“Shit, people can get hurt,” Mike says, and there’s such sincerity in his tone that I can’t help but laugh. Something about Hollis is very endearing. He’s like a big kid.

“Not sure if you know this,” I solemnly tell Hollis, “but…hockey’s a violent sport.”

Fitz chuckles.

Before Hollis can issue a comeback, noise blasts out of his phone. He’s got the most annoying ringtone, a hip-hop track with a bunch of guys shouting nonsense. Suits him to a T, though.

“Yo,” he answers.

My attention returns to the Bruins game. Briefly. It’s quickly diverted back to Hollis as he provides the most bizarre half of a conversation.

“Slow down…what?” He listens. “Do I have a car? No.” Another long pause. “I mean… I guess I could borrow one? Wait, who is this?”

Nate barks out a laugh.

“What’s happening right now?” Hollis sounds bewildered. “Who is this? Ruby? What pee? Did we meet at Jesse Wilkes’s party?”

Summer makes a strangled sound and covers her mouth.

I look over and we exchange a huge grin. Not Ruby. Rupi. The energy tornado from the diner made her move. She hadn’t wasted any time, either.

“I don’t understand this… Um okay…listen. Ruby. I don’t know who you are. Are you hot?”

Fitz snorts loudly. I just roll my eyes.

“Yeah, okay… I don’t think so.” Hollis is still wholly baffled. “Later,” he says, and then hangs up.

Summer’s lips are trembling like crazy as she asks, “Who was that?”

“I dunno!” He picks up his beer and chugs nearly half of it. “Some crazy chick just called and said to pick her up for dinner on Thursday night.”

Summer buries her face against Fitz’s shoulder, giggling uncontrollably. I don’t have a boyfriend to shield my laughter, so I bite my lip and hope Hollis doesn’t notice.

“This is weird, right?” he says in confusion. “Strange chicks don’t call you out of the blue and ask you on dates, right? I must’ve met her before.” He glances at Nate. “Do you know a Ruby?”

“Nope.”

“Fitz?”

“Also nope.”

Summer laughs harder.

“Do you?” Hollis accuses her.

“No,” she lies, and I can tell she’s making a conscious effort not to look my way. “I just find this incredibly hilarious.”

I unhook my teeth from my bottom lip. “So are you going out with her?” I ask as casually as I can muster.

He gapes at me. “Of course not! She wouldn’t tell me if she’s hot, told me I’d find out Thursday night. So I said I don’t think so and hung up. I’m not in the mood to get murdered, please and thank you.”

Why do I have a feeling Rupi Miller isn’t going to be satisfied with that outcome?

My grin nearly cracks my face in half. Summer was right. The weekend from hell did finish off right.

11

Brenna

“I’m sure he won’t be much longer.” The employee who’s been tasked with babysitting me keeps repeating the assurance.

Frankly, I don’t care how long Ed Mulder takes. In fact, I’ve been fighting the urge to leave out of spite. If I hadn’t endured nearly two hours of rush-hour traffic this morning to reach Boston, I totally would’ve said screw it and stomped out of the HockeyNet building, never to return. But I’ll be damned if that bumper-to-bumper traffic was for naught.

He’s just one little obstacle, says the reassuring voice in my head.

Right. If I can conquer Jerk Mountain, the internship promised land awaits me on the other side. I won’t have to report to Mulder. I probably won’t even see him again. All I need to do is prove to him that I’m qualified for this position, and then I can forget he exists. Which won’t be too difficult to do.

I can’t believe I’ve already been waiting an hour for him. When I walked in at nine o’clock sharp, Rochelle apologetically informed me that Mr. Mulder was currently on an unscheduled conference call. Super important, apparently.

Uh-huh. I’m sure that was why I kept hearing bursts of laughter and nasally guffaws from behind his closed door.

After about forty-five minutes, Rochelle went into the office to speak to him. The next thing I knew, an employee named Mischa popped up and announced he was taking me on a tour of the station while we wait for Mulder to finish up.

I follow his tall, lanky frame down the brightly lit corridor. “So what exactly do you do here, Mischa?”

“I’m the stage manager. Which is a lot less glamorous than the title implies. Basically I coordinate the talent, see to the needs of the director, clean up the set, keep the caffeine flowing.” He offers a dry look. “Sometimes I get to make small adjustments to the lighting equipment.”

“Oooh, you’ve hit the big-time!”

He grins. “Eventually I hope to become a director, or maybe run master control. That would be the big-time.”

We pass a bulky man in a gray pinstriped suit. He’s on his cell phone but spares us a brief look as we walk by him. Recognition instantly hits me.

“Holy shit,” I hiss to Mischa. “Was that Kyler Winters?”

“Yup. We just landed him as a special commentator. He’ll be reporting on the NHL playoffs.”

“Do a lot of other former NHLers working here?”

“Definitely. Most of them are analysts or game commentators. We’ve got some former coaches, too. And then there’s the fantasy guys, stats guys, injury experts. And the loud-mouthed opinion dudes, like Kip and Trevor,” he says, naming the popular talking-heads duo whose show is probably the most controversial. Both men have strong opinions and aren’t afraid to voice them.

“That’s a lot of testosterone in one building,” I tease. “What’s the estrogen situation like?”

He laughs. “Well, if we’re talking on-camera, we’ve got Erin Foster. She usually reports from the locker room. And Georgia—”

“Barnes,” I finish.

Georgia Barnes is kind of my idol. She’s the one who asks the hard-hitting questions after the games, pulling no punches. She’s also smart as a whip and hosts a weekly opinion segment, and while her views aren’t as contentious as Kip and Trevor’s, I find them a lot more intelligent, if I’m being honest.

“Georgia’s awesome,” Mischa tells me. “Sharpest wit you’ve ever experienced. I’ve seen her verbally cut down men three times her size.”

“I love her,” I confess.

“We’ve also got a female director for some of the evening segments, a few analysts, a couple women who work on the crew. Oh, and exhausted assistants like Maggie over here,” he finishes, gesturing to the figure barreling toward us. “Hey, Mags.”

Maggie is a harried-looking girl with bangs that keep falling in her eyes. She’s carrying a cardboard tray of coffee cups, and rather than stop to greet us, she mumbles, “Don’t talk to me. I’m late and Kip’s gonna kill me.” She rushes past without a backward glance.