Later that night I am still at my desk with the lamp on and my head buried in a history textbook. I read pages, but I can’t remember what I’ve read, so I have to go back and reread them. It’s insanely frustrating.

I’m rereading another page when my computer dings to alert me that I have an email. I press the spacebar, and the screen lights up. It surprises me to find an email from Ozzie. And it comes with an attachment.

The email is short. Just Hey, here are your answers. Let me know if you need more. O. That’s it. I’m disappointed but not surprised. I imagine the scene Emily saw last night: him drunk and agitated, pushing some guy into a wall. What was he thinking?

I reach for my phone, the instinct to call him more than I can stand. My fingers hover over the four, the first digit in his number, but then I set the phone back down, and the sound echoes through the solid wood desk surface.

Emily is fast asleep but the sound rouses her. She moans softly before rolling from her back to her side. Her sheets entangle her limbs like a half-ass mummy.

I open the attachment and browse through his answers. The first one is their schedule. I won’t lie. It’s crazy. I don’t know how any of them manage a full-time course load. Practice, gym, practice, gym, practice, gym. Over and over. When practices aren’t listed, it’s because there are games. Ozzie said hockey kept him out of trouble, and there’s no wonder since his time is stuffed with so many activities. How does he have a life? He said he never had a girlfriend, and I didn’t believe that was possible. But how could he? I don’t read all the answers in their entirety. I do a quick scan, and there appears to be enough to write the story.

Part of me is sad, though. I won’t get to tell his story. I don’t know it all, but the parts he told me were so compelling I can’t believe I’ll never know the rest. I still wrote it, though. But not as a nonfiction article. I wrote a short story about a boy reminiscing about his past as he drove to all the places that shaped him into the man he is today. I took some liberties. Filled in some blanks. It might be the best thing I’ve ever written, and it will never see the light of day. That’s probably a good thing. And I guess I like that this is just for me and always will be.

I hit reply on the email but after typing his name, I draw a blank. It takes me a full hour of writing and deleting before I come up with the brainchild of Thanks. And then I hit send. I’m such an ass. What I wanted to say was, Thanks for doing this for me when you didn’t have to. Please don't be stupid and get into fights. Short and sweet.

I don’t go to bed. I try once or twice, but I can’t sleep. I could take a sleeping pill that my doctor prescribed for me when I get anxious and worry keeps me up. Sometimes I can worry about the silliest things that are so intangible, yet they seem like the most important thing to me at the time. But I don’t want to take a pill. I’m actually glad for the extra energy. I spend the whole night writing the article I'm going to submit to Jack. When my alarm goes off at six am and I’m still at my desk, I push the print button. I want to hand it to him in person so I can see his face when he reads it. A look says more than his words ever could.

When it’s printed on soft white paper, I give it one last read through. It’s not what Jack wanted, but I told him I’d give him a story, and this is what I’m willing to give him. I take a shower and get dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved cotton blouse. After going to my first two classes, I have a break in the day, and I head to Jack’s with a spring in my step. His door is closed. I knock twice and take a step back. He doesn't invite me in so I knock again. And again. Finally, after double knocks, the door swings open.

His eyes fall on my face, and he lets go of a long sigh. “Back again so soon.”

I hold out the article.

“You got the story?”

“Yes. And it’s a good one.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He takes a few steps back and turns on his heel. I follow him inside his office, and he waves to the door. I take it as a sign to shut it, so I do. I sit down in one of the chairs while he slowly sits in his, his eyes not once leaving the story. But it doesn’t take long before he slaps it on his desk. “This isn’t even close to what I asked for.”

“No, it isn’t. But I think this will be a popular story. Sort of a peek into a hockey player’s life. Students can imagine what it would be like to be them. I think it will sell. Anything with hockey in it sells, right?”

He folds his arms across his chest. “Even if I print this, and I'm not saying I will, this was not our agreement. Are you willing to give up a spot on the paper to give me something less than what I asked for?”

I think of my dad, of how proud he would have been when I finally got a hold of him and told him I made the university newspaper. My interest in journalism was the link that kept us together. The one thing we had in common when our conversations turned to nothing but “how are you?” and “how’s school?”. It also gave me an excuse to call his satellite phone when he told me not to call him unless it was “important.” I considered getting on the paper important news that had to be shared.

But now, as I stare at Jack’s rosy cheeks and beady eyes, I consider how much I hurt Ozzie by lying and what his real story made public would do to him, and I don’t feel the slightest bit of regret. The story I’ve given Jack is good. It’s enough. I’m just not willing to compromise my integrity and Ozzie's feelings to get what I want.

