Chapter 1
You want to know what is worse than living anywhere other than New York? The utter lack of sophistication. You can’t get a decent bagel to save your life. And the so-called “city life” of Atlanta? Please. TRAFFIC. Don’t even get me started on the traffic. It takes anywhere from 30 minutes to 3 to 5 business days to get anywhere from anywhere else. The people here have zero fashion sense and no one understands the art of a good espresso. Basically, the worst part about it is that it isn’t New York. It’s like living in a perpetual episode of some second-rate reality show. Ugh.
If I hate not living in New York, then why did I leave, you ask. What an excellent question. I was just minding my own business living my best life in New York City, where the world is at your feet and the possibilities are endless–day in, day out, soaking up the unparalleled energy of Manhattan until the fateful day in June when my boyfriend of four years was moved to Atlanta, Georgia by his company. And before you even start, yes, I know Atlanta is a “big city.” But let’s be real—it’s not NewYork, and it never will be. It doesn’t have the atmosphere, the sophistication, or the charm. So, let’s move on because there’s no point in pretending anything can compare to the greatest city on Earth.
Being the dutiful girlfriend that I am, and against my much better judgment, I packed our things, quit my job, and made the move to Atlanta. To the South. I mean, can you even believe it? It’s like some dirty little secret I have to whisper when telling anyone I actually left NYC. Me. Leaving NYC. Absurd, right? Anyway, totally getting off-topic here. So, we made it a grand total of three months in the so-called “Hollywood” of the South before my now ex-boyfriend decided to break up with me and move out. He actually had the nerve to say there was “too much opportunity” here to stay in a relationship that was going nowhere. NOWHERE? Excuse me, but I thought we were doing a hell of a lot more than going nowhere. Honestly, some people just don’t appreciate what they have.
From the moment I first stepped into the apartment, it was clear it had seen better days. The walls, once likely a vibrant color, now bore the dull, faded marks of age and neglect. The carpet was threadbare in places, with mysterious stains that hinted at a long history of previous tenants. Yet, despite the creaky floorboards and the persistent dust that clung to every corner, there was a charm to its shabbiness. It was small, the kind of place you could cross in a few short strides, with windows that looked out onto a brick wall, but it was mine. The kitchen was more a kitchenette, squeezed into a corner with outdated appliances that groaned and wheezed when used. Yet, this tiny, rundown apartment was my first step into a new life, a space I could call my own as I figured out my next moves.
The ex was at least kind enough to wait until I found a new job and signed a year lease on an apartment I can’t afford before he fully put the last nail in the coffin that is my life. So here I am, four months into my twelve-month prison sentence in this backwater city. Working at ACN–Atlanta Cable Network–a national basic cable network headquartered here. I took literally the first job I could get, which is so far beneath me it’s almost laughable. My extensive background in national news and degree in broadcast journalism isn’t going to save me in the realm of sports. The affiliate that hired me? Their network only covers live sports. Nothing else. Can you imagine? I went from aspiring to be the next Barbara Walters to being stuck in sportsball hell. Honestly, if they knew how much talent they were wasting on this nonsense, they’d be embarrassed. But no, they’re all too busy cheering over touchdowns and home runs to notice. It’s shocking that anyone would even give me a paycheck to work in sports. I am one thousand percent faking it through the day to survive.
Currently, I wake up every morning in my boring apartment alone, even further away from my life’s goal of dazzling the nation on primetime news, cursing myself for ever following a man anywhere. I get up reluctantly, dress in my designer clothes, and get all dolled up to at least look the part of someone who hasn’t completely lost control of her life. I go to work, and hope for the best so I don’t royally screw up. Then I come home to a bottle of overpriced Chardonnay, to live a sad and lonely existence in a town where I know no one and don’t really want to try to get to know anyone. It has been exactly one week, two days, and some odd hours since I was dumped. Not that I’m counting or anything. I’m not sad. Please. I don’t even really miss my ex-boyfriend. I’m just pissed. Pissed at my ex, pissed for moving my entire life for him, and above all, pissedat not being in New York City. Instead, I’m stuck in Atlanta, enduring this ridiculous charade of a job. Every single day feels like a cruel joke, and honestly, I’m sick of it.
