Page 63 of Pieces

“Yeah, sort of.” I exhale slowly to ground myself. “I wanted to start by asking about the lack of exposure women’s sports get here at CLU.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Straight to the point. I like that. Honestly, it’s not like we avoid covering them on purpose. It’s just…” He gestures vaguely, searching for the words. “Our biggest demographic is male. And, well, so is most of our staff. We lean toward what they’re interested in.”

I bite back the first sharp response that leaps to my tongue and force myself to take a measured breath. “That’s kind of the problem, though, isn’t it?” I say evenly.

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Leaning closer, I grip the edges of my notebook for courage. “If all you cater to is your biggest demographic, that’s all you’re ever going to have. It’s a loop. You’re missing out on a whole audience just because no one’s trying to reach them.”

Thomas exhales, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not like we’re opposed to it,” he says, a little defensively. “But our analytics show what works, and we have to play to those strengths.”

I gesture toward my notebook, my voice firm but steady. “What if your audience could be bigger? Think about it, students, families, alumni and, yes, women who care just as much about sports as the guys do. You’ve got women here killing it in athletics, and they’re barely getting a mention. Doesn’t that feel…unbalanced?”

His lips twitch into a half-smile. “You’re pretty passionate about this, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, even though my heart is racing now. “And I’m not asking you to overhaul everything overnight. But what if you tried just one story? A highlight reel. See if people respond. Worst case, you get a slow news day out of it. Best case, you expand your reach and start representing everyone on campus.”

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re suggesting we run a test feature, see how it performs?”

I nod. “Exactly. One feature to start. If it works, you’ve got a blueprint for the future. If it doesn’t, you’ve still shown that you’re willing to try.”

Thomas considers this, then nods slowly. “Okay. Let me talk to Wayne and the team. We’ll see if we can run a trial. In the meantime, I’d love to hear more about your ideas for expanding on this.”

Relief floods through me, and I smile. “Thank you. I’ve been working on a campaign idea called #MoreThanMoms, a project focused on amplifying the voices of young mothers in sports. But I have a lot of other ideas too.”

“Tell me, what made you start working on this?”

“Honestly, it started as an assignment. But as I worked on it, it became…personal. I realized there’s a gap in the way we talk about women in sports, especially when it comes to balancing other parts of their lives.”

He nods, encouraging me to continue. “Go on.”

I pause, my thumb brushing over the edges of the notebook. “There’s this idea that if you’re a mom, that pigeonholes you, maybe even sometimes makes you appear weaker. But that’s not true. I want to focus on stories that show women excelling in sports while navigating motherhood. Not in a perfect way, but in a real way.”

Thomas taps a pen against the table thoughtfully. “And how do you see CLUSports fitting into that?”

This feels like a test, but I remind myself that I know the answer. “I think there’s a huge opportunity to amplify these stories through a campaign. Social media engagement, short-form interviews, maybe even partnering with existing athletes who fit the profile. It’s about creating visibility and inspiring others to see what’s possible.”

“That’s interesting,” Thomas says. “We’ll need to schedule a proper meeting to dig into that, but you’ve got my attention. I’d really like to get you on board.”

My heart vibrates, euphoria taking over. “Thank you,” I say, shaking his hand, praying it’s not too clammy.

“No, thank you. I like being challenged, and you’ve done that today, Daphne. I appreciate it. Look forward to you joining us.”

As I leave the office, the weight on my chest feels lighter. It’s not just a pitch. It’s a step toward change, and for the first time, I feel like I’m the one making it happen.

I glance around to make sure no one’s watching before breaking into a little happy dance.

After a second, the buzz of my phone pulls me up short. I fish it out of my pocket, my good mood fading when I see the screen: three missed calls from Mom. My stomach tightens as the voicemail icon stares back at me. Shit, what’s going on?

I swipe to play it, holding the phone to my ear as I walk. Mom’s voice comes through, tight and worried.

“Daphne, it’s Mom,” she starts, her tone sharp—nothing like her usual warmth. My chest tightens. Oh god, what if something bad happened?

“I… I wasn’t going to open it, but a letter came to the house, and it had the insurance company’s name on it. I got worried, so I opened it.”

My steps falter, the weight of her words settling over me like a storm cloud.

“Sweetheart,” she continues after a pause that feels endless, “why do you need to see an OB-GYN and have an ultrasound scheduled? Is there something going on you haven’t told me about? Call me back, please. I’m worried.”

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