He picks up the article again. I watch the seconds hand, on the clock on the wall, circle the clockface’s off-white background. He lifts a finger to flip the page, and the first page dangles from the stapled edge. He runs a finger along his lower lip and hums and hahs. I have no idea what he thinks. I’m confident it’s good. He’s lying if he says it isn’t.

When he finally finishes it, he lays it down on the loose papers that clutter his desk. He leans back in his chair and looks around the room.

“Well?”

“It’s a good story.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling, but my cheeks burn from the compliment. It doesn’t matter that I knew it was good. I’ve always found it hard to accept praise, even when it’s due.

“So, you’ll use it?”

He sighs and nods. “It depends.”

“On?”

His expression changes. He opens a drawer on the left side of his desk. He pulls out a black book. My black book. My day-timer. My jaw drops open, and I want to snatch it from him and demand to know why he has it. But I know. Sam. Or Piper. Or maybe both. My whole life is in that book, including how I’ve gone to Jack’s office every Monday since the first week of school. Not to mention all the details I found out about Ozzie, including his real last name. In fact, I printed out the article and put it in a little folder in the front.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to get him to talk. I didn’t think you’d be able to get any details on him that I didn’t already know, but it seems I was wrong. Perhaps your investigative skills are much better than all my writers combined.”

I shift in my seat. I can’t decide if I’m angry or upset. That’s not true. I don’t need to decide because I can easily be both. Neither are more important than the other. I’m outraged, too. Sam claimed to care for Ozzie, but she gives my notes to Jack? She dated him for months. She had to know how much this would hurt and embarrass him. And she didn’t care. At least when I got to know Ozzie, I gave him the respect he deserved. She went out of her way to hurt him. And to hurt me. But all of this doesn’t matter when compared to what might come next.

“I need that back,” I say.

He smiles, but it’s sad. When he holds it out, I grab and hug it tight against my chest. “These are my notes. Scribblings, actually. Please don’t take my work and use it. That wouldn’t be ethical, right?”

He nods. “You’re absolutely right. I wouldn’t use your notes. But it wouldn’t be hard to find details of my own given one big detail I happened to read.”

I lean back in the chair and stare at him, waiting for him to continue.

“You discovered Ozzie’s real name. It wasn’t hard to find every detail of his life out once I had that.”

“You can’t print details about his childhood. After all that was thrown at him, you can’t make it worse by letting everyone read about it and pity him. He’ll hate it. And he’ll…”

“Hate you?”

I take a breath to steady myself. I feel my eyes burn, the threat of tears imminent. “That doesn’t matter. He won’t want this story printed. Please…give him a break and leave it alone. The story I wrote will be good enough.”

“Yes. Good enough. But not great. And I want a great story for our last issue.”

“So, this is journalism,” I say, my voice choked up. “Stealing and using and manipulating to make money or look good. I’ll admit, I wanted this. I’ve wanted it since I was a kid, but I never really thought about how cutthroat it is, and this is university! Not a regular paper. I guess I have to thank you for showing me this side of it before I wasted my life on a degree I won't use.”

“Don’t be dramatic. You’re right. You shouldn’t be a reporter if you don’t have the stomach for this kind of thing.”

I shake my head at him and rise to stand.

“Oh, calm down,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “I’m not going to write his life story. If the school finds out I used a stolen day-timer to get information, they’ll have my resignation. It wouldn’t make the school look good. And, in case you’re wondering about the person who gave it to me, the Dean will be dealing with her personally.”

I relax in my seat. I don’t want someone to get expelled—if that’s what going to happen—but whoever did this to me and Ozzie deserves to be punished. “So, his secrets are safe?”

“I’m afraid so.” He shakes his head at me. “I don’t understand why you look so upset. Your story will be in the paper, after all. And I’m a man of my word. If you change your mind and want a spot here next year, you’re welcome. But you’ll need to toughen up, or you won’t last long. It won’t bother me to cut you loose.”

I stare at him for a beat, my wants and needs clearer than they’ve ever been. I don’t want his. Never have. Why hadn’t I bothered to listen to Mom and Emily all the times they tried to tell me this. When I speak, my voice is confident.

“Jack, I appreciate the offer and the opportunity. It’s everything I thought I wanted. But, you forced me to take a long look at myself and I’ve realized that this was never my dream. Not really. I wanted this for the wrong reasons and I can’t lie to myself anymore. You won’t ever have to cut me loose, because this isn’t for me. I hope you can understand.”

He scoffs at me. “You frustrate me for almost a full year and you’re going to walk away now?”

With my head held high, I say, “I am. I told you you’d miss me.”

He rolls his eyes but I hear him chuckling at my back as I hold my head up and walk out the door.