Until the last 30 minutes or so, I was relegated to mainly doing grunt work—nothing on air and nothing that required any actual sports knowledge. But of course, my luck ran out. Turns out, I’m the pretty face they hired to replace the on-rink commentator who recently stepped back, needing to avoid traveling while pregnant. I mean, really? They couldn’t bother to mention this crucial detail during the interview? Typical.
Right now, I might sound like a big, whiny, scaredy-cat, but trust me, that’s not me at all. I’m a boss bitch, and as long as I don’t get fired for knowing less than zero about hockey, I will dazzle ACN with my magnificence. Then, when my lease is up, I can apply for a top-tier network position back home in New York, where I truly belong. Until then, I suppose I’ll have to start pretending to care about hockey.
My new position will be covering the Wednesday night and Sunday afternoon games. The only glaring plus side to this dreary job is all the traveling, which equals more time spent away from Atlanta. My first game is coming up this week. I’ll be flying out on Thursday for my first attempt at commentary for Sunday’s game. While interviews and interacting with people are second nature to me, and honestly, who wouldn’t want to talk to me? I’ll still need to at least pretend I know what I’m doing. The only way to do that is to start taking notes. Sometime between now and then, I’ll magically transform into a hockey expert. My type A personality will allow nothing less because, obviously, if I’m going to be stuck in this ridiculous role, I’ll still be the best at it.
Chapter 2
Each game day has a routine. It’s the key to my success, the secret sauce to keeping my career on fire and my opponents in the cold. It’s how I’ve dominated the ice and how I’ll continue to crush it with my new team. Having a routine on game days isn’t just crucial; it’s life or death. It keeps me laser-focused, mentally and physically wired, and ready to tear through anyone who dares stand in my way. Now, solidly in my first year with the Phoenix Red Wolves, I’m hell-bent on sticking to this routine and being the unyielding force no one sees coming. Get ready, Arizona!
I got traded here to play, not to warm the bench, so I’ve been clocking some serious ice time since the season kicked off. But don’t think for a second that I’m getting complacent. Greatness doesn’t come to those who wait. It comes to those who relentlessly chase it down, tear it apart, and make it their own. I’m gunning to shatter every record in the book this year, and I’ll stop at nothing to make it happen.
For every brutal minute I push myself toward excellence, I know my body needs to hit the reset button. Rest isn’t just part of the equation; it’s the foundation. I get that taking care of my body is crucial to dominating the rink. Waking up fully charged means I’m ready to crush it all over again. The ice is my domain, and I won’t be stopped. You can bet your bottom dollar that I’m bringing my A-game and then some when I hit that rink. Rest, recharge, and then unleash hell. That’s the name of the game.
With my routine fine tuned to absolute perfection, I am beyond confident that I can make a monumental impact with the Phoenix Red Wolves this year. I’m here to make my mark on this team and the entire league. But to do that, I’ve got a ritual so strict it could scare the hell out of anyone else. Wake up, go for a jog, and devour a breakfast of exactly 6 eggs with sauteed spinach and an English muffin with butter. Nothing else. Coffee on game days? Forget it. I’d be vibrating like a jackhammer if I did. Before heading to the rink, I get zen with some yoga, making every muscle limber and ready. Hell, I wish I could get laid as a stretch routine, but that would throw me off my game, and that is absolutely unacceptable.
When I get to the rink, I walk three laps around it, feeling the frigid air surround my body, before heading to the locker room. As the team gathers for our pregame meeting, I am laser-focused, absorbing every word Nolan Wilder, our coach, spits out. Communication and teamwork are equal parts of our success, so I make it a point to engage with my teammates, offering them a kind of wild-eyed encouragement. The only kind of support I can provide. I’m ready to tear through this season, and nothing—absolutely nothing—will stand in my way.
Once in the locker room, I jam in my headphones and crank metal core until my eardrums feel like they might explode.While blasting my brain with the heaviest shit, I tape my stick the same way-exactly-making sure every inch is wrapped to perfection. I visualize my plays and strategies, mentally gearing up to dominate the crease. When it’s time to get dressed, I adjust my cup beneath my lucky cactus briefs, pull on my matching socks, and then move on to my gear in a ritualistic, precise manner. Alternating between left and right pads, then my chest protector, and lastly my blocker.
After my stick is taped and I’m in my winning headspace, I put my helmet on and have a no-holds-barred conversation with myself in the mirror. I lock eyes with my masked reflection, talking myself up and praising my own unparalleled skills. Yeah, I’m cocky as hell—who’s gonna tell me otherwise? If anyone dares, I’ll hit them with the full force of my crazy eyes until they back off. By now, not many people bother me; they’ve learned that I’m a little bit insane.
