the locker room. And Georgia—”
“Barnes,” I finish.
Georgia Barnes is kind of my idol. She’s the one who asks the hard-hitting questions after the games, pulling no punches. She’s also smart as a whip and hosts a weekly opinion segment, and while her views aren’t as contentious as Kip and Trevor’s, I find them a lot more intelligent, if I’m being honest.
“Georgia’s awesome,” Mischa tells me. “Sharpest wit you’ve ever experienced. I’ve seen her verbally cut down men three times her size.”
“I love her,” I confess.
“We’ve also got a female director for some of the evening segments, a few analysts, a couple women who work on the crew. Oh, and exhausted assistants like Maggie over here,” he finishes, gesturing to the figure barreling toward us. “Hey, Mags.”
Maggie is a harried-looking girl with bangs that keep falling in her eyes. She’s carrying a cardboard tray of coffee cups, and rather than stop to greet us, she mumbles, “Don’t talk to me. I’m late and Kip’s gonna kill me.” She rushes past without a backward glance.
“Still want to work here?” Mischa teases me.
“I’m a pro at getting coffee,” I say confidently. “And I’m never late.”
“That’s good to hear. Because some of the dudes who work here have hair-trigger tempers. One producer, Pete, fires his assistants every other month. He’s already been through three of them this year.”
We continue the tour, winding up in the main studio, which is so cool to see. I gaze longingly at the news desk where the analysts sit, but even cooler is the set of Kip and Trevor’s show, Hockey Corner. The familiar brown leather couch and backdrop covered with pennants and trophies trigger a wave of excitement. How amazing would it be to have my own show one day? My own set?
I force away the grandiose delusions. It’s a nice fantasy, but I imagine it’d take years, decades even, before somebody gave me my own show.
The radio clipped to Mischa’s belt crackles with static. “Mr. Mulder is ready for her,” comes Rochelle’s voice.
“See? That wasn’t too long of a wait,” Mischa tells me. “Right?”
Uh-huh. Right. Mulder was an hour and fifteen minutes late to an interview that wasn’t even supposed to be today. Consummate professional.
Mischa walks me back to the production offices, where Rochelle hurriedly ushers me to her boss.
“Mr. Mulder,” I say. “It’s good to see you again.”
As always, his attention is elsewhere. There are several overhead screens mounted on the wall, and one is showing a newscast from a rival network. It’s on mute, but the coverage is on Saturday night’s Oilers game.
He tears his gaze away from the screen. “Thanks for coming back. Friday was a total shit show.”
“Yeah, it seemed crazy.” He doesn’t ask me to sit, but I do it anyway and wait for him to continue the interview.
“So, your school will be facing Harvard in the conference finals,” he says. “What are your thoughts on that?”
“I’m excited to kick their butts.”
Mulder’s smile is mocking. “With Connelly at the helm? I’m afraid you’re destined to lose. You’ve heard of Jake Connelly, right?”
Unfortunately. “Of course.”
Mulder leans back in his chair. “All right, then here’s a nice test for you—our interns are expected to be statistics savvy. Tell me, what are Connelly’s stats for the season?”
I hide a frown. That’s the most generalized question I’ve ever heard. His stats? What stats?
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” I reply. “What statistics are you looking for? Goals? Assists? Power play goals? Shots on goal?”
Mulder seems annoyed by my questioning. Rather than answer, he shuffles through some papers.
Lovely. This is shitty interview 2.0. I hate this man. He doesn’t care that I’m here, and he has no intention of hiring me. But I patiently sit there even though I can tell he’s totally checked out.
His intercom buzzes, blessedly breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Mulder, your wife’s on the line. She says it’s important.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s never important,” he informs me. He jams a button with his finger. “I’m in the middle of an interview. Ask her to be more specific.”
Ohhhh really? He’s allowed to ask people to be more specific, but when I do it, it’s inexcusable?
After a short delay, Rochelle returns. “She needs to confirm the amount of people to expect for dinner on Friday.”
“Important, my ass. Tell her I’ll call her after the interview.” He hits the button again. “Women,” he mutters.
I refrain from commenting, because hello, I’m a woman.
“We have a dinner party this weekend,” Mulder explains, shaking his head