Page 5 of Love in Training
“E-scooters being used by crime rings,” Adrienne offers. “And I got a tip this morning about a brand of cannabis being recalled at thirty-plus dispensaries.”
Randall pauses, then nods again. You can’t go wrong covering the marijuana industry in Denver. “Fine. Just be sure you’ve got actual police reports for the scooter thing.”
Jana sits forward in her seat next to me. “I want to do a feature on the cats of Coors Field.”
There’s a twitch in Randall’s right cheek. Otherwise his face reveals nothing. “Didn’t you already do that last spring?”
“Yes... But I want to do a follow-up on the fan-led spay and neuter campaign.”
He runs a hand over his face. Jana might be our interim sports reporter, but she’d dedicate an entire section to animal welfare if she could. “Fine. Whatever. But how about youalsogive us a perspective on the Rockies’ prospects after spring training.” He shifts slightly, turning toward me. “How about you, Caprice? What’s cooking this week?”
It kills me how optimistic he sounds. So far, no one’s hit on the type of story Randall really craves—a thrilling insta-headline like the one I practically held in my hands half an hour ago. Unfortunately, I’m not about to either.
I look again at my spreadsheet with its three dead-end ideas, then raise my chin and attempt to pull something out of thin air.
“Um, I was thinking of doing a piece on how much dating sucks in Denver... maybe try to turn it into some kind of series?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, Ifeelhow uninspired I sound.
Randall’s face falls. He glances around the table, then pinches the bridge of his nose without looking at me. “Is that really the best you can do?”
The way he says it, I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or the entire room. But my cheeks are already on fire, and I’m too mortified to look up from my screen. I work harder than anyone else at theObserver—I have to as the only Black woman on staff. And I hate how much this stings.
He closes his laptop. “All right, we’ll lead with Brian’s construction story unless Adrienne’s cannabis turns into something bigger. But I also want one of you to cover the public school board meeting this week. Two of the board members nearly got into a fistfight last month, which should have already been on everyone’s radar. Adrienne, take Jeremy with you when you’re looking into the e-scooters thing and see if you can getsome photos to go with it. The rest of you, I want follow-ups and reader opinions on every piece we’ve printed for the last month. If we have to rehash the Sylvester murder again, go ahead, but we’re not going to fill these pages with fluff.” He turns directly to me. “Caprice, I want you on the assignment desk. Also, I’m going to need you to cover the Denver PetExpo this weekend.”
“What?” Jana and I echo in unison. The assignment desk is a low-level punishment typically reserved for interns and new hires. You slog through everyObservervoicemail, email, andsocial media account, sifting through the complainers and conspiracy theorists looking for real tips. That alone tells me where I stand with my boss. But it’s an unspoken rule in our newsroom that Jana always covers anything dog or cat related. She’s literally obsessed, and I’d rather clean the office toilets.
Randall turns to Jana, barely blinking. “You said you’d be gone this weekend for your grandfather’s funeral?”
She shoots me a look, sucking in her bottom lip, and all I can think is her grandpa better really be dead because my weekend plans didnotinclude tromping around an event complex that smells like dog pee.
“Great,” Randall says, rising from his chair and looking around the table. “If anyone needs help drumming up ideas for next week, you can check with Caprice.”
Brian shoots me a smug look, and I close my eyes. His dumb construction story isn’t even interesting—it just sucked less than everyone else’s. I force myself to wait a beat as Randall exits, then fly out of my chair and follow him down the hall.
“Okay, look,” I say before I’m even through the door of his office. “I know I can do better?—”
“I’d get cracking on those reader emails if I were you,” he says, breezing behind his desk. “Tracy said we were about seventy-five deep after this weekend.”
I close the door behind me, ignoring his directive. “Ihada much better pitch this morning?—”
“Then next time, I suggest you share it.” He sets down his laptop and gives me a hard look. “TheObserverhas done the dating column thing. We stopped for good reason.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “All right, that’s fair. I’m just—I’m trying to stay on brand.”
He studies me across the desk and softens a little. Randall looks like a slightly heavy Colonel Sanders, with snow-white hair and a matching goatee, though I doubt he’s even sixty. Sometimes he can be a real hardass, but in this moment, he’s looking at me more thoughtfully.
He sinks into his chair. “Whatisyour brand, exactly?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He leans back, steepling his fingers. “What kind of journalism do readers expect from Caprice Phipps?”
I falter a moment. I’ve been struggling with this question for months now. Which is probably why he asked. And for a heartbeat, I even consider sharing an idea I’ve been sitting on for almost a year. But instead I say, “Um... sex and dating?”
“Why?”
My skin flushes hot. “Because I’ve had success with that topic in the past?”
He doesn’t say anything, and I become preoccupied with a smudge on the wall behind him that looks a little like a skull. And the fact that my left shoe feels too tight. And I should probably get on those emails like he suggested?—
