Page 5 of Wrong Score

Rowan

Before walking through the halls of the Hawkeyes corporate office only a few moments ago, I spent my morning staring at the email I received from my boss, feeling the weight of the words pressing against my chest.

"Rowan, we need an interview from Coach Bex ASAP. He’s a key figure in this season’s story, and you’ve got the best chance at getting him to talk. Make it happen."

Best regards,

Charles Albright

He makes it sound so easy. As if the grumpy arrogant head coach hasn’t made it his life’s mission to avoid me, dodge interviews, and treat me like I'm planning to load antifreeze in the Zamboni water tank.

Now I’m standing in Sam Roberts' office, watching the Hawkeyes’ GM across his desk. Despite Coach Bex’s agitated reaction to Sam’s news, Sam stands relaxed, hands on his hips, calmly waiting for Bex to finish his rant.

Bex is clearly unhappy that I'll be joining the team on away games starting in two weeks, but Sam is one of the most unshakeable GMs I’ve met in my years as a reporter—almost nothing ruffles him.

"Absolutely not, Sam. We only have eight more weeks to make it to the playoffs and you want to send a reporter with us for out of town games starting in two weeks? We can't afford any distractions," Bex says, leaning over Sam's desk.

Bexley Townsend.

Six foot two, two-time Stanley Cup winner, NHL Hall of Famer, and a former player for the Hawkeyes. Not that you could tell that the man was ever injured if you saw him out there on the ice during practice with the guys or in the gym lifting weights. You'd think he still plays professionally. He's in just as good of a shape as when he was playing, maybe even better, and he must have some kind of Benjamin Button disease because as much as I want his face to match his personality, he's inexplicably better looking with age.

And to add more to the man's bolstered ego, the gossip around the water cooler is that over his long career, he's turned down a full spread in Playgirl—twice. Not to mention that his sexy British accent could incinerate a woman’s panties. Bex is eighteen years older than me but has the grumpy disposition of my eighty-year-old neighbor Hans, who lives three doors down and gripes at me regularly every time I work from home while listening to true crime murder mysteries.

Each time I pass Hans in the halls these days, he tells me in a huff, "People should work in an office. Why is everyone now working from home? It's screwing with my nap schedule."

Get with the times Hans, it's a new age. No one wants to go outside anymore.

I'd like to respond with something similar, but I can't bring myself to do it. Hans has the cutest Boston Terrier that absolutely loves me, and when Hans has a doctor's appointment or needs someone to let Sherlock out for a tinkle midday, he calls me. Once a year Hans heads down to Portland to visit his daughter overnight, and I always volunteer to keep Sherlock for a sleepover.

We snuggle under a blanket on my couch and watch CSI Las Vegas together. I can usually guess who the killer is within the first ten minutes, but Sherlock doesn't mind… or at least he's never mentioned that it bothers him.

I'm too busy to have a dog of my own. The long hours, the travel—it wouldn’t be fair to the dog. So I borrow Sherlock when the very real ache to get my own fur baby arises, and I need to snuff it out. It's a temporary Band-Aid on a deeper wound that refuses to heal, but it’s the best I can do for now.

The truth is, the ache goes deeper than just wanting a pet. It’s tied to something I can’t have, something I’ve had to accept over the years. The doctors have all but confirmed that I’ll never have children of my own. Drew, my ex and I, tried everything, and now, with that chapter firmly closed, I’ve told myself to stop hoping for something I can’t have. No kids, no fur babies—just me, focusing on what I can control.

Sports journalism wasn’t my first dream. I wanted to write about art, about things that inspire people. But after everything that’s happened, I’m determined to make this work. It’s all I have left to build, and I won’t let it crumble. At least here, I can prove myself, show everyone what I’m capable of. And if I can secure this interview with Coach Bex, I’ll secure my position as a top sports reporter forThe Seattle Sunrise.

For now, that’s enough. It has to be.

It dawns on me that maybe Bex and Hans share the same problem. Team practices are messing with Bex's nap schedule. That must be it.

Lack of sleep makes Bexley a grumpy boy.

Oh, how I wish it were that easy, but I suspect Bex's mood is his unfortunate default setting. And as far as I know, Bex doesn't have any cute puppy to force me to be nice to him for future play dates.

Instead, he'd like to see me sidelined from attending any away games, but neither my boss atThe Seattle Sunrisenor his boss will allow such a thing to happen. Though if I’m wrong and Coach Bex has a bigger pull with Sam than I know, getting kept off the Hawkeyes jet could threaten my ability to do my job and prove to Charles that I deserve the head sports journalist position.

With every game, the Hawkeyes get closer and closer to the playoffs. The official NHL playoffs are within sight, and as long as the Hawkeyes boys can pull off eight more weeks of game wins, they'll have earned their spot in the Western Conference.

"Bex," Sam says evenly, "this arrangement was approved months ago. Rowan’s presence isn’t negotiable. The deal was that she will start to travel with the team as we get closer to the payoffs."

Sam Roberts' phone, dings and lights up on his desk. I catch the nameWIFEon the incoming text. Wife?

He types a quick reply, a small smile tugging at his lips, then sets the phone down. I thought he was divorced.

A glance at his ring finger shows it’s bare—no indent or tan line. Not all men wear wedding bands, but for some reason, I’d expect Sam to if he were married. Could he be rekindling something with Penelope’s mom? With Penelope now firmly established as Assistant GM for the Hawkeyes, maybe Sam’s considering life after hockey.

I glance at Bex’s left hand, finding it clenched and also ringless. I know he has an ex-wife—his rookie-year marriage that ended quickly. The official “irreconcilable differences” didn’t reveal much, and while gossip columns hinted at infidelity, neither side confirmed it.

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