I’m scribbling down the last of the fire chief’s comments from our phone interview when my boss Roger sticks his head into the cubicle.

“Madeline. Nicole. My office. Now.”

My cubicle-mate Nicole blows out a breath. I close my spiral notebook and glance at her.

“Off to see what little man wants,” she mumbles to herself as she grabs her notebook. “At least this interruption got you to stop gnawing your pen cap.” When she faces me, I can tell from her expression she’s about to unleash her not-so-inner bitch. “Can I just mention that it would be awesome if you had someone oil the swivel in your chair? Because you jiggle your leg like you’re having some kind of seizure, and that noise is about to make me batshit crazy.”

For some reason, Nicole’s not my biggest fan. Even though we were both hired at the same time and should be helping each other in this cut-throat industry, she looks at me like I might give her an STD. I’d say I’m usually a confident person—you don’t make it in broadcasting if you’re a wallflower—but there’s something unnerving about this girl.

Normally, I ignore her comments, but I’ve been averaging less than five hours of sleep a night since I landed this job, and my nerves are shot.

“Nicole, how about we try to pretend we’re on the same team here? Enough with the eat-shit-and-die attitude, okay?”

Her eyebrow pops up. “I’ve never heard you curse before. If I piss you off more, will you do it again?”

That’s her response? No, I don’t curse. Not really. Because all it takes is one slip-up on live television to end up on the back roads of Montana doing segments on the mating patterns of bison.

I don’t even know why Nicole and I sit in the same cubicle aside from the fact that we’re both new. She should be hanging out with the sports department on the other side of the hall, but that office is already packed. I think she’s pissed she got stuck with a news reporter and can’t listen to ESPN all day.

She ignores me, as usual, and curls a long strand of her blonde hair around a French-manicured finger. Nicole looks like she was bred by some cheerleading team in Southern California. There’s even a perky little bounce to her step.

Smoothing down my gray pencil skirt, I watch her indecently short dress flounce as she practically skips down the hall.

When we enter Roger’s office, Nicole turns on the bubbly personality. “Hey, boss, can you believe the footage from training camp today? Man, Daren Sloan has one hell of an arm.”

The moment I hear his name, my heart starts racing. Jesus, Madeline. Chill out.

I don’t know what my problem is, but ever since I plowed into him, whenever I hear his name, little bolts of electricity shoot through me. I blame those hazel eyes… the way he stared down at me… the way he cradled my neck. And, yeah, the way he remembered my name. Damn him.

Nicole flips her hair over her shoulder, and internally, I roll my eyes. The dazzling smile on her face is one I only see directed at other people, typically men. She would never waste that much energy on me.

Roger doesn’t seem enchanted like every other guy who gets sucked into Nicole’s vortex of charm. Maybe it’s because he’s older, maybe early sixties. With a worn expression, he rubs his stubbled jaw.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about, girls.” He sits back in his squeaky chair and frowns. “I’m going to need you both to head over to the Rebels’ stadium tomorrow morning to do a new football segment targeting women. If it’s a success, we’ll do it every week. Nicole, I don’t need to tell you this could be huge for your career.”

I’m so confused right now. “Sir, why do you need me?” She’s the sports reporter.

He smiles. It’s tired, but it warms his eyes. “I loved your suggestion to investigate how expanding the team’s parking would affect the neighboring wildlife in the adjacent park reserve. This is your chance to interview the Rebels’ public relations rep to get a few answers and some footage. With the vote coming up on Friday, you’ll have everything you need to do a full report.”

I can barely contain my glee. So far, I’ve mostly written for the anchors or done small, live spots about human interest stories. But this could be significant. Solving real problems is what attracted me to journalism in the first place. I could care less about being on TV or getting recognition. I love fighting for the little guy and helping the community.

He waves between us. “You two should go prep. Spencer will brief you on the logistics of tomorrow.”

At that, my face falls. Spencer is the new producer corporate hired to increase ratings. And he’s a total asshole.

As though sensing my trepidation, Roger nods. “You’ll do great, girls. I have faith in you.”

