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.

But dammit, I really, really wanted this internship.

My fingers tremble as I pull my phone out of my purse. I should order a car to take me to the train station. Instead, I think about Jake’s text from yesterday, the one urging me to call him.

I bite my lip.

Calling him is probably a terrible idea.

But I do it, anyway.

“Wow, you’re talking to me again,” Jake says when we meet up twenty minutes later. “What did I do to deserve this honor?”

My spirits are so low I can’t even conjure up a sarcastic remark. “I didn’t get the internship,” I say flatly. “Mulder chose three guys with penises instead of me.”

“As opposed to guys without penises?” He smiles, but his humor doesn’t linger. “I’m sorry, Hottie. That sucks.” He reaches out as if to touch me, but then thinks better of it and drops his arm to his side.

We’re on the front steps of the Bright-Landry Hockey Center, which feels like absolute blasphemy. Luckily, none of his teammates are around. When I called him, he admitted that practice ended hours ago and he’d stayed behind to watch game tape on his own. That’s dedication. And while I admire it, that also means I have to meet him here instead of his condo. The condo would have been highly preferable.

To add insult to injury, the sky decides to mimic my mood, taking this exact moment as opportunity to dump a mountain of rain on us. It’s been cloudy and chilly all day, but suddenly the sky is black and it’s pouring buckets, soaking our hair in seconds.

“Come inside,” Jake urges, grabbing my hand.

We rush into the building, where I cringe at the sight of the championship pennants and all the framed crimson jerseys. “What if someone sees us?” I hiss as I shove my damp hair away from my forehead.

“Then they see us. Who cares? We’re just talking, right?”

“I feel exposed. We’re too out in the open,” I grumble.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go to the media room. It’s private and I’m the only one in there.”

I follow him down the hall, my gaze eating up his long stride. It’s been less than a week since I last saw him, and somehow I forgot how tall he is, how attractive. He didn’t hug or kiss me hello. I didn’t hug or kiss him hello, either. Now I kinda wish I had.

In a state-of-the-art media room that rivals the one we have at Briar, I unzip my leather jacket and drape it over the back of a nearby chair. Then I plop into one of the plush chairs and stick out my chin glumly. “I really wanted that internship.”

“I know you did.” Jake settles in the chair next to mine, stretching those impossibly long legs out in front him. “But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Even if he hadn’t been your direct supervisor, you still would’ve had to interact with Mulder. And that guy is the worst.”

“True.” I suddenly notice the image on the big screen. It’s Hunter Davenport’s lean body crouching during a faceoff. “Spying, are we?” I crack.

“It’s not spying, it’s due diligence. And don’t tell me your boys aren’t doing the exact same thing right now.”

“Well, I didn’t come here to reveal Briar secrets, so don’t ask me anything about my boys.”

He glances over, his chiseled face serious. “Then why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, your cousin lives in the city. And I assume you have other friends here, too.”

“So?”

“So why was I the first person you called after you got the bad news?”

I flick my gaze to his. “You don’t know that you’re the first person I called. Maybe nobody else picked up.”

“Did you call anybody else?” Jake asks politely.

“No,” I admit, which forces me to look inward, because why did I call him? We went on a couple of dates, talked on the phone a few times, fooled around a time or two. There is no reason why Jake should have been my go-to comfort person today. I have a good support system—Summer, Audrey, Elisa, to name a few. Why didn’t I reach out to any of them?