"And they gave you… what exactly for this sudden audience?"
"A hearty congratulations and the honor of continuing to cover a team that won't sniff the playoffs again until the next presidential administration."
Clara's expression turned serious. "You know you could leverage this into something real, right? SportsBiz is looking for someone to cover league revenue strategies. It's not sexy, but it's a foot in the door with actual benefits and a 401k that isn't just a punchline."
Libby's nose wrinkled involuntarily. "Covering luxury box sales and corporate sponsorship negotiations? I'd rather?—"
"Have creative freedom and journalistic integrity while eating ramen at thirty?" Clara finished for her. "Look, I get it. But the sports journalism world isn't exactly rolling out the red carpet for women who actually want to analyze the game."
Libby sighed. "Besides, SportsBiz means no actual game analysis, no player interviews?—"
"No hockey butts," Clara interrupted with mock seriousness. "Let's be honest about what you'd really miss. I know how much your analytical mind appreciates the biomechanics of a well-developed gluteus maximus."
"I donot—” Libby protested, her voice rising an octave. "My interest is purely professional. The way players generate power through their lower body is actually fascinating from a sports science perspective?—"
"Uh-huh." Clara's grin widened. "That's why you replayed D'Arcy's overtime goal three times last week. For the 'biomechanics.'"
"I was studying his edge work!"
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Jane made it," Libby pointed out, desperate to change the subject.
"Jane has a medical degree and fixes torn ACLs. She doesn't tell multimillionaire men what they're doing wrong on national television." Clara leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the nearly empty coffee shop. "They'll either dismiss you as a diversity hire or assume you're sleeping with the players. Those are basically the only two boxes they have for women in sports media."
Libby swallowed, recognizing the truth in her friend's warning. She'd seen it firsthand at the college level, watching female reporters being asked if they understood offsides while male bloggers with half their knowledge got locker room access.
"So what, I should just give up and write about sports business? Or focus on human interest fluff because that's 'more suited' to my delicate feminine sensibilities?"
Clara sighed. "No. You should keep being brilliant and stubborn and a better analyst than half the men with broadcast deals. I'm just saying… prepare for what's coming. Especially if this viral moment gets you noticed."
"It was just a silly soundbite born of exhaustion and frustration," Libby said, the same thing she'd been telling herself since yesterday. "It'll be forgotten by tomorrow whensome player posts a picture of his breakfast and somehow that becomes news."
Her phone rang, an unknown number with a Boston area code. Probably another spam call about her car's extended warranty.
"Aren't you going to get that?" Clara asked when Libby made no move to answer.
"Unknown number. Probably?—"
"Could be destiny," Clara said with a dramatic flutter of her eyelashes, an impression of Libby's mother that was unfortunately spot-on.
Rolling her eyes, Libby picked up. "Elizabeth Bennet-Cross."
"Elizabeth? This is Sullivan Reid, sports editor for The Boston Herald."
Libby's heart stopped. The Boston Herald. With a circulation roughly twenty times the Gazette's. She met Clara's curious gaze across the table and mouthedBoston Herald.
"Yes, hello," she managed, professional instincts kicking in despite her shock. "What can I do for you, Mr. Reid?"
"Call me Sully—Mr. Reid was my father, and he wrote obituaries," he said with a chuckle. "I saw your coverage of the Falcons this season, especially that power play analysis piece from last month. Sharp stuff. Then that post yesterday—perfect mix of humor and actual hockey knowledge."
"Thank you," Libby said cautiously, waiting for the catch. Editors from major papers didn't just call out of the blue to compliment your work. Especially not female sportswriters covering minor league teams.
"Here's the situation," Reid continued. "Our Steel beat reporter, Jackson, is down with a particularly nasty case of food poisoning. Team catering at the last home game—never eat the seafood pasta at TD Garden, by the way. Doctor thinks it mightbe norovirus. He's basically living in his bathroom and our medical insurance doesn't cover exorcisms."
Libby managed a squeaking laugh over her pounding heartbeat. "That's… unfortunate."
"More than unfortunate. We're heading into a critical stretch of playoff games and I've got no one to cover the Steel. The usual fill-ins are on other assignments. I need someone who knows hockey and can hit the ground running. Your work shows you've got the analytical chops, and that viral moment proves you can connect with readers."
