I sigh as my eyes train up and down the bar. The place is crowded, and I'm grateful for it being busy so that there are fewer eyes on me. It’s easier to watch other people when I’m part of the crowd — and when no one is hitting on me, which happens more than I like. Especially the ones that like to stay up late at night watching television in their underwear. Those are the especially tenacious ones — the ones that recognize me when I’m in public.

It’s Friday night. I should be out with my friends, not sitting in a bar by myself trying to get a story. I’m at the Happiness Bar, the same place I’ve been hanging around for the last couple of weeks, in vain. Sometimes I question if I’m in the right profession. Things always seem to go wrong whenever I try to get one step ahead of the game. Whenever I get a lead, I hope that maybe I’ll get lucky and my boss will take me seriously. That he’ll finally move me up a spot or two on the totem pole. So far, though, it feels like I’m getting nowhere.

I’ve been working for the local TV station WSPR for two years. I had to fight like hell to even get where I am right now. I’m one of the presenters during that screwed-up time slot that’s so late at night it’s actually early in the morning. And even so, I think seventy-five percent of the reason I got that job is because I’m considered to be a pretty face. Which is definitely an advantage in my line of work, but it’s also a curse. It’s hard to be taken seriously when everyone you meet just assumes you got where you are from your looks, not your brains.

I started out at WSPR as a late-night weather girl. Then I got moved up to announcing the news at an hour when nobody gives a shit. In another year, maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get moved to a better slot, flashing my pearly whites to another demographic.

But my real goal? What I’ve always wanted to do?

Sports reporter.

Unfortunately, my boss doesn’t think women should be reporting on sports. Not men’s sports, anyway. Even though there are plenty of examples of great female sports reporters nationwide to prove him wrong, Ethan’s brain seems stuck in the nineteen-fifties. Which is weird, because he’s only about ten years older than I am.

Ethan would probably let me convince him to cover some women’s sports for the station — except he doesn’t think women’s sports are even newsworthy enough to cove most of the time. And covering the “hard” sports stories of the men’s teams is men’s work, in his opinion. The best a woman could do would be the human interest stories, like how some quarterback does charity work for a local animal shelter or something.

Which means that as long as I’m working for WSPR, I’ll either be stuck being a pretty talking head at three a.m., or doing filler stories about how a local basketball player’s mom makes stuffed basketballs with the team’s logo for underprivileged kids.

Unless, that is, I can break a big story by myself and Ethan will have to notice me.

So, with that in mind, I’ve been working hard to do just that. I’m trying to get information about the Springville Rockets sign-ups for the next season, and it hasn’t been easy to come by. I’m trying to be careful with my approach so I won’t get shot down. That’s why I’m following this lead. I happened to meet the assistant to the director of pro personnel for the Rockets a few nights ago at a friend’s party. After a few drinks, he told me their team had plans to drop one of the players. I tried to get more out of him, but he got more handsy as the night went on, and I wasn’t willing to give it up for a one-night stand with a guy I wasn’t attracted to just to get a lead.

Ever since then, I’ve been trying to find the someone else to start questioning. It could be a big scoop, and I want to be the one to get the story before anyone else beats me to it. The Happiness Bar is a well-known hangout for local athletes, so I’ve been coming here hoping to run into someone from the team. Unfortunately, it looks like I’ve drawn a blank tonight. There’s no one here from the Rockets that I recognize. Plus, I’m the only woman here by myself, and I keep getting hit on by half-drunk guys with beer breath. I don’t even have the benefit of a girlfriend as a buffer, and I’m getting sick of fending off advances by random men.

“Hey, there.”

I glance up at the bartender as he comes over. He leans against the bar and gives me a disarming smile. I have to admit, the man looks good, but I'm working and really don’t have time or the inclination to flirt with him right now.

“Yes?” I ask.

“You want something stronger to drink than that club soda? You’ve been here for a while.” He flashes me his set of pearly whites. I can’t help but admire how the tattoos on his left forearm accentuate the muscles underneath.