God, I want to kick ass for him. He’s been under so much pressure about our ratings lately. Corporate wants him to do more about viral videos and feature celebrity bullshit. He’s been holding out, but I know if he doesn’t turn things around, he’s losing his job.

Here’s the crazy part. I heard through the grapevine that Roger wasn’t excited about hiring Nicole or me. He wanted more seasoned veterans but gave in because he didn’t have a choice. According to the gossip, corporate made him hire young, attractive girls. I don’t know why that endears him more to me. Maybe it’s because I know he really cares about the news and getting it done right.

I plan to make him proud.

* * *

Spencer’s eyes are alight with enthusiasm as he goes over his notes with Nicole. I might as well be a piece of lint.

“The Rebels hope to increase their viewership among women, and they want to use this weekly segment to tap into a whole new viewership. I think you’re just the girl to do it,” he says to Nicole, not hiding his interest in her artificially high breasts.

Spencer is not a bad-looking guy. He’s in his early thirties and has an impressive resume that boasts consulting gigs with major news networks across the country. At least, I’d be impressed if he didn’t creep me out.

Nicole doesn’t seem to care that our boss is leering at her tits. She’s too busy jotting down ideas in her notebook. “I can’t believe I get to interview Daren Sloan. Fuck, yeah.”

I cringe at the expletive, thinking back to my professor who would ream us out if we cursed around him for fear we’d drop an f-bomb on live television, but Douchebag Spencer doesn’t bat an eye.

Nicole looks over tomorrow’s schedule with a frown. “We don’t have a lot of time for the interview.”

This is where I could tell her Daren is my neighbor, that we have mutual friends, that I could probably get her more than the ten minutes the team promised us. But then I’m reminded of the many times Nicole’s handed me a big, fat serving of snark during the last month, and my usual pay-it-forward philosophy disappears faster than Kanye’s false sense of humility at an awards show.

Nicole taps her pen at the edge of her notebook. “Spence, what approach should I take? Would you prefer that I ask the totally clueless questions like the idiots out there who don’t know jack about football?”

Spence? I’m vomiting on the inside.

“No, just do your thang, girl. Get Daren talking about the game. Use your charm.” He clicks his tongue. “Give the ladies watching a show.”

I resist making a gagging sound. But only barely.

He starts to walk away, and I call out, “Did you have any special direction for me?”

Spencer doesn’t look up from his call sheet. “Touch base with news. See what they need.” And then he shuffles out of the office.

His commitment to journalism is heartwarming.

Nicole talks through her questions like I’m not in the room. How did you feel when you won the Heisman? What can we expect from you this season? How much time do you think you’ll play? Are you dating anyone?

Somehow, I don’t think those are the questions the team is hoping she’ll ask. Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “Nicole, have you considered just asking basic football questions for girls who want to learn the game but don’t know where to begin?”

She makes a “pft” sound and shakes her head at me like I’m an idiot.

Okey-doke. I’m done. Nicole trots off to talk to the sports department, and I return to my notes.

At least I can finally do the segment about the wildlife preserve. The Rebels don’t seem concerned that expanding their parking will endanger the golden-winged warbler, which is on the brink of extinction.

I’m trying to pull up some research when my laptop freezes, and I get the pinwheel of death. “Goddaaaa… Motherfuuuu… Shhhhh… Gah.” I slam my fist on my desk.

“What’s the trouble, Madeline?”

The voice behind me makes me jump.

Brad, the tech guy, is leaning into my cubicle as though he heard my cries from afar. He pushes up his black-rimmed glasses on his nose and smiles, his green eyes crinkling at the corners. Brad is a nice guy. Why can’t I like nice guys? He brought me an iced mocha last week when he ducked out for a coffee run. I know several of the secretaries have little crushes on him. It’s that laid-back demeanor and sandy blond hair that do them in. Even though I never date coworkers, I wish I felt an inkling of attraction for him. He’s so much more my speed.

I smile in relief. “Thank God you’re here. This wonderful technological invention that should make my life easier is driving me insane. It keeps freezing. I know you said it was that last system update, but Nicole’s laptop doesn’t have the same problem. Can you take a look?”

He smiles and folds his hands in front of him. “I’m here to serve.”