When warm-ups start, I bond with each goalpost. I give them a determined pat, whispering sweet nothings to them. Always ending it with, “We gonna be standing on our head all night, eh buddy.”
After all the sweet nothings have been shared, I begin my stretches with my signature move—tapping my stick on the ice exactly 96 times, increasing in speed like a madman. Then, I transition to my stretches. Just as warm-ups are wrapping up, I let out a primal roar, one that would make even a lion think twice. It’s my way of waking up the inner beast and keeping the other team—and sometimes even the refs—on their toes. Honestly, no one is sure if I’m actually sane, but that’s what makes me unstoppable.
And just when peak crazy is coursing through my veins, the red lights dim, and the roar of the crowd vibrates againstthe plexiglass. From where I stand, the ice looks like a frozen lake beneath the spotlights. The game starts, and my world goes quiet. The puck drops, igniting a frenzy in front of me, but I don’t hear the sticks clash or feel the adrenaline surging through my team’s veins. All I feel is the calmness that washes over me, the stillness taking hold. The first period is a blur—pucks rocketing from the periphery, skates slicing through the ice, the reassuring thump of my blocker against a slapshot. Each save feels like a victory, each deflected attempt one step closer to a shutout. By the end of the second, my pads are soaked with sweat, and my arms are screaming, but the scoreboard remains mercifully blank. 0-0. One period left to write my name on this ice.
All I can hear and see is the ice around me and the puck as it moves a million miles an hour. The clock screams at me, the numbers flashing: 1:34 left in the third. With everything on the line in the final moments, I can’t lose sight now. Every rough check, every clapping puck feels like a hammered blow to my fraying nerves. Muscle memory takes over as my calm demeanor fades. Just like I imagined it, my practiced hands deflect everything thrown my way. So far, I haven’t let anyone score on me. We are up 2-0, and the shutout feels within my reach.
My gaze locks on the dumb, smirking forward skating circles. He swings back, the puck popping dangerously between his sticks, taunting me. He shoots. I dive, the puck a blur straight into my outstretched glove. Relief floods me. But my save isn’t enough. Any rest time is short-lived as the other team recovers the puck again, and it comes harshly back. My heart hammers in a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Where the hell are my defensemen? The net seems to expand, and the shot is so quick. A sickening clang. The puck ricochets off my cage straight into the goal, ending the game with a buzzer beater. My head snaps back in defeat. The puck nestles mockingly in the back of the net;the buzzer screams in cruel mockery. No longer a distant echo, the roar of the crowd grows louder as my calmness shatters. My shutout, our lead, all gone in a single, agonizing second. Well, Tabarnak!
Chapter 3
Alright, Azalea Violet Blackwater. Today is your day. You will be the boss bitch that you know you can be. You will absolutely crush this new job. The world needs to watch out. It doesn’t matter that I know absolutely nothing about hockey. Players names I can memorize. I can learn the rules and positions, but what I already have cannot be learned. Talent. Sure, I have a natural talent for interviewing people, but I didn’t get to where I am on luck alone. I have worked hard for everything I’ve accomplished and will not stop now. I will do everything in my power to make sure that I'm successful.
Which leads me to where I am today. Back in the middle of hell on earth, downtown Atlanta. The time has come. This week is Rachel’s last week in her position. I will be officially taking over for her as she takes a step back from travel while she's pregnant. The travel schedule is grueling, and from what she has told me already, it wasn’t worth her mental well-being to keep pushing herself like that for the job. From what I’ve heard fromall of my coworkers, she is great at her job and loves it, so she’ll be back as soon as possible.
I walk into ACN for our last big meeting before we leave for Pittsburgh. I’m confident; no one can say otherwise, but that doesn’t mean I still can’t be nervous. Without delay, I locate Rachel in the crowd. She is the closest thing I have to a friend in this place. I’m pretty sure it’s actually going to suck once I am out on the road by myself, but I won’t let her know that.
“Hey, Ziggy, got a minute? We need to go over a few things before we head out.” Rachel says.
“Hey, Rachel. Let’s get this over with.” I give in.
Rachel gives me a small smile. “Well, since you will be me while I’m away, I want to ensure you’re prepared for the upcoming games and all that entails.”