When the morning sun glowed red through my eyelids, I awoke in a panic. My alarm hadn’t gone off. Why didn’t my alarm go off? I had been dreaming about a dwindling bank account, angry editors in my inbox, something about a fire…?

I shook my head. The dream was gone, but the panic remained. I pushed a thick mass of wavy chestnut hair out of my face and scrambled through my thoughts, trying to locate the source of my anxiety. Had I missed a deadline? No, everything had been turned in on time. Was something due?

That was when it hit me. There was nothing due, because I had nothing in my queue. For the first time in nine weeks, I had no papers to write and no projects to complete.

“Well, let’s fix that, shall we?”

I jumped out of bed and tossed my blankets haphazardly over the pillows. Good enough. A shower and a steaming cup of coffee later, I was curled up on my oversized desk chair, sorting through messages.

“Payment processed, payment processed… Come on, doesn’t anyone have some new work for me?”

I scowled as I scrolled, willing my inbox to burst forth an invitation to write. The last thing I wanted to do was go begging for work; at this point in the game, the work came to me. As one of the top-rated freelance journalists in Portland, I felt a bit offended when I had to scramble for work. Sometimes, though, there was no way around it.

With a sigh, I got out of my chair to refill my coffee, unwinding my hair from the terrycloth turban I had wrapped it in.

Walking around my apartment helped me relax. I had worked hard over the last few years to afford something like this, and it was every bit as wonderful as I had imagined it would be.

The high vaulted ceilings brazenly displayed their naked beams, arching high over tall windows that overlooked the city. Thick, rose-colored carpet cradled my toes as I padded through my green-papered hallway to the bathroom.

This room had been the selling point for me all those months ago—the deep claw-foot tub with its wide shower head, the shell-shaped sink drizzled in sparkling shades of pink, the tiles on the wall depicting vintage art in miniature. Utterly feminine.

“Oh, do we have a bite?” I asked the air as I wandered back into my room just in time to hear my computer chime.

We did! Or, rather, I did. My heart jumped just a little as I read the sender’s name—The Portland Crier, a news outlet notorious for catapulting small-time freelancers into big-time careers.

I had written an article for them the previous month, a fluff piece about how fandom culture was the lifeblood of the city, which had only received lukewarm feedback from the editors and had only appeared on the back page of the local distribution. I had not expected them to seek me out for anything else so soon, and excitement trickled through my veins as I opened the message.

“Hockey?” I said, wrinkling my nose as the excitement melted away. “They want me to write a piece on hockey? Damn it, Jim, I’m an investigative journalist, not a sports writer!”

Jim DeLeary apparently knew that.

Ms. Ramos,

This assignment is unique to your particular talents. The Portland Harriers have been making headlines for years, and we at the Crier are not in the habit of regurgitating old news. However, there appears to be a wrinkle in the team itself, in the relationship between two players by name of Dante Drake and Joel Palmer.

Drake has been the team’s star player for over a decade, and has been the number one hockey athlete chosen for advertising campaigns over that same period. Palmer is a newcomer to the game, but looks to be replacing Drake as the fan favorite. Advertisers have taken notice, and Palmer has recently received more contracts than anyone on the team apart from Drake.

Rumor has it that Drake and Palmer are at each other’s throats in private. I ask that you get to the bottom of it, to confirm or deny the rumor in as much gripping detail as you are able. The piece need not be technical to the sport; we are far more interested in the interpersonal relationship between the two players…

To sweeten the pot, Jim was sure to mention—twice—that this article would have a title spot on the front page. It would also be featured on the website, which had over three million subscribers. I was pretty sure that would be my largest audience to date, and the thought nearly made me accept the offer before I had finished reading it.

He went on to describe the two men’s individual histories and clues into their personal lives; both were single and neither had children. Dante was married to the game. Joel was rumored to be married to a party lifestyle.

“Star of the team for over a decade,” I mused as I read Dante’s track record. “And apparently already on cereal boxes when I was still in high school. I knew I should have paid more attention to those bios…”

Joel, though he was still a virtual baby in the arena, had already proved himself to be both photogenic and energetic, making him the new favorite choice for advertisers everywhere.

Jim suspected that this was the root of the trouble between them, and was far more dramatic than anyone had let on so far. He wanted me to go digging for the juiciest truth. He didn’t say it outright, but I got the impression that he wanted to publish a potentially career-ending exposé.

I wouldn’t fabricate such a thing, but if the story was there…

“Why not?” I bobbed my head around as I weighed the pros and cons, and decided to take a look at my potential interviewees.

“Oh! Hello, Dante,” I said appreciatively as his picture popped up on the screen.

His caramel-colored skin brilliantly offset his crinkling, green-heavy hazel eyes, and his thick black hair clung close to his head in tight little waves. He had a dimple in his left cheek, a soft boyish feature which dramatically contrasted with the ruggedness of his many-times broken nose.

“Well, sugar, if you smell as good as you look, I might interview you twice just for the hell of it. Now, the other one… Joel Palmer, right? Yeah. Oh, you’re cute too.”

He was far younger than Dante, with a cocky grin illuminating his lightly freckled face. His brown hair was buzzed in a style reminiscent of the military, and his muscular arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder. Even in the photograph, his dark blue eyes were twinkling mischievously, giving me the impression that he would dare me to a race just to watch me run.

“Sold, Jimmy,” I said cheerily as I typed up a reply. “A two-week deadline and a couple of demigods to interview. Best way to start a Monday.”