Page 286 of Faking the Goal

I've been trying to write the same opening paragraph for the past twenty minutes, which would probably be going a lot better if everyone around me would shut the hell up.

Someone near the production desk is replaying the same ten-second clip from a student government interview over and over, the sports editor is loudly insisting that an intramural dodgeball championship does, in fact, deserve homepage placement, and the ancient printer behind me keeps making a grinding noise that sounds less like machinery and more like a dying animal begging us to end its suffering.

I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop and reread what I have for the fourth time.

RIDGEWATER UNIVERSITY'S MEN'S HOCKEY TEAM ENTERS THE FINAL STRETCH OF THE REGULAR SEASON—

No. Too boring.

I highlight the sentence and delete it, then immediately regret deleting it because at least it had been a sentence, which is more than I currently have.

Across from me, Brett is hunched over one of the office computers with his headphones hanging around his neck, clicking through photos from Saturday's football practice. He has been staring at nearly identical shots of sweaty men tackling each other for the past twenty minutes, periodically muttering things like soft focus and terrible framing as though the pictures personally betrayed him.

"How many different ways can you photograph a man getting hit in the head?" I ask.

"More than you'd think." He clicks to the next image, grimaces, and marks it for deletion. "Apparently, none of the ways I tried were good."

I glance at his screen. "That one looks fine."

"The ball is covering half his face."

"That improves it."

Brett turns his head slowly and gives me a flat look. "Some of us respect our subjects."

"Some of us were assigned subjects who voluntarily run into one another for fun."

"You photograph hockey players."

"Yes, but they do it on knives. It adds elegance."

He snorts and turns back to the screen while I look down at my notes again. I have three pages of quotes from Coach Hopper, two decent ones from Cody, and one deeply unhelpful answer from Luke Archer, who responded to my question about the team's preparations for the upcoming conference games by saying, We're preparing to look devastatingly handsome while winning.

Technically, it is a direct quote.

Morally, I cannot reward him by printing it.

"What are you working on?" Brett asks without looking away from his photos.

"The conference preview."

"I thought that wasn't due until Wednesday."

"The article is due Wednesday. The photo package is due tomorrow morning because Polly wants the graphics team to have time to lay it out before the Tuesday newsletter." I scroll farther down the shared production calendar, which is currently covered in enough color-coded boxes to trigger a migraine. "Then I have the player profile draft due Friday, and apparently we need social media teasers for all of it because nobody reads anything unless we trick them with a dramatic caption first."

Brett finally looks over. "Which player profile?"

"Kentaro."

His eyebrows lift. "Ooh... the boyfriend profile."

Heat creeps into my cheeks.

"Must be nice," he says, leaning back in his chair. "The rest of us have to email our sources three times before they answer. Yours sleeps in the same bed."

I let out an exaggerated gasp.

"Last semester you were practically begging Kentaro Azuma for fifteen minutes of his time. But now you have unlimited access."