Entwined stripes of silver and gray paint flowed from one corner of the canvas to the other, thicker at the bottom, thinner as it reached the top. In the center of the piece was a black box with two slashes of charcoal on each side, and two lines beneath. Shiny screws, rusted washers and bits of wire were randomly glued around the box, splotches of red paint trailing behind it. Jagged horizontal lines scratched out in pencil stretched above, the images within the lines blurred with streaks of pastel-colored chalk.
What a powerful piece. I leaned down to see if the artist had signed it but there were only the initials T.A.L.
“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” a female voice said behind me.
“Very. I don’t always ‘get’ art, but this piece . . . I do.”
“What do you see?”
“The box is an athlete. The lines on the top are bleachers with spectators, but it’s all a blur to her as she races past, not realizing she’s falling apart, or losing pieces of herself she’s so focused on the finish line . . . but looking at the horizon, there is no end goal in sight.”
When the woman didn’t respond, I figured I’d shown my ignorance. Maybe the box was nothing more than a stylized television in a stadium since this was a TV studio.
“It amazes me that the artist’s intent is understood by athletes, and others see a dancing box with unseen forces pulling the strings.”
I murmured, “That analogy works too,” and turned to look at her.
A woman with a tousled blond bob, roughly a decade older than me, offered her hand. “Dahlia Switch.”
Her smile faded as she saw the state of my face.
I didn’t babble an explanation. I kept my smile in place even when it hurt like a bitch, and took her hand. “Gabi Welk.”
“Welcome to Wolf Sports North. If you’ll come with me, we’ll head back to the business offices.” She swiped a badge over the card reader by the door.
I followed her down a long hallway. Some doors were shut, some open. She didn’t explain where we were in the building, or indicate where the studios were located, which honestly didn’t bode well for me. Especially since Liddy had mentioned the staff here were very friendly.
Dahlia stopped outside of a closed door and faced me. “Do you need to ah . . . freshen up or anything before I take you to meet Mr. Mayes, the VP of Programming?”
Wait. I was meeting the VP of Programming? Today? “I’m sorry. I thought I was meeting with you.”
“Goodness, no. I’m Mr. Mayes’s liaison from Personnel.”
Maybe this did bode well for me. “Well, Dahlia, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
She knocked twice and opened the door, standing aside to let me enter first.
The man, much younger than I expected, moved from behind his desk and crossed the room to shake my hand. “I’m Alan Mayes. We’re so pleased you could meet with us today, Gabriella.”
“Please call me Gabi. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“Won’t you please have a seat?” He gestured to a sitting area.
Four high-backed library chairs in coffee-colored leather were spaced around a kidney-shaped coffee table. A woman my age rose from one of the chairs and offered her hand. “Lovely to meet you, Gabi. I’m Minka. Production manager for Minnesota Weekly Sports Wrap-Up.” She gave my outfit a thorough scrutiny. “Fantastic pantsuit. That color is perfect on you.”
You rocked it, Nolan and Q. “Thank you. I wasn’t quite sure if it would clash with or complement the bruises on my face.”
Silence.
Then Alan chuckled. “Maybe I should offer you a cold drink instead of coffee to ice down that lip.”
I sat in the chair closest to Minka and set my purse on the floor. “Ice helped a little last night after the game, but not much. I know it’s not ideal to show up to a job interview looking like this, but I’m a hockey player. It’s a part of the gig.”
He took the chair opposite mine. “I watched the exhibition.”
“Really?”
“I found it interesting that both captains added a woman to their roster, but it wasn’t promoted until a few hours before game time.”
“From what I learned during practice on game day, all the parties involved—including the Wild organization—kept the exhibition as a surprise for game attendees. No one on either team knew specifics on who we were playing against.”
“Quite a bonus for game goers. There were ten Stanley Cup winners, Olympic medalists,