flick back to his screen. In an absentminded tone, he says, “What would you say is your biggest weakness, aside from having a semi-famous dad?”
I swallow an angry retort. “I can be impatient at times,” I confess, because there’s no way I’m doing that cheesy bit about how my biggest weakness is that I care too much or work too hard. Gag.
Mulder’s attention is once again diverted to his fantasy hockey team. Silence falls over the spacious office. I shift irritably in my chair and examine the glass case against the wall. It displays all the awards the station has won over the years, along with signed paraphernalia from various pro hockey players. There’s a lot of Oilers merch in there, I note.
On the opposite wall, two big screens are showing two different programs: an NHL highlights reel from this weekend, and a Top Ten segment counting down the most explosive rookie seasons of all time. I wish the TVs weren’t on mute. At least then I could hear something interesting while I’m being ignored.
Frustration climbs up my spine like ivy and tightens around my throat. He isn’t paying a lick of attention to me. Either he’s the worst interviewer on the planet, a rude jackass, or he’s not seriously considering me for this position.
Or maybe it’s D) all of the above.
Tristan was wrong. Ed Mulder isn’t a jerk—he’s a mega asshole. But unfortunately, good, hands-on internships at big networks like HockeyNet don’t come along every day. It’s slim pickings out there in the internship market. And I’m also not naïve enough to think that Mulder is a special case. Several of my professors, both male and female, warned me that sports journalism isn’t the most welcoming field for women.
I’m going to face men like Mulder during my entire career. Losing my temper or storming out of his office won’t help me achieve my goals. If anything, it’ll “prove” his own point in his misogynistic head: that women are too emotional, too weak, too ill equipped to survive in the sports arena.
“So.” I clear my throat. “What would my duties be if I got this internship?” I already know the answer—I practically memorized the job posting, not to mention my CIA-worthy interrogation of Tristan the TA. But I might as well ask some questions, seeing as how Mulder isn’t interested in returning the favor.
His head lifts. “We’ve got three intern slots to fill in the production department. I’m the head of that department.”
I wonder if he realizes he hadn’t answered the question. I draw a calming breath. “And the duties?”
“Highly intensive,” he replies. “You’d be required to compile game highlights, assemble clips packages, help to create teasers and B-roll. You’d attend production meetings, pitch ideas for stories…” He trails off, clicking his mouse a few times.
AKA, the perfect job for me. I want this. I need this. I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering how I can turn this disastrous meeting around.
I don’t get the chance. There’s a loud knock on the door, and it flies open before Mulder can respond. An excited-looking man with an unkempt beard thunders into the office.
“Roman McElroy just got arrested for domestic abuse!”
Mulder dives out of his leather chair. “Are you fucking shitting me?”
“There’s a video of it all over the Internet. Not of the wife-beating, but the arrest.”
“Have any of the other networks picked this up yet?”
“No.” Beard Man is bouncing up and down like a kid in a toy store, and he can’t be a day younger than fifty-five.
“Which talking heads do we have on set?” Mulder demands on his way to the door.
“Georgia just got here—”
“No,” the boss interrupts. “Not Barnes. She’ll try to give it some sort of feminist bullshit spin. Who else?”
I bite my lip to stave off an angry retort. Georgia Barnes is one of the two female analysts at HockeyNet, and she is amazing. Her insights are topnotch.
“Kip Haskins and Trevor Trent. But they’re doing a live segment right now. The Friday Five.”
“Screw The Friday Five. Have Gary write up some copy, then get Kip and Trevor to debate the fuck out of it and break apart the arrest video frame by frame. I want a whole segment on this McElroy thing.” Mulder skids to a stop in the doorway, suddenly remembering my existence. “We’ll finish this on Monday.”
My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Come back Monday,” he barks. “We’re dealing with a monster exclusive here. The news waits for no man, Brenda.”
“But—”
“Monday, nine o’clock.” With that,