The Risk (Briar U #2)(34)

He’s just one little obstacle, says the reassuring voice in my head.

Right. If I can conquer Jerk Mountain, the internship promised land awaits me on the other side. I won’t have to report to Mulder. I probably won’t even see him again. All I need to do is prove to him that I’m qualified for this position, and then I can forget he exists. Which won’t be too difficult to do.

I can’t believe I’ve already been waiting an hour for him. When I walked in at nine o’clock sharp, Rochelle apologetically informed me that Mr. Mulder was currently on an unscheduled conference call. Super important, apparently.

Uh-huh. I’m sure that was why I kept hearing bursts of laughter and nasally guffaws from behind his closed door.

After about forty-five minutes, Rochelle went into the office to speak to him. The next thing I knew, an employee named Mischa popped up and announced he was taking me on a tour of the station while we wait for Mulder to finish up.

I follow his tall, lanky frame down the brightly lit corridor. “So what exactly do you do here, Mischa?”

“I’m the stage manager. Which is a lot less glamorous than the title implies. Basically I coordinate the talent, see to the needs of the director, clean up the set, keep the caffeine flowing.” He offers a dry look. “Sometimes I get to make small adjustments to the lighting equipment.”

“Oooh, you’ve hit the big-time!”

He grins. “Eventually I hope to become a director, or maybe run master control. That would be the big-time.”

We pass a bulky man in a gray pinstriped suit. He’s on his cell phone but spares us a brief look as we walk by him. Recognition instantly hits me.

“Holy shit,” I hiss to Mischa. “Was that Kyler Winters?”

“Yup. We just landed him as a special commentator. He’ll be reporting on the NHL playoffs.”

“Do a lot of other former NHLers working here?”

“Definitely. Most of them are analysts or game commentators. We’ve got some former coaches, too. And then there’s the fantasy guys, stats guys, injury experts. And the loud-mouthed opinion dudes, like Kip and Trevor,” he says, naming the popular talking-heads duo whose show is probably the most controversial. Both men have strong opinions and aren’t afraid to voice them.

“That’s a lot of testosterone in one building,” I tease. “What’s the estrogen situation like?”

He laughs. “Well, if we’re talking on-camera, we’ve got Erin Foster. She usually reports from the locker room. And Georgia—”

“Barnes,” I finish.

Georgia Barnes is kind of my idol. She’s the one who asks the hard-hitting questions after the games, pulling no punches. She’s also smart as a whip and hosts a weekly opinion segment, and while her views aren’t as contentious as Kip and Trevor’s, I find them a lot more intelligent, if I’m being honest.

“Georgia’s awesome,” Mischa tells me. “Sharpest wit you’ve ever experienced. I’ve seen her verbally cut down men three times her size.”

“I love her,” I confess.

“We’ve also got a female director for some of the evening segments, a few analysts, a couple women who work on the crew. Oh, and exhausted assistants like Maggie over here,” he finishes, gesturing to the figure barreling toward us. “Hey, Mags.”

Maggie is a harried-looking girl with bangs that keep falling in her eyes. She’s carrying a cardboard tray of coffee cups, and rather than stop to greet us, she mumbles, “Don’t talk to me. I’m late and Kip’s gonna kill me.” She rushes past without a backward glance.

“Still want to work here?” Mischa teases me.

“I’m a pro at getting coffee,” I say confidently. “And I’m never late.”

“That’s good to hear. Because some of the dudes who work here have hair-trigger tempers. One producer, Pete, fires his assistants every other month. He’s already been through three of them this year.”

We continue the tour, winding up in the main studio, which is so cool to see. I gaze longingly at the news desk where the analysts sit, but even cooler is the set of Kip and Trevor’s show, Hockey Corner. The familiar brown leather couch and backdrop covered with pennants and trophies trigger a wave of excitement. How amazing would it be to have my own show one day? My own set?

I force away the grandiose delusions. It’s a nice fantasy, but I imagine it’d take years, decades even, before somebody gave me my own show.

The radio clipped to Mischa’s belt crackles with static. “Mr. Mulder is ready for her,” comes Rochelle’s voice.

“See? That wasn’t too long of a wait,” Mischa tells me. “Right?”

Uh-huh. Right. Mulder was an hour and fifteen minutes late to an interview that wasn’t even supposed to be today. Consummate professional.

Mischa walks me back to the production offices, where Rochelle hurriedly ushers me to her boss.

“Mr. Mulder,” I say. “It’s good to see you again.”

As always, his attention is elsewhere. There are several overhead screens mounted on the wall, and one is showing a newscast from a rival network. It’s on mute, but the coverage is on Saturday night’s Oilers game.

He tears his gaze away from the screen. “Thanks for coming back. Friday was a total shit show.”