Page 57 of Anatomy of a Player

Whitney Porter, first class procrastinator.

Will turned back to his computer and I headed to my desk. I dug out my notes and pulled up the article I’d started all those weeks ago. It was rough and written with a lot of seething and scathing that made me think of how ugly my online survey had become.

Speaking of… I pulled up the survey and scrolled to the bottom to see how many new comments we had, and if they were of the nonsensical ranting or well thought out argument variety.

Very few were of the latter. Some of the commenters were still fighting amongst themselves. With the usual tact of online arguments, they called each other hateful slurs and made suggestions to each other that were physically impossible.

Footsteps echoed across the room, a common occurrence in the newsroom, but when they grew louder, I glanced up. Lindsay stopped in front of my desk. “With all the controversy you’ve stirred up with your survey, I was thinking you should write up your article now rather than later.”

The controversyI’dstirred up?I didn’t want to be responsible for the hate slurs or for the grand-canyon-esque divide that had opened up between athletes and the rest of the student body. I’d only asked a question—my pursuit was truth, not animosity.

Once the article’s written, though, I’m not sure I can still claim innocence.

“So?” Lindsay perched herself on the edge of my desk, but stood when it wobbled instead of holding her slight weight. “When do you think you could get me a rough draft?”

A rough draft? I quickly closed out of the version I had onscreen—it was a mess and nowhere near ready. Honestly, it read more like a rant than an informed article. “I thought I was going to dig all semester and write it up at the end. It’s a big article and I’m already undercover and set up to gain even more information on the hockey players.”

Panic and guilt formed an ugly combination, and at least one of them had sharp teeth that dug into my gut with the intention of ripping it apart.

“But people are fired up now,” Lindsay said, a hint of exasperation to her voice. “I overheard several students talking about it on campus, and we want to take advantage of that and get it out there before interest wanes and becomes old news.”

Shit.Logically I knew I needed to follow through with the article if I wanted to become the journalist I’d dreamed of becoming, but I needed more information and more time and right now I was questioning every word I’d written or even thought about writing. With the reality of the article now suddenly upon me, I didn’t know which slant to take or where I hoped that email address would lead me, but I wanted the improbable outcome of finding a way to write an amazing article without anyone getting hurt in the process.

While that might not be entirely feasible, I hoped I could at least buy more time. “Will’s checking on one thing for me and it might take awhile for him to crack it. I can start writing, but I’ll need at least a couple of weeks to get my notes together and then put it into an organized—”

“You’ve got one week—well, technically, six days. Have it in my inbox by next Saturday night, along with your write up of Friday’s hockey game. Then stay glued to your computer all weekend, because we’re going to have to do edits quickly. I want it in the Monday edition and I want it to pack a punch.”

What else could I do but nod?

…

I scrubbed a hand over my face and rubbed at my eyes, blinking until the words on my computer screen sharpened, and then I wanted them to blur again. I’d started my article from scratch, written two pages, only to delete it all and start from scratch again. The pressure of going from a story due in six weeks to six days built and built until my brain threatened to explode from the stress.

My phone chimed from its exiled spot on the coffee table—when it had been close to me, the distraction to do anything but write my article proved too great. I’d even turned my wifi off in the name of getting crap done.

The text chimed again, though, tempting my attention back to the unread message.

When I shifted on the couch, papers scattered and my laptop tried to make a dive off my lap. Gripping it with one hand, I stretched my arm farther and picked up my phone. Butterflies swarmed my stomach when I saw Hudson’s name.

Hudson:Just wanted to tell you that I’m still thinking about my night with Katy Perry.

I debated my next move, but I couldn’t help but tease him a little—I figured it was my job to keep his ego in check.

Me:Is this the cute football player I met? I had fun with you, too!

I waited for his comeback, but my phone just sat there for a couple of silent seconds. I set my laptop aside and shifted positions, cursing the messy couch and how uncomfortable it’d become. My bed called to me, but I’d learned that if I set up there to work, the only thing I ever accomplished was falling asleep, usually at a weird enough angle to end up with permanently kinked muscles.

Hudson:Who is this?

Me:Who do you want it to be?

Hudson:Jeez, Reporter Girl! For a second I thought I had the wrong number. Not cool. And the football player comment? REALLY NOT COOL!

I laughed, my bad day fading to the background.

Me:Are we using the liking dinosaurs = coolness scale?

Hudson:Dinos = BADASS. Don’t make me come over there and show you.

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