Page 4 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

My eyes return to my notes, determined not to let anything distract me. Yet, I keep responding anyway, “Absolutely. I won’t let anything slip through the cracks.”

The man gives me an admiring look. “That’s some serious dedication. Good luck with your interviews.”

I give him a somewhat genuine nod of appreciation because at the end of the day, everyone can use some good luck. “Thank you. I’ll make sure it’s a broadcast to remember,” I say as I put my headphones in, determined to not have to talk to anyone else again. I dive back into my notes, leaving no room in my life for complacency. I will succeed no matter what.

Arriving in Arizona is an absolute disaster. First, the baggage claim is a nightmare, with my bags practically being the last ones, taking an eternity to appear. Then, the driver the network arranged to be my ride to the hotel is like something out of a bad comedy, complete with no sense of direction and endless detours. By the time I finally get to the hotel, I’m seething.

Approaching the front desk with a forced smile, I say, “Hi, I’m here to check in. The name’s Azalea Blackwater.”

The front desk clerk doesn’t even give me the time of day. EXCUSE ME. Typing on the computer, distracted, she replies, “One moment, please.” She pauses for dramatic effect, then continues, “Ah, yes. Ms. Blackwater. We have you booked for three nights. I just need your ID and credit card.”

Getting increasingly impatient, I hand over my cards. “Here you go. Can we speed this up a bit? It’s been a long day.” The woman takes them from me slowly, typing like a computer is an ancient relic.

“Of course. Just a moment,” she says as she glances down at the screen and frowns. “Um, it seems like there’s a problem with your reservation.”

My finger starts tapping on the counter in a frenzy, not matching my fake, forced calm. “What kind of problem?”

The clerk gives me this sheepish, awkward smile. “It looks like we have you booked for next week, not this week. I’m afraid we’re fully booked tonight.”

“Next week?” I shout, with my eyes going wide. “How is that possible? My company booked this room, they assured me the dates were booked. This is unacceptable!”

Then, as if the situation isn’t bad enough, the woman starts to laugh. And ugly laugh at that! “I understand, Ms. Blackwater. Let me see what I can do.”

I watch as she calls who I hope is her manager, and whispers into the phone. I can’t hear anything she says. My frustration builds, my foot now tapping incessantly. I cross my arms and let out a huff.This is just perfect. As if today couldn’t get any worse.

A stringy looking man approaches me cautiously, with a strained smile. “Ms. Blackwater, we apologize for the inconvenience. We can arrange for a room at our sister hotel nearby, and we’ll cover the transport.”

I will admit, it’s not my finest hour when I screech out in exasperation, “A sister hotel? Do you know how much I have to prepare for tomorrow? I don’t have time for this!”

The useless man does what he can to try to be helpful, “I understand. We’ll make the transfer as quickly as possible and ensure you have a suite for the trouble.”

Knowing when to admit defeat and move on, I give in but still sigh dramatically, “Fine. But this better not delay me any further.”

The front desk clerk tries to get my attention as she hands back my ID and credit card. I must admit, I forgot she was even there. She quickly reiterates, “We’ll have the shuttle ready in justa few minutes. Here’s a complimentary drink voucher for the bar while you wait.”

I snatch my cards and the voucher from her. Muttering to myself, “Great. Just great. First the bags, now this. What next, a hurricane?”

For some unknown reason, the manager chooses this time to be funny as he says, “Well, this is Arizona, so unlikely.” I shoot him a death stare as he continues. “We really do apologize, Ms. Blackwater. Please, make yourself comfortable while you wait for the shuttle.”

I roll my eyes at them and storm off to the bar. Comfortable. Right. Just what I need after this disaster. From the bar, I can still overhear the two of them whispering. I hear the clerk say, “She’s not going to have a good stay, is she?” I take a deep breath as the manager sighs, saying, “Let’s just hope the sister hotel has better luck.”

Deciding to be just as difficult as I can be, I glance back over to the front desk and say loudly, to no one in particular, “I swear, if tomorrow doesn’t go perfectly, heads are going to roll.”

It takes the length of time I need to drink an espresso martini for the shuttle to get there. Luckily, the ride to the new hotel and check in is much less eventful. They must have known I was coming because I get checked into my suite in no time flat. Even with the painful travel, I refuse to let it derail my focus. I unpack my things with military precision, placing every item exactly where it belongs. Once that’s done, I dive straight into prepping for the next day. No distractions, no deviations. I will not tolerate anything less than perfection, even in the face of chaos.

Channeling my upset, nervous energy, I dive into memorizing information about the players I’ll be interviewing from the compiled detailed notes that cover every conceivable fact about them. I will bring them perfection, so I rehearse potential questions and scenarios until they become second nature. No stone is left unturned; every statistic, every career highlight and personal anecdote is at my fingertips. Despite the gnawing nerves, I refuse to deviate from the plan I’ve crafted. I hype myself up, making sure I don’t forget my expertise and capabilities, ruthlessly pushing back any self-doubt. Failure is not an option, and I am determined to show everyone just how indispensable I am.

The first of my work events is attending an Arizona Red Wolves sponsored event at the local aquarium. Seriously? It’s a total waste of time, a frivolous distraction from my primary task of nailing this broadcast. As I stroll through the ocean mood lighting of the exhibits, watching fish swim lazily in their tanks, I can’t help but think of all the valuable research time slipping through my fingers. My irritation is through the roof. Why on earth did anyone think this would be a good idea for a sponsored event? It’s not like interviewing sea turtles is going to make me any better at my job. Still, I put on a polite smile, determined to make the best of it, even if it feels like a colossal detour from what I should really be focusing on.

Amidst the tanks and bubbling water, I cross paths with my first hockey player in the wild. Elliot St. Germain, the star goalie everyone seems to idolize. I’ve memorized his fact sheet already. Right away, I can tell he is completely insane, something not mentioned in my fact checking. His tall frame makes me feel slight in comparison, dark curls surround his face like they have a mind of their own and his deep brown eyeslook like their secrets hold secrets. When they said particular, they meant crazy. He has this wild look in his eyes that screams unpredictability. Our interaction is charged from the get-go, filled with an awkward tension. He shoots a quick look at my press pass.

“So, you’re the infamous new barnacle they sent to cover us,” he quips with a smirk, his accent making the words sound almost endearing, despite their bite.

“Barnacle? How dare you!” I shoot back.

Elliot chuckles, “Hey, it seems like it fits.” I can’t believe he’d say that to me. I decide to accept his challenge.

“And you must be the shark everyone warned me about,” I say, still processing how offensive he is.

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