SYDNEY
Istride into KBVR with my head held high, as if I didn’t just broadcast live beaver sex to all of Beaver County, then introduce Brooks Kingston with mascara running down my face. And the timing couldn’t be worse—the sports anchor position has been my dream since I realized I was better at talking about sports than playing them. Don’t get me wrong—I was good. Division II college soccer scholarship good. But not professional good. Not like Jonah, who’s living the dream as a center for the Colorado Blizzards.
Not like Brooks Kingston, who was drafted from the University of Boise and became The King before his shoulder injury brought him to brood on Maisie’s lake like some gorgeous, surly waterfowl.
Notthat I think he’s gorgeous. I mean, he’s all right if you’re into the broad-shouldered, chiseled jaw, eight-pack abs kind of thing.
Anyway, this position is my ticket out of weather reporting and into the world of sports journalism, where I belong. Everyone in my family is a sports junkie—my dad’s a retired hockey coach, and mom’s a part-time sports physical therapist. So, yeah, it’s in the blood—plus, I’d love to use some of the extra cash to contribute to Mom’s retirement fund. She’s beyond ready to relax and travel with Dad, and they both deserve it.
Rocko, the security guard, gives me a slow clap as I pass.Fantastic.The entire station has already seen this morning’s broadcast. I force a smile that feels more like a grimace and give him a curtsy. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be signing autographs in the break room later.”
“Helluva show, Syd.” He chuckles, buzzing me through. “My wife called me during her shift at the hospital just to tell me about it. Said the entire nurses’ station was watching on someone’s phone.”
“Great!”
I’ve gone viral at the Beaver County Medical Center. My journalism career is reaching new heights.
The fluorescent lights of the station corridor flicker as I make my way toward the newsroom, my wet boots squeaking against the linoleum. The building is a converted 1970s bank, complete with wood paneling and outdated carpet that’s seen more coffee spills than an interstate diner.
It’s not exactly CNN headquarters, but it’s been my professional home for the past three years.
Three years of smiling through pollen counts and rain percentages. And what do I have to show for it?
I duck into the break room to refill my travel mug with what passes for coffee here. It tastes like someone burned a tire, strained the ashes through a gym sock, then served it lukewarm. But caffeine is caffeine.
Rick lumbers in as I’m doctoring my sludge with cream. He’s built like a refrigerator with legs, and his laugh could wake the dead. He slaps me on the back hard enough to make me spill.
“Sydney-freaking-Holt!” he booms. “You handled that beaver display like a star—and now you’re trending, kid!”
I blot coffee on my coat with a napkin. “Nothing like rodent pornography.”
Rick laughs as if I’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “And getting The King on camera? Brilliant! We’ve been trying to land an interview with him since… well, forever.”
I perk up at this. “Really?”
“Are you kidding? We’ve already got the clip running on our social channels. ‘Brooks Kingston’s Exclusive First Appearance Since Injury—Only on KBVR!’” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands. “The engagement is off the charts.” He looks at his watch. “Damn it—gotta run—morning meeting. Keep up the good work, kid!”
“Thanks.” I lean against the counter, allowing myself a glimmer of hope.
Maybe the Brooks and beaver fiasco will actually help my chances? God knows I need every advantage against Donny Dexter and his coiffed blond hair, white teeth, and annoying habit of dropping his minor league baseball career into every conversation.
“When I was with the Seattle Rainiers, we always used to say...”
“Back when I was playing Double-A ball...”
“I once hit .247 in the minors before blowing out my elbow…”
I grab my mug and head toward my cubicle, passing Donny’s desk, which has framed photos of his baseball days, his jersey mounted in a display case on the wall, and a bat signed by some minor league team I’ve never heard of.
Subtle.
He’s not here yet, thank god, because I don’t think I can handle him before I’m fully caffeinated.
I make my way to my tiny office, which is really more of a converted supply closet, but I like the window that looks out onto a patch of trees in the parking lot. The “Sydney Holt: Weather Reporter” nameplate on the door is crooked, but it adds a certain charm. I toss my wet parka onto the back of my chair and slump down, immediately opening my laptop to assess the damage.
And...holy shit.
Rick wasn’t kidding. The clip of Brooks staring at me before giving me an ice spray is everywhere. Our station’s social media accounts are blowing up with comments, shares, and—surprisingly—a lot of positive feedback.
