Page 1 of Dirty As Puck
1
I’m stress-eating a blueberry muffin that tastes like cardboard when my phone decides to ruin what’s left of my Tuesday morning. The caller ID shows Marcus Webb - Sports Illustrated, and I nearly choke on the blue crumble.
Marcus Webb doesn’t call freelancers. Marcus Webb has assistants who have assistants who send form rejection emails. The fact that his name is lighting up my cracked iPhone screen means either I’ve won the journalism lottery or I’m about to get sued for that piece I wrote about performance-enhancing smoothies in youth hockey.
“Rochelle Winters,” I answer, trying to sound like I wasn’t just calculating whether I can afford both rent and groceries this month. Spoiler alert: I cannot.
“Winters. Marcus Webb, Sports Illustrated. I have a proposition.”
No pleasantries. I respect that. Also, my bank account is currently showing $247.83, so I’m inclined to respect anything that might change that number.
“I’m listening.”
The coffee shop around me fades to background noise. The hiss of espresso machines, the tap-tap of laptop keyboards, the general ambiance of Seattle trying to caffeinate itself into productivity. I lean forward, laptop forgotten, and focus on Marcus’s gravelly voice.
“Eight-week embedded assignment. Full access with the Seattle Icehawks during their playoff push. Team meetings, locker room, travel, the works. We want an in-depth profile on Kai Morrison.”
My pulse jumps. The Seattle Icehawks. Kai “Storm” Morrison. This is major, front-page territory. This is career-making territory. This is“Rochelle, how did you go from writing about amateur bowling tournaments to covering professional hockey”territory.
“What’s the angle?” I ask, because I’ve learned that when opportunities sound too good to be true, there’s usually a catch hiding in the fine print.
“Morrison’s latest scandal. Bar fight two weeks ago, sent some guy to the hospital. My source says there’s more to dig up. Lots of juicy stories buried in his past. We want you to get close, get the real story. The kind of access other journalists can’t get. The Icehawks are having a notorious season with their players out of control. The media needs to know what’s going on up there.”
The catch reveals itself. They want me to be their weapon of choice in character assassination. Not exactly the kind of journalism that gets you a Pulitzer, but it pays the bills. And right now, my bills are winning.
“Why me?” I ask, though I suspect I know the answer. Young, female, probably less threatening than the usual sports journalism old boys’ club. Someone Morrison might actually talk to instead of giving the standard media-trained responses.
“You’re hungry. You’re thorough. And you’re not afraid to ask the uncomfortable questions.”
Translation: I’m desperate enough to take assignments other journalists won’t touch, and I don’t have enough industry connections to worry about burning bridges.
“What’s the timeline?” I ask.
“Playoffs start in two weeks. We need you embedded from day one. Full exposure - practices, games, team travel, everything. Eight weeks, maybe more if they make it to the finals.”
Eight weeks. Eight weeks of steady pay, real assignments, actual sports journalism instead of community college tennis tournaments and high school football. Eight weeks to prove I belong in the big leagues.
“I’ll need credentials, hotel arrangements, travel budget—”
“Already handled. You interested or not?”
I glance at my laptop screen, where my bank account balance mocks me from the corner. Then I look around this coffee shop where I’ve been camping out because my apartment’s heating is questionable, and the Wi-Fi is non-existent.
“I’m interested.”
“Good. Email me your availability and I’ll send over the details. Oh, and Winters? Morrison’s got a reputation for eating journalists alive. Don’t take it personally.”
The line goes dead, and I sit there staring at my phone like it might disappear if I blink too hard.
Before I can fully process what just happened, my phone buzzes with a text from my best friend, Gemma.
Coffee date cancelled AGAIN by Mr. Wonderful. Emergency margaritas at my place tonight? I have the good tequila.
I text back quickly:Rain check. Just got the assignment of a lifetime. Will call you later with details.
Her response is immediate:THE assignment? The one you’ve been manifesting? OMG YES. Call me the second you’re done hyperventilating.
Gemma knows me too well. She’s been my reality check since college, the friend who talks me down from panic spirals and celebrates my wins when I’m too scared to believe they’re real. We’ve been through three years of my freelance struggles together. She’s the one who brought me soup when I couldn’t afford groceries and reminded me I’m good at this job when every editor in Seattle seemed to disagree.
