The Risk (Briar U #2)(11)

“Good. I find that while male applicants come in knowing the details, the female ones often expect to get paid.”

He’s gone from vaguely sexist to obscenely so. And the comment doesn’t make much sense, either. The job posting on the HockeyNet site clearly specified this was an unpaid internship. Why would men expect one thing and women expect another? Is he suggesting that the women didn’t read the posting correctly? Or that we can’t read at all?

Beads of sweat break out at the nape of my neck. I’m so off my game here.

“So. Brenda. Tell me about yourself.”

I gulp. He called me Brenda. Should I correct him?

Of course you should correct him. Screw this guy. You own him. Confident Brenda—I mean Brenna—rears her spectacular head.

“Actually, it’s Brenna,” I say smoothly, “and I think I’d be a good fit here. First and foremost, I love hockey. It’s—”

“Your father is Chad Jensen.” His jaw moves up and down, and I realize he’s chewing gum. Classy.

I answer in a careful tone. “Yes, he is.”

“A championship-winning coach. Multiple Frozen Four wins, right?”

I nod. “He’s a great coach.”

Mulder nods back. “You must be proud of him. What would you say is your biggest strength, aside from having a semi-famous dad?”

I force myself to ignore the snide note in his inquiry and say, “I’m smart. I think on my feet. I thrive under pressure. And most of all, I genuinely love this sport. Hockey is—”

Annnd he’s not listening to me anymore.

His gaze has shifted to the computer screen, and he’s still chewing his gum like a horse chomping on some oats. The window behind his desk provides a fuzzy glimpse of the reflection from his monitor…is that a fantasy hockey lineup? I think it’s the ESPN fantasy page.

He suddenly glances at me. “Who’s your team?”

I wrinkle my forehead. “My college team or—”

“NHL,” he interrupts impatiently. “Who do you root for, Brenda?”

“Brenna,” I say through gritted teeth. “And I root for the Bruins, of course. What about you?”

Mulder snorts loudly. “Oilers. I’m a Canadian boy, through and through.”

I feign interest. “Oh, that’s interesting. Are you from Edmonton, then?”

“I am.” His eyes flick back to his screen. In an absentminded tone, he says, “What would you say is your biggest weakness, aside from having a semi-famous dad?”

I swallow an angry retort. “I can be impatient at times,” I confess, because there’s no way I’m doing that cheesy bit about how my biggest weakness is that I care too much or work too hard. Gag.

Mulder’s attention is once again diverted to his fantasy hockey team. Silence falls over the spacious office. I shift irritably in my chair and examine the glass case against the wall. It displays all the awards the station has won over the years, along with signed paraphernalia from various pro hockey players. There’s a lot of Oilers merch in there, I note.

On the opposite wall, two big screens are showing two different programs: an NHL highlights reel from this weekend, and a Top Ten segment counting down the most explosive rookie seasons of all time. I wish the TVs weren’t on mute. At least then I could hear something interesting while I’m being ignored.

Frustration climbs up my spine like ivy and tightens around my throat. He isn’t paying a lick of attention to me. Either he’s the worst interviewer on the planet, a rude jackass, or he’s not seriously considering me for this position.

Or maybe it’s D) all of the above.

Tristan was wrong. Ed Mulder isn’t a jerk—he’s a mega asshole. But unfortunately, good, hands-on internships at big networks like HockeyNet don’t come along every day. It’s slim pickings out there in the internship market. And I’m also not na?ve enough to think that Mulder is a special case. Several of my professors, both male and female, warned me that sports journalism isn’t the most welcoming field for women.

I’m going to face men like Mulder during my entire career. Losing my temper or storming out of his office won’t help me achieve my goals. If anything, it’ll “prove” his own point in his misogynistic head: that women are too emotional, too weak, too ill equipped to survive in the sports arena.

“So.” I clear my throat. “What would my duties be if I got this internship?” I already know the answer—I practically memorized the job posting, not to mention my CIA-worthy interrogation of Tristan the TA. But I might as well ask some questions, seeing as how Mulder isn’t interested in returning the favor.

His head lifts. “We’ve got three intern slots to fill in the production department. I’m the head of that department.”

I wonder if he realizes he hadn’t answered the question. I draw a calming breath. “And the duties?”

“Highly intensive,” he replies. “You’d be required to compile game highlights, assemble clips packages, help to create teasers and B-roll. You’d attend production meetings, pitch ideas for stories…” He trails off, clicking his mouse a few times.

AKA, the perfect job for me. I want this. I need this. I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering how I can turn this disastrous meeting around.