Page 1 of Necessary Roughness

1

Natalie

“Great stuff, Hitchens, great stuff. Now we can guarantee the full blown depression of half the student body.”

My editor, Charles, holds up his iPad with my latest piece on it: an article on the plight of Somalian refugees living in New England.

“There’s some good reporting in there, Charles,” I reply, crossing my arms as I stand in his office. It’s late. I should be out at a party or with my boyfriend, but I’m here working my butt off as an underappreciated writer for the Daily Press, Boston University’s on-campus paper.

“Sure is.” Charles nods, setting his tablet aside. “And if I wanted to enter your name for a Pulitzer, I’d tell you to keep writing just like this. But I don’t, Nat. I want readers.”

“So what do you want?” I ask him. “Stories on the best beer to drink at parties? Or maybe what the best porn sites are? Or how to get your girlfriend to have a threesome without being creepy?”

“No to the first,” he replies. “Yes to the second and definitely yes to the third. Guys would love to hear that from a girl’s perspective.”

“I’m not going to pander, Charles. They deserve real news.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.” Charles smiles. “Because I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Here it comes. After his last one, where he asked me to cover a female alumnus who was making six figures on Onlyfans, I can’t even imagine what this will be. He turns his monitor and I see a picture of a big, dumb, hockey jock drinking some kind of alcohol out of a Stanley Cup replica. He’s shirtless, with two fake-boobed blondes on each arm. I know exactly who it is.

“Bobby Brodeur.” Charles smiles.

“I know him. So what? He doesn’t do interviews.”

“Exactly!” Charles replies. “If there’s anyone who can get him to, it’s you.”

“Give it to Marshall. He’s into sports.”

“I’m giving it to you,” Charles says. He’s almost forty, but still has boyish good lucks that help him get away with being so brash. “And you’re going to get it. You know why?”

“Why?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Because Natalie Hitchens gets her story.” He smirks. “He’s got a game tonight and I want you there. Oh, and because he’s an alumnus of this college, and if you play your cards right, will open right up to you.”

I frown. “Are you asking me to…flirt with this Charles?”

“I’m telling you to do whatever you can to get this story,” Charles says as he stands and grabs his bag. He turns off his desk lamp and walks past me. “And I know you will, because you are a great reporter.”

“Charles—”

“See you on Monday, Hitchens!” he says as he walks backwards out the door, flashing me double finger-guns as he does. “Oh, and try to have some fun this weekend, will you? You’re young. Don’t waste it!”

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