Page 1 of The Puckable Playbook

CHAPTER ONE

Len

The Warner newsroombuzzes with electricity, alive with ideas, creativity, and the spark of the next best thing. The muted sounds of barely audible typing mix with low conversations about different stories, and my skin’s about to jump off my bones because I’m sitting next to Clark Davis…and our knees are touching.

Go to press…our knees are freaking touching.

His mouth moves while I stare at his profile: the adorable black ink smudge on his cheek that he probably doesn’t even know is there calls to me like a lighthouse beacon; the day-old stubble haphazardly growing in different directions; the way his black-frame glasses slip down his nose. He uses his pointer finger to push them back up, then peers over at me…and I nearly have a heart attack. He issoperfect.

Quickly changing the direction of my stare, I focus on the layout he’s started for the next edition of the Warner Gazette.

This is important, I remind myself. The adorable ink smudge can wait. My unrequited crush on him can wait. The wayhe looks like Clark Kent—literally—right before he turns into Superman will still be there while we hammer out this layout. I am a professional, for crying out loud.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I blink. Of its own accord, my mouth moves, but not a single sound comes out. My brain works, trying to think of one thing he showed me while I drooled over him, but I have nothing. The fact that I’m such a spaz in moments like this is mind-bogglingly embarrassing, and honestly, the story of my life.

Ninety-nine point eight percent of the time, I am a level-headed, abysmally normal person. The moment he walks into the room, I act like a Netflix junkie on a fluff binge who spends her free time staring at walls.

I give him a grin that I hope appears cute, but more than likely struggles to be this side of passably sane. “Sorry, Clark. Would you mind explaining again?”

His jaw twitches, and my gaze focuses there like a love-seeking missile. What does that mean? Is he mad? Does he think I’m an imbecile? Heck, I’d take frustratingly endearing right now.

Fixing my glasses back to their rightful position, I turn toward the screen while Clark talks me through his thought process again. I listen to his layout choices, and I’m glad I paid attention this time because there are minor tweaks he should take into account before finalizing. Gesturing at the layout, I point them out, then shrug. At least my words come out intelligent enough.

He stands, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re a godsend, Lenore. I’ve been…”

Staring at this all day.Yeah, I know.

An internal, contented sigh accompanies the glazing over of my eyes. I could repeat his spiel back to him—I’ve heard it so many times—but I’m too busy studying his perfectly pink lips.What would he do if I kissed him? Right here, right now. Stood up with him and sealed my lips to that flawless cupid’s bow.

He pats my back, jarring me out of my reverie, and then hurries off to his workspace on the opposite end of the room. Since we work with each other a lot, I’ve always wondered why he doesn’t move closer. The resounding thought is that he wants to kiss me too and sitting so close would only tease him. We are at work, after all. Both über-professional newspeople, so staying away is for our own benefit.

When I’m having a bad day, though, it’s because I have stinky cheese breath that roils his stomach every time he’s near.

I’ll never know which it is because, besides the possible cheese breath, I’m also a certified chicken. No way on this Earth would I ever approach Clark with my fantasies.

Moving my attention to my own laptop, I stare at my Word doc for a bit before getting back into the groove of the article I’m writing about the Warner clock tower. The clock hasn’t worked in years, yet it’s a Warner staple. Upperclassmen use the never-moving hands to trick younger classmen into being late to classes. Stately pictures of it stand out among clouds and a blue sky on all the Warner University brochures. Symbolically, it’s right up there with our Bulldog statue in the quad.

Recently, however, the college board has proposed to actually fix the clock in a massive undertaking. The student body instantly divided into two camps: one that wants the repairs, and one that is very vocal about keeping the nostalgic, broken timepiece what it always has been.

Rumors abound as to why it stopped working in the first place. One particularly macabre story has lived on longer than most. In a fit of jealous rage, an undergrad climbed to the top of the tower on a dark and stormy night. With thunder rolling all around her, she called out one last time for her unfaithful love before diving to her death.

There are also less tragic stories, like it was hit by a single bolt of lightning on a clear day. Though, I tend to think that theory took hold in the 80s whenBack to the Futurereleased.

Since no one on the board can tell me why it stopped working, I need to research the exact reason. A significant historical fact might help sway the interested parties one way or the other—keep the wistful marker as is or fix the “embarrassment.”

Their words, not mine.

Like any other quality reporter, I’m only here to record the facts. A good story backed by truth can at least give everyone the same knowledge to base their decisions off of with confidence.

Unfortunately, the story of this clock tower is slippery at best. Nailing down the actual reason it ceased to tell time is proving to test my research skills, and I need this information before going to print on this article.

“You look better.”

I peer up from my screen. Kitty-corner from me, across the white table that spans the length of the newsroom, sits Flora, my work buddy. Her curious gaze traces over my face.

Warmth creeps up my cheeks. “Finally. The roommate from hell moved out, so I can sleep.”

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