Page 58 of They All Puck Me

My finger hovers over the "Send" button, but I hesitate. The article is good— hell it's great— possibly the best thing I've ever written—but it's also deeply personal. If people think the Wolves are tanking right now, just wait until the team catches wind of this bombshell. I close my eyes, imagining the potential fallout, and my stomach churns with anxiety.

I know in my heart what I need to do. But fuck if it doesn't hurt. Leave it to me to finally have something to be proud of, and then fuck it up.

I know the team is suffering, but aren't I suffering too? This could be my big break. What I've been working towards since I started journalism. What I promised my parents I would accomplish and make them proud. Not only would my career be affected, but what about my poor fucking heart? That thing has been put through the ringer since the Matt escapade and now this?

"Ugh who the fuck am I kidding." I say to myself as I lay my head down on the table. Why does it have to be so hard to choose between your career and your heart?

The thought hits me like a freight train. I'm not the only one having to choose between a career and their own heart. But unlike my scenario, there's three careers at stake, and three hearts to break.

"Quit putting it off Olivia." I mutter to myself. I'm startled by a small paw scratching at my pajamas.

"Hey buddy," I say, picking Oscar up and putting him in my lap. I scratch behind his ears, feeling the emotions well behind my eyes.

"When this all falls apart, I'll still have you right?" He nuzzles in deeper on my lap and lets out a small whine.

"I'll take that as a yes then."

An hour passes of me sitting at the table, listening to Taylor Swift, and crying into my dogs fur. I still haven't made a decision. I grab my phone and dial Hartgrove's number. He answers on the second ring.

"Hartgrove here."

"Hi, it's Olivia. Can I meet with you? It's urgent."

"Sure, come by my office in twenty."

I hang up and throw on some jeans and a hoodie, trying to make myself presentable. The drive to the office is a blur of nervous energy and self-doubt. By the time I arrive, my stomach is in knots.

Hartgrove’s office is imposing as ever, filled with shelves of awards and framed newspaper front pages. He looks up from his desk as I walk in, his expression unreadable.

"Olivia, sit down. What's going on?"

I take a deep breath and dive in. "I need to talk to you about the Wolves article."

His brow furrows. "Problems with the piece?"

"Not exactly." I twist my hands in my lap. "It's... more personal."

He leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. "Go on."

"I've developed feelings for three of the players—Liam, Noah, and Ethan." The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Hartgrove's eyebrows shoot up. "Three? That's ambitious."

"I'm serious," I say, feeling my cheeks heat up. "I don't know what to do. My involvement with them... it's affecting my objectivity."

He steeples his fingers, considering me carefully. "How involved are we talking here?"

I turn my head, hoping my lack of an answer leads him to draw the conclusion that he needs.

He whistles lowly. "Olivia, this is a hell of a mess."

"I know," I say, my voice breaking slightly. "That's why I'm here. I don't want to compromise my integrity or the team's performance."

Hartgrove's face softens just a fraction. "Olivia, maybe it's time to hand the final edit and piece over to Jenna. She can take over the playoff footage.

The suggestion feels like a punch to the gut. I sit up straighter, shaking my head. "But this story... it’s mine."

"I get that," he says, steepling his fingers. "But if your personal involvement is affecting your objectivity?—"

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