"You have to start somewhere," her mother insisted. "This kind of exposure could really expand your horizons, sweetheart. You never know who might slide into your DMs now!"
"Mother," Libby said flatly. "How dare I, a modern woman, prioritize my journalism career over non-existent Twitter suitors?"
"I'm just saying you can have both!" Linda protested. "Look at that lovely Erin Andrews!"
Robert caught Libby's eye over his coffee mug and gave her a sympathetic wink. He understood her ambitions better than her mother ever would—the desire to be taken seriouslyas a journalist, to have her analysis respected rather than her appearance noticed.
"Linda," Robert intervened smoothly, "weren't you making those cinnamon roll things? I think I smell them burning."
"My buns!" Linda fled the room.
Robert settled into the chair across from Libby with a content sigh. "Your analysis of Sullivan's power play was spot on, by the way. Read your column this morning."
"Thanks, Dad." She smiled gratefully. "Too bad only about twelve people saw it."
"Quality over quantity," he said, then gestured to her phone which was still lighting up with notifications. "Although a little quantity doesn't hurt."
"It's just weird. I've been breaking down complex zone entries all season, and what goes viral? A joke about facial hair."
Her father's expression turned reflective, the look he got when he was about to dispense what he considered wisdom. "The hockey world is like any other closed system, Libs. They protect their own, value the insiders, keep the gates locked. I learned that the hard way."
"But," he continued, his expression softening, "you've got something most of these insiders don't—you actually understand the game. Not just the politics of it."
"Fat lot of good it's doing me at the Springfield Gazette," she sighed.
"Maybe this viral moment is the crack in the door you need," he suggested. “Just… watch out for the sharks once you're swimming in the bigger pond.”
"I'm hardly heading to the NHL, Dad. It's one tweet."
Her phone vibrated in her back pocket, this time with a text from her editor.
Rob Gazette
Nice viral moment. Come see me Monday. Might have an opportunity for you.
Libby stared at the message, something fluttering in her chest that felt suspiciously like hope. Maybe her father was right. Maybe this was her crack in the door.
"Cinnamon rolls!" Linda announced, placing a tray of perfectly golden buns on the table. "Eat up, Libby. Growing sports celebrities need their strength!"
Libby caught her father's amused glance and couldn't help smiling. Whatever came of this viral tweet, at least she had her father's understanding—and her mother's entertainment value.
She took a cinnamon roll and opened Twitter again, watching as her follower count ticked steadily upward. Small pond, big dreams. Maybe it was time to test the waters of a larger lake.
CHAPTER TWO
The Grindstone Coffee Shop occupied that perfect sweet spot in Springfield's modest downtown—close enough to the newspaper office for convenience but far enough from the arena that Libby rarely ran into athletes she'd just critiqued. The peeling paint on the bathroom door and the mismatched mugs were comfortingly familiar, like an old sweatshirt that should have been thrown out years ago but somehow still felt right.
"I still can't believe Shea's beard made you Twitter famous," Clara Lucas said, stirring her latte with scientific precision. "I've been covering corporate acquisitions for six months and the closest I've come to viral is when I accidentally included a cat GIF in my email to the central office managing editor."
Libby grinned at her best friend across the scarred wooden table. “Oh, which one?”
"It was the cat knocking a plant off a shelf with the caption 'me sabotaging my own career,'" Clara admitted. "Weirdly prophetic."
Unlike Libby, who cultivated a look she called "professional adjacent," Clara always dressed like she was prepared for an impromptu job interview—crisp blazer, sensible heels, not astrand of her red hair out of place. They'd graduated from the same journalism program with identical GPAs, but their career paths had quickly diverged. Clara had chosen security at SportsBiz Daily, covering the financial side of athletics with ruthless efficiency. Libby had chosen passion and poverty at the Springfield Gazette.
"How many followers are you up to now?" Clara asked, pulling out her phone to check.
"Twenty-three thousand as of this morning," Libby replied, still unable to fully process the number. "For context, the Gazette's main account has eight thousand."
