STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “I should go.” I scramble to my feet, hair sticking to my face, cheeks burning. I have basically nothing for the story that I have to write, but there’s no way I can stay here a moment longer. I carve past the rest of the locker room, past the embarrassed faces of the other reporters and the condemning faces of the other players. I wanted to be a real journalist, and now I’ve blown it all in a college locker room covering a subject I don’t even care about.

I hit to navy doors at a near run, and don’t stop until I’m back to my dorm room.

2

It’s dusk by the time I make it across campus— the post-game crowd is crazy, and packs of alumni and students alike block my way and slow down the crosswalks.

I get back to my dorm room and hit my bed, force my eyes shut, willing myself to fall asleep. If I can just fall asleep, I won’t have to think about this disaster for the next hour or two or however long I can manage to stay in dreamland. Unfortunately, after an hour, I’m still wide awake, staring at my phone, waiting to see Devin’s name pop up with the “there’s not even a word for how fired you are” phone call that I know is coming.

Except, by eight o’clock, I still haven’t heard from my notorious editor. At eight fifteen, I get a text from Devin.

When can I expect your story? Need info on who you spoke to so we can start prepping photos.

I cringe. Story? What story? The story of my total demise? I open my newspaper-issued laptop and log into the program we use to write all our stories in, so we can see how they’ll be formatted on screen. I audition a few sentences and titles— Blaze Reporter’s Blunder Causes Chaos.

Maybe I can try for something humorous, a little off-beat story that would make up for my lack of actually getting anything resembling a real interview.

I blow air out of my nostrils and close my eyes.

Fuck.

Then I send a text back to Devin.

I’ll try to get something to you tomorrow. I spoke to Carson Slate.

I mean, he’s going to find out sooner or later, right? I might as well tear the Band-Aid off. I’ve barely sent the text when my phone rings— Devin is calling. I take a long, steadying breath and answer.

“You got an interview with Carson Slate? That’s insane! Holy shit, Astrid, I did not expect you to land something like that. He hasn’t given a single interview this year,” Devin practically shouts. I feel sick at the excitement in his voice, at just how wrong he’s interpreting the situation. He goes on without giving me a chance to clarify. “Did you get anything good? Did you get anything about his dad, by chance?”

“No, nothing like that. Nothing great at all, to be honest. Just lots of one word answers,” I say, trying to wade into the disaster toe by toe.

“Still, that’s something,” Devin gushes. “If we can fluff up the story a little, it’ll look like we’ve got an exclusive with him. It’ll be huge. God, I wish we’d gotten something about his dad. Did he say anything at all?”

“Uh, no— well, just that he doesn’t like to talk to reporters because they always want details on his dad.”

“Well, yeah. The guy is a murderer. Why wouldn’t we ask for details?” Devin says. “We can spin that. It’s not much of a story, but we can use that as the headline and then just backfill it with old information. It’ll get snatched up like crazy. Maybe even get it syndicated state-wide.”

“Seriously?” I ask, voice daring to rise. A syndicated story? If it went state-wide, Devin probably wouldn’t fire me when he found out that Carson didn’t so much give me an interview as get cornered by an idiot sophomore journalist who didn’t know who he was. Hell, even my parents would be impressed, and they don’t even consider writing an actual, real thing that human beings can do for a living.

Devin keeps talking. “Okay, listen— you’ve got to go get back in front of him. You talked to him once, he must like you.”

“I really don’t know about that,” I tell him.

“Whatever. Look, go see if you can get anything else out of him. You don’t need to tell him you’re working on a story about his dad or anything— just let him take the conversation wherever he likes, then guide it toward his dad when you can, okay?”

I shake my head even though Devin can’t see it. “I really, really, really think that the regular sports reporter ought to do this, Devin.”

“The regular sports reporter has never gotten a word out of Carson Slate,” Devin says firmly. I consider pointing out that this is because the regular sports reporter knew not to even approach Carson in the locker room, but instead rub my face worriedly, smearing what’s left of this afternoon’s mascara.