Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I shake my head. “Moron,” I mutter at the same time that a low female voice growls, “Idiot.”
I spin around to find Georgia Barnes, my idol, standing a few feet away. She eyes me, looking intrigued.
“And it’s time for a commercial,” one of the hosts tells the audience. “After the break, we’ll catch up with Herbie Handler down in Nashville and hear his predictions for tonight’s Predators matchup against the Flyers.”
“And we’re out,” a cameraman barks.
As if a switch has been flipped, the set comes to life. Bodies rush by, the chatter of voices echoing in the studio. “Someone fix that light!” one of the hosts complains. “It’s burning my goddamn retinas.”
A lowly assistant sprints over to deal with the lights. Georgia Barnes glances at me again, then walks off the set.
I hesitate for a beat. Then I hurry after her, awkwardly calling out her name.
She stops in the brightly lit corridor, turning to face me. She’s wearing a black pinstripe skirt, a white silk top, and black flats. Despite the elegant attire, I know that she has a fiery streak in her.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I tell her. “But I wanted to let you know what a huge fan I am. I think you’re one of the sharpest, most intelligent journalists in the country.”
Georgia responds with a warm smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Her shrewd gaze sweeps over me. “Do you work here?”
I shake my head. “In fact, I was just informed that I didn’t get the internship I applied for.”
“I see.” She nods ruefully. “It’s a competitive program, from what I hear.” A dry note enters her voice. “Although you should probably be prepared—this entire industry is competitive. Even more so for women.”
“So I hear.”
She studies my face again. “Why did you call Geoff Magnolia a moron?”
A rush of heat suffuses my cheeks, and I hope to hell I’m not blushing. “Uh, right. Yes. I’m sorry I said that—”
“Don’t be sorry. But tell me why you did.”
I offer an awkward shrug. “Because of the questions he was asking. Someone needs to tell that man to perform at least a modicum of research before his interviews. He asked about Lacroix’s parents three times.”
“So what?” Georgia says. Her tone is light, but I sense she’s testing me.
“So the kid’s mom died of cancer less than a month ago, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. Magnolia should’ve known about that.”
“Yes. He should have. But as we’ve established, Geoff Magnolia is a moron.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you a secret—what’s your name?”
“Brenna.”
“I’ll tell you a secret, Brenna. Magnolia is the rule, not the exception. If you ever find yourself working here someday, be prepared to deal with morons on a daily basis. Or worse, sexist blowhards who will spend every minute of every day telling you that you don’t belong here because you have a vagina.”
I smile halfheartedly. “I think I experienced that today.”
Her features soften. “Sorry to hear that. All I can say is, don’t let one rejection, one door-slam, stop you from trying again. Continue applying to networks, cable stations, anywhere that’s hiring.” She winks. “Not everybody wants to keep us out, and a change is coming. Albeit slowly, but I promise you it’s coming.”
I feel a bit awestruck as Georgia squeezes my arm before sauntering off. I have faith that she’s right, that a change is coming. But I wish it would hurry up. It took decades for female reporters to be allowed to interview athletes in the locker room. It required a Sports Illustrated reporter to file a lawsuit before a court finally ruled that banning female journalists from locker room interviews violated the 14th Amendment.
And yet changing laws does nothing to change social attitudes. ESPN has made strides by hiring more female columnists, analysts. But it pisses me off that women in sports continue to face hostility and sexist behaviors when they’re simply trying to do their jobs, just like their male counterparts.
“Brenna, hey!” Mischa, the stage manager I met last week, bumps into me near the elevator bank. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I say wryly.
“Good news, I assume?”
“Sadly, no. Mr. Mulder asked me to come so he could tell me to my face that I didn’t get the job.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. That sucks.” He shakes his head, visibly disappointed. “I would’ve enjoyed having you around.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure the new interns will be great.”
“Maybe. But I have a feeling Mulder is missing out by letting you go.”
“Feel free to tell him that.” When the elevator doors slide open, I reach out to touch his arm. “It was nice to meet you, Mischa.”
“Nice meeting you too, Brenna.”
My smile fades once I’m alone in the elevator. Tears prick my eyes, but I order myself not to cry. I’m not allowed to cry. It was just an internship. I’m sure I can find a local TV or radio station to gopher at this summer, and in the fall I can reapply at HockeyNet, or maybe I’ll find an even better work placement. This isn’t the end of the world.