I smile and continue to my seat. Once I’m seated, I get my notepad and pen out of my bag. Our stationary camera is set up at the back of the room, along with the others, so I know my cameraman, Jared, will film all the footage we need, but I like to jot down notes when the players answer questions. Sometimes it spurs an idea for an angle on how I’ll report the game or a particular quote I want to throw in.
We’re only left waiting a few minutes before the coach and a couple of the players trickle into the pressroom, each sitting behind the table that faces the reporters. I’ve only attended one other of these hockey press conferences, but Mr. Jeffries asked me to take over as WHFI’s main person with the hockey team after another reporter retired.
The coach and the defenseman and goalie answer some questions but are quick to stand and leave.
“Is Allen coming out?” one of the reporters I recognize as a staff writer for a local newspaper calls out.
The coach turns back our way with his hand on the door. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
Allen is Brock Allen, the San Francisco Infernos’ center. He’s been on the team for a couple years and has made a huge impact. He’s a talented skater with exemplary stick-handling skills and the ability to deke past the defensemen to score.
He’s also been on every “Top Ten Hot Professional Hockey Player” lists since he joined the league. Just then the door opens and as he walks out to join us, it all comes together, I understand why he’s on those lists.
This is the first time I’m seeing him in person, and the photos of him don’t do him justice. He’s tall and muscular, with wide shoulders, and his longish dark-brown hair curls up at the ends. I wonder if that’s because he’s just out of the shower or not. He sits and places the Infernos ball cap that’s in his hand, backward on his head. God, there is something so sexy about the way it looks on him like that. That, mixed with his five o’clock shadow and his dark eyes scanning the crowd, makes me squirm in my seat.
His teammates, the left and right wingers on his line, take a seat on either side of him.
Reporters start calling out questions and the trained players effortlessly work their way through each one with concise answers.
I usually wait until the mad rush at the beginning dies down. It’s always a dick-measuring contest with a lot of egos and posturing for position when they open up the room for questions.
Also, all the predictable questions are always asked up front anyway, so I let them use their turn for those. I prefer to ask more probing questions.
A few of the reporters congratulate them on their dominating win over the Florida Fury with a final score of 6–2. Considering they were walloped by the Fury the last time they met, it’s quite the turnaround. That’s when I think of what question I want to ask.
I raise my hand and the Infernos’ media liaison brings the microphone over to me. I stand. “Considering the kind of turnaround you guys had tonight, I’m curious what you learned from your last game against the Fury that you adapted and improved upon in order to win tonight’s game?”
I don’t direct my question at any one person in particular, so all three stare at me. But I swear, for some reason, Brock Allen’s gaze bores into me and instantly I feel the heat of my blush creeping up my neck.
I shift eye contact from him for a moment to gather my bearings. The right-winger starts to answer my question. I scribble down a few points while he answers and thank him, sitting back down, thankful to be out from under Brock Allen’s penetrating gaze.
That’s when Brock covers the microphone in front of him and turns to his teammate, who just answered my question. “God, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
I still and my cheeks heat while the rest of the reporters surrounding me all laugh and turn in my direction.
When I look up to the small stage, Brock’s head whips in our direction. “Did you all hear that?”
The crowd laughs again, confirming they did, and he shakes his head and laughs, appearing a little embarrassed. But then, with a shrug, he says, “Well, it’s true.”
My cheeks feel like I used gasoline as blush today and Brock Allen just struck a match.
Brock meets my gaze for a moment, but I dart my attention down to my notepad and begin scrawling gobbledygook like my life depends on it.
I can practically feel every one of my colleagues staring at me, but I ignore them all.
Sure, this is embarrassing, but if I don’t make a big deal about it, then everyone will forget by the next press conference.