Page 93 of Dirty As Puck
My voicemail is packed with editors who used to roll their eyes at me begging for meetings now.
I sit up, blanket pooling around my waist, staring at the hundreds of requests.
Every newsroom I once dreamed of being a part of suddenly wants me. I should feel triumphant. Instead, my chest tightens.
Because I know what those jobs really mean.
Endless deadlines that serve someone else’s agenda. Stories slashed apart to fit a certain narrative.
The truth filtered through clicks and advertisers. I’ve played that game, and I’ve bled for it.
My laptop waits on the desk across the room, still open from last night. I can see the engagement from the article I published on my own terms. It’s still racking up views, comments, shares. My words, uncut. My story, untwisted.
I run a hand through my hair, torn between two voices. One whispers about stability from salary, benefits, legitimacy in the eyes of the same people who tried to bury me.
The other whispers freedom, finally writing without limits, finally choosing the stories that matter.
I exhale slowly. The second voice is louder and much stronger.
I grab my phone and open a draft reply to one of the offers. My fingers pause. Then, instead of typing acceptance, I type:Thank you for the opportunity, but I’m pursuing a different path.
The fear is still there, clawing at the edges of my ribs. What if I’m throwing away my last chance at something secure? What if this independence is just another cliff to fall from?
But then I think of Kai. The way he looked at me after the truth was exposed, like I’d handed him his life back.
My words did that, not a fabricated story, or my paycheck. It was just me and the truth.
Decision made, I close the laptop, press my palms against the warm wood of the desk, and let the truth settle in.
I’m going independent. And this time, I won’t be silenced.
It feels completely still inside my apartment, except for the hum of my laptop fan.
It’s late, hours past when I should’ve shut my eyes, but adrenaline has me wired. I’m building something from scratch, a site with my name on it, my rules shaping every word.
No editor is blowing my phone up, no agenda lurking behind headlines. It’s just me.
My fingers tremble slightly as I hit the publish site. The bare-bone design comes to life on screen, clean and simple.
Independent Journalism. This is my platform.
Now comes the first test. My debut article waits in the drafts folder, and I’ve reread it so many times I could recite whole paragraphs.
It’s not about scandals, stats, or any controversy, it’s about Kai. The Kai who funds youth hockey clinics in neighborhoods that can’t afford gear. The Kai who quietly pays tuition for kids who remind him of himself.
No one ever told those stories, because they weren’t juicy enough. But they matter to me. And they’re mine to tell.
I go over publish again, my chest tightening. Once this goes live, there’s no safety net. No newsroom to shield me, no boss to absorb the fallout. Just me standing in the open, daring the world to listen.
I click and the article is released.
For some time, nothing happens. Then, notifications start trickling in, shares, comments, and likes.
A coach from Minnesota thanks me for “telling the truth about athletes who give back.”
A parent says her son looks up to Kai and now has even more reason to. The numbers climb up steadily, faster than I can refresh.
I press my hand to my chest, relief and fear colliding.
