Page 1 of They All Puck Me

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OLIVIA

Isit at my desk, the glow of my computer screen reflecting off my blue light glasses. A new "employee wellness measure" Hartgrove has implemented after reading a budding article in the Chicago Sun-Times, our rival newspaper, about how they reduce eye strain and fatigue.

Hate it for him, but the only way to combat my chronic fatigue is to stop binge watching Netflix and scrolling through TikTok all hours of the night.

I wonder if I should take these home and wear them during my doomsday scrolling? Perhaps I can get some real data about their apparent effectiveness and not some bullshit facts the Chicago Sun Times probably found on Google.

In case you haven't picked up on it yet, the Chicago Sun Times is our Regina George. Overzealous, under qualified and yet somehow, still the crowd favorite.

My fingers dance over the keys, each click a note in my symphony of deadlines and caffeine.

You know now that I think about it, I wonder if excessive caffeine might lead to increased fatigue? Because I drink that shit like my shitty ass Nissan 4runner drinks gas.

I open up a tab on the computer and begin my search of the side effects of the overconsumption of caffeine. If I'm on to something, then maybe I just solved the fucking national treasure.

I’m in the zone when I hear it—the unmistakable sound of Mr. Hargrove clearing his throat.

“Olivia, got a minute?” His voice booms from his office door.

I look up, meeting his piercing gaze. “Sure thing, boss.” I save my work and push back my chair, the wheels squeaking in protest.

Inside his office, the walls are lined with framed headlines and awards. He's like the James Dean of journalism. Just without the sex appeal, unless striped Lacoste polos and new balances are your thing. Which if it is, you do you. Everybody has their kinks. He's just not the type for me to shave my legs for.

Hargrove stands by the window, sunlight casting a halo around his graying hair.

“Close the door,” he says, motioning with a hand.

I comply, feeling a mix of curiosity and nerves. “What’s up?”

“Olivia, your piece on the volleyball team was stellar,” Hargrove says, leaning against his desk. “The way you captured their spirit—it’s exactly what we need more of.”

“Thank you sir,” I shift from one foot to the other, feeling the excitement bubble up inside me.

“But,” he continues, eyes narrowing with that familiar look of intensity, “I’ve got something bigger. A major feature story. And I think you're the gal for the job.”

I lean in, heart racing. “Bigger than co ed volleyball?”

“Much bigger.” He crosses his arms. “The Northstar Wolves.”

“The Wolves?” I can barely contain my enthusiasm. “You mean?—”

“Yup,” he interrupts. “The golden boys of Hockey. I want you to document their journey to the playoffs. This piece could make or break your career here, Olivia.”

“No pressure,” I mutter, half-joking, half-terrified.

He smirks. “Just think of it as the opportunity of a lifetime.”

I take a deep breath, letting it sink in. “Alright. What’s the angle?”

“Follow them closely. Capture their struggles, their triumphs. I want readers to feel like they’re on the ice with them.”

I nod, already planning my approach. “Got it. When do I start?”

“Tonight,” he says, handing me a press pass. “There’s a game at Howl Center against the Chicago Blizzard.”

Tonight? Shit. Looks like I'll be shaving my legs tonight after all.

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