Have you packed your "I'm a serious journalist" blazer yet?
Libby glanced at the navy blazer draped over her desk chair.
Libby
Just about to. Along with my "please take me seriously despite my gender" sensible shoes.
Clara
Don't forget your "I'm not flirting I'm interviewing" notebook.
Libby
Already packed, right next to my "yes I actually understand the neutral zone trap" press credentials.
Clara
You're going to kill it. Just don't let the sharks smell blood.
Libby set down her phone and returned to packing. She carefully folded her most professional-looking tops, added her one pair of decent slacks, and debated over which shoes would strike the right balance between professional and practical for arena conditions.
From her desk, she took her battered reporter's notebook with its coffee-stained cover—a talisman against imposter syndrome.
The last item gave her pause: her father's old coaching whistle, the one he'd used at Westfield Prep before the wealthy parents of an underperforming player had orchestrated his dismissal. He'd given it to her when she'd landed her first sports reporting job, a tangible reminder of both passion and caution.
She wrapped the whistle in a sock and tucked it into the side pocket of her suitcase. A reminder of what happened when you challenged the established order, but also of why it sometimes needed challenging.
With her packing finally done, Libby zipped the suitcase closed and sat back down on her bed, trying to quiet the butterflies in her stomach. Tomorrow she'd be in Boston, covering a professional hockey team for a major newspaper. Everything she'd worked for, dreamed of, was suddenly within reach.
Clara's warning replayed in her mind:They'll either dismiss you as a diversity hire or assume you're sleeping with the players.
She thought of her father's career derailment, of the countless female journalists whose legitimate questions were met with condescension, of the social media comments that inevitably focused on appearance rather than analysis.
The path ahead was strewn with obstacles, some visible, others hidden. But if there was one thing Libby Bennet-Cross had in abundance, it was determination. She would prove herself on merit alone, refusing to be intimidated or marginalized. She would bring the same analytical eye to the Steel that she'd applied to the Falcons, and she would make them see her—really see her—as a journalist first.
Boston wouldn't know what hit it.
CHAPTER THREE
The GPS guided Libby to what looked like the headquarters of a Fortune 500 company, not a hockey facility. The Boston Steel Training Center rose from the South Shore landscape in sweeping curves of glass and steel, its architecture suggesting both movement and power. A massive Steel logo dominated the entrance, etched into granite that probably cost more than Libby's annual salary.
She sat in her rental car for a full minute, her chest tight as she gathered her courage. The Springfield Falcons practiced in a converted warehouse where the heating was questionable and the locker room smelled permanently of industrial disinfectant and broken dreams. This place looked like it belonged in architectural magazines.
You earned this. Viral tweet or not, they called you.
The parking lot reinforced the intimidation factor. BMWs, Mercedes, and Teslas gleamed in the morning sun, the occasional Range Rover offering some variety. Libby's ten-year-old Honda Civic, still sporting a faded Springfield Falcons decal on the bumper, looked like it had wandered in from a different economic ecosystem entirely.
She grabbed her bag—a worn leather messenger bag that had seen her through college and every assignment since—and headed for the entrance. Her press credentials hung from a Steel-branded lanyard that had arrived via overnight delivery, along with a parking pass and a information packet that was more professionally designed than most magazines.
The security checkpoint stopped her cold.
"Credentials?" The guard, a man built like he'd played hockey himself, albeit fifteen years ago, barely glanced at her lanyard before frowning at his tablet. "You're not in the system."
"I should be. Libby Bennet-Cross, covering for the Herald."
He scrolled through his screen with the speed of someone who dealt with this regularly. "No Bennet-Cross. You sure you're supposed to be here today?"
"Yes, I'm—" She pulled out her phone to show Reid's email. "Sully Reid hired me yesterday to cover?—"
