Page 13 of Yo Ho Ho
Max had done what any real journalist does. She started typing and then procrastinated. She went over to see how the business desk was doing and what the metro desk had planned for the next few weeks. The city was talking about possibly building a new baseball stadium downtown and Max thought her experience with the new hockey arena a few years ago would help them out. At least for a little bit. The metro reporters didn't know what they were going to do next either, but they were determined to do the best work they could in the final weeks before the newspaper shut down.
That was the census around the newsroom. It sucked, business is business, but they were going to write and edit and print until the very end.
So Max went back to her desk and started typing more words. It was the only thing she could do.
She had just handed her story over to Amanda — 500 words on needless penalties — when the phone on her desk started to ring. Caller ID said it was the front desk, which was strange because she rarely had anyone visit her here. When you're constantly on the road and have a desk at the arena, no one came to visit you in the office.
"Yeah?"
"Um, Miss Quinn?"
"Yes." Her "yes" had about extra letters, making it a drawn out "yeeesss" as if she was anticipating some sort of drama. The receptionist sounded nervous compared to her usual perky voice. There could easily be some drama.
"Uh, a Mr. Logan Moore is here to see you."
Well, that explained it. Max couldn't remember the last time a player had been to the office to see her. In fact, she couldn't remember a player ever coming to her office.
"Logan Moore?"
Max realized she sounded almost as shocked as the receptionist about this turn of events.
"Yes, Ms. Quinn. He says he plays for the Detroit Pirates."
Max had to stifle a laugh. Two weeks ago while eating turkey and covering a Thanksgiving shift, that same receptionist asked Max whether Logan Moore had just a regular ass or an awesome hockey ass — you know, in Max's professional opinion. The woman knew damn well who Logan Moore was and who he played for.
"Tell him I'll be down in five minutes."
"Five?" She could hear the receptionist's voice crack. Five minutes trying to entertain Logan Moore while Max kept him waiting. That woman probably thought Christmas had come early. You know, except for the part where she was still going to lose her job.
"Did you say Logan Moore?" Amanda asked, her eyes still glued to the screen as she edited.
"Yeah, apparently Logan is downstairs and wanted to see me."
The editor turned and gave her a knowing look. "He wants to see you?"
Max just waved her hand in the air. "He's probably just checking to see if I'm OK after the whole 'You'll never work in this town again' thing."
"Uh huh," she replied skeptically.
"Because, you know, I'm not going to be working in this town for much longer."
Amanda just shook her head and turned back to the computer. "The paper has a policy that writers can't haverelationshipswith the subjects they cover."
Max's jaw flexed with nervousness. "I know," she said, trying to sound casual while her heart sped up just a little bit.
"Then you're aware that you don't have to listen to any of those stupid rules in three weeks."
"You don't have to remind me."
"And really, even if you do, what are they going to do? Fire you?"
Max shrugged. "Take away my severance and unemployment benefits."
Amanda just pushed on. "Plus, Logan Moore has an amazing hockey ass."
"I'm well aware," Max muttered.
"Well aware of what?"
