There’s no one I can learn more from.
Boston’s skyline shines on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, past the sleek desks and matching gleaming floors. Expensive screens glow with fast-moving athletes in every sport imaginable.
Sports Sphere is the top sports news channel in the country. It’s on every television, in every lobby and lounge.
Sports is bigger than ever, and I’m part of it.
I’m not in Tennessee anymore.
Eight pairs of eyes follow Rex as he moves about the conference room. I’ve seen my new colleagues on TV and read their columns. Most of them are former athletes, and they move with the ease of self-made multimillionaires with extraordinary physical abilities. Even the interns look like they’re going to be swooped up by scouts and enthrall the world.
I’m the tenth person in the room.
The newbie.
The non-athlete, because high school doesn’t count. I had to quit hockey junior year when my parents divorced, but that was my fault for not choosing a cheaper sport.
A few of my new colleagues eye me suspiciously. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m gay or it’s because of the way I swell in the expensive leather ergonomic chair.
They think I don’t belong. They’re right.
Audiences get a kick when the commentators are people they used to watch, and they can remember when they didn’t have salt-and-pepper hair. Jackson Fields even got a gold medal in swimming in the Olympics two decades ago, and every major magazine has done a spread of his abs.
At least I come with five years of experience from the Sports Sphere Southeastern Office in Nashville. No one knows sports facts better than me.
“Welcome to your first staff meeting, Callum,” Rex says. “You’re settling in with Jeremy?”
“Yes. Thank you for suggesting I room with him.”
Rex gives a perfunctory nod. He turns to the others, and his baritone voice goes deep, like he’s on television announcing breaking sports news. “We need a story on Jason Larvik.”
Something dries in my throat.
Right.The one person I sort of know in Boston.
Not that we’re friends now. I don’t even have his phone number.
But we went to hockey camp together.
And we also...
Well, it’s better not to think about hockey camp.
Because thoughts of hockey camp inevitably lead to thoughts of the people at hockey camp.
And those thoughts always lead straight back to Jason.
I take a sip of coffee. A plate of cookies is on the table. No one has taken one yet, but I stretch out my hand and take one.
White chocolate macadamia. I bite into it and suppress a moan at the taste.
A woman with thick red glasses smiles happily. I point at the cookie, then nod my head at her in a questioning manner.
She beams, and I give her a thumbs-up.
Technically, I probably should focus completely on my boss.
But listening to any talk about Jason Larvik makes my nerves skitter.
