“I—” I start to defend myself, then stop. He’s right. My knowledge of the Lakers is decent, but I don’t follow the Bulls closely enough to have that level of detail at my fingertips.
“What about local college teams?” the woman asks. “If you were covering LA sports, you’d need familiarity with USC, UCLA, the whole landscape.”
“I’d certainly need to deepen my knowledge of West Coast teams,” I admit, seeing no point in pretending. “But I’m a quick study, and I’m passionate about all sports, not just hockey.”
The executives exchange glances, communicating in that silent language of people who’ve worked together too long.
The conference room is silent except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights; I can hear my own pulse in my ears. Parker leans forward, voice velvet-smooth: “We’re prepared to offer you the position, Sydney. You’re sharp, resourceful, and you think on your feet—qualities we value at KSLA.”
My mouth goes dry. I blink, sure I’ve misunderstood. Did he mean ‘We’ll keep you in mind,’ or ‘We’ll let you know by Friday,’ or one of those polite brush-offs? But no, he continues, “We’d like you to start in an on-air support role with the expectation that you’ll be moving to the weekend sports desk within six months, contingent on review. You’d be working with our top-tier team, covering LA sports, contributing to digital highlights, and—should you wish—developing your own feature packages.”
My jaw actually drops. The smile on Parker’s face flickers for a half-second into something genuine at my stunned silence.
The other executives murmur their congratulations, some more convincing than others. The vibe is: she’s green, but she’s got potential. I hear it underneath every syllable. Maybe I even agree.
“You have until Monday to decide,” Parker says. “We understand it’s a big move, and we want you to be comfortable.”
“Wow, thank you,” I manage, acutely aware that my voice is shaking. “This is... incredible.”
“We’ll send you the offer in writing, with all the details and, of course, the salary package. Take your time to review,” the woman adds. “But do let us know as soon asyou’re able.” Her smile is warmer than before.
Parker stands, signaling the meeting is over. I stand too, on autopilot. My hands are sweat-slick as I shake theirs around the table, smile glued somewhere between professional and deranged. I’m still holding the tablet from my audition and nearly forget to hand it back to the production assistant waiting by the door.
They escort me back through the glass corridors, sunlight pouring in, everything too bright and slightly unreal. I keep thinking any minute now someone will tap me on the shoulder and say, “Sorry, there’s been a mix-up. We actually meant to offer this to the other Sydney from Idaho.”
But the tap doesn’t come. Instead, Parker walks me all the way to the lobby, shakes my hand again, and says, “We’re excited to have you, Sydney. Welcome to LA.”
I step into the elevator, doors gliding closed with a soft whoosh. That’s when the adrenaline dump hits. I sag against the mirrored wall, staring at my own reflection. I look like a high schooler who just found out she’d passed a test she assumed she’d bombed. My hands are trembling. My heart’s racing somewhere near my throat.
The hotel texts that my room is ready, but instead of heading back, I find myself wandering the streets near the station, taking in the city that might become my home. LA is a study in contrasts—gleaming skyscrapers casting shadows over homeless encampments, designer boutiques next to dollar stores, BMW convertibles idling next to beat-up food trucks.
I stop at a cafe with outdoor seating, ordering an overpriced latte that I can’t really afford, and pull up apartment listings on my phone. The numbers make me choke on my first sip. Thousands of dollars for a studio apartment the size of my bathroom in Dickens. More thousands for a one-bedroom with “partial city views”—which, based on the photos, means if you lean out the window and crane your neck, you might glimpse a building that isn’t directly in front of you.
Even if I get this job, even with the substantial pay increase, I’d be living paycheck to paycheck. No savings. No safety net. Just me in a shoebox apartment, chasing a dream that suddenly feels less shiny than it did.
By the time I make it back to the hotel, which is also sleek and modern, the staff so attractive they could be TV extras, the sun is setting, casting long shadows between the buildings. My room is nice—clean, modern, impersonal. I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
The TV remote is right there, and I find myself turning it on, flipping channels mindlessly until—
“Brooks Kingston makes his return to the ice after months of rehabilitation following a shoulder injury that many thought might end his career.”
My finger freezes on the remote. There he is, larger than life on the screen, skating in practice footage that must be recent. He looks good. Strong. That familiar determined set to his jaw as he fires a puck into the net.
“Sources close to the team say Kingston’s been cleared for play, though questions remain about his readiness for elite competition. The Boise coaching staff remains confident that their star center will return to form as they face the Colorado Blizzards next week.”
Oh, god. Brooks’ first game back, and he’s going head-to-head with Jonah.
My chest aches, a physical pain that surprises me with its intensity. I should be happy for him. This is what he’s worked toward these past months—his return, his redemption arc. But all I can think about is how quickly he let me go.
It shouldn’t hurt this much, should it?
Except I’d fallen for him—truly, deeply fallen—and I thought, I really thought, he had fallen for me too.
I flip the TV off and, exhausted, fall asleep, dreams filled with ice and snow and a man who taught me to skate only to leave me drowning.
Morning in LA is different from morning in Dickens. The light has a different quality—hazier, softer through the smog. The sounds are constant—traffic never stops, people never seem to sleep. I shower, dress, and head out, needing to walk, to think, to decide.
My flight home isn’t until this evening, giving me the morning and part of the afternoon to experience what life in LA might be like. I make my way to Hollywood Boulevard, because it seems like the touristy thing to do, and find myself in the midst of exactly the kind of LA chaos that makes for good stories back home.