“Thanks for worrying about me, but I’m actually waiting for someone,” I lie. I try not to sound cranky and rude, but I’m not sure it’s working.

I can see the interest in his eyes fade just a little. “Whatever you say. If you need something just call for me,” he says as he walks away.

I toss my hair over my shoulder and glance around the room again. Nothing. There are no men here who could possibly be pro athletes. I’ve been here for almost two hours. I guess I could stay longer, but I’m sick of waiting around. I should just cut my losses and get the hell out of here.

Sighing, I finish up my umpteenth club soda, pay my bill, and stand just as another random guy is trying to catch my eye at the other end of the bar. Ignoring him, I hurry to the front door before he can get up and come over to chat me up. Ugh. Suddenly, a pint of Oreo ice cream and a movie sitting on my ratty old couch sounds like a very appealing way to end the evening.

I push past a group of people coming into the bar and into the night air. Once outside, I walk to my car and open the door with my key. I root around inside my bag for my phone, then toss the bag onto the shotgun seat. As I’m reaching for the door with my free hand, my other hand fumbles with the car keys and my phone. Before I can catch it, my phone drops to the ground. I let out a little yelp of horror when I hear it hit the concrete and watch it bounce a couple feet away.

“Shit! Shit shit shit!” I hiss. “Please tell me it’s not fucking broken.”

I toss the keys inside and circle the car door because it’s in the way, then lean down to pick up my phone. As I do, I lose my balance a little on my heels, and my hip bumps against the door. I slide back against it, trying not to fall over, and it swings shut behind me.

Grabbing the phone, I reach back for the door handle and haul myself up to a standing position, then pull it to open the door.

Nothing happens.

I try again.

Nothing happens, again.

“Noooo!” I wail in disbelief and horror. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Setting my phone on the roof of the car, I reach for the handle with both hands and start yanking on it over and over.

Which does about as much as you’d expect it to.

“No, no, no,” I chant under my breath as I tug on it harder. I even wiggle it a little, before tugging some more. “Not now, please,” I plead quietly. “Fucking shit, fuck fuck fuck.”

I put my foot against the car, and pull on the door handle with both hands, even though I know there’s no point to this anymore. I pull, to the point I should be worried about breaking it, but then my hands slip, and I stumble back, windmilling my arms, until I back into the car next to me, which breaks my fall.

And give my car a look of pure hatred and rage.

I’m miles from home — way too far to walk. Plus, my bag is still in the car, and my house key is on the same fob as my car key. I think about calling Harriet to come get me, but I know she’ll be in the middle of a set right now. I don’t have the heart to drag my roommate away from a gig. So I have to figure this out on my own. I’ll just have to call someone to come unlock my car.

I don’t even know who you call for something like that, though. A locksmith? A tow truck? Do I need proof that the car is mine before they’ll agree to do it? I can’t even remember if my registration is in the glove box. What if I can’t prove the car belongs to me once they unlock it? I wonder. What would they do — just lock it back up again?

In spite of how upset I am, I snort to myself at how ridiculous that would be. Then, shaking my head, I reach for my phone, which is still sitting on the roof of my car. I wince when I see the cracked screen. Great, just great.

And when I press the power button, nothing happens.

“No, dammit, no!” I moan to myself in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me with this?”

Can this night get any worse?

“You fucking, stupid, old, beat up fucker!” I yell uselessly at my car. I resist the urge to kick the tire, knowing I’d probably only hurt my foot. Instead, I bang on the hood with my hands, like that’s gonna convince it to spontaneously unlock itself. My old Renault just sits there innocently against my barrage of insults and abuse.

It does nothing, of course, but somehow swearing and pounding on the thing makes me feel just a tiny bit better. I take a deep breath to refill my lungs, and am just about to start hurling a fresh round of swearing at it, when a deep voice behind me almost makes me jump out of my skin.

“Hey there,” the voice says. “What did that poor car ever do to you?”