I was a bloody mess sitting on Finn effing Daley’s kitchen counter — my skin torn and mangled with rivers of crimson running down my thigh and puddling in my socks. The unusually warm fall day had me wearing my favorite blue running shorts and a T-shirt — an outfit that allowed for such an injury, and one that now felt exceedingly indecent. Especially when he stood so close that I could feel his breath marking my skin.

Finn ran his hand through his hair and tugged it — at the root — twice. I would later learn this was one of his tells — a sign that he was losing control. When he looked back up at me, his eyes dilated. All the softness in his gaze had grown hard. Gone was the sweet caretaker intent on patching up my injured legs. This guy looked more like the violent hockey player on the ice who bashed players into the boards whenever he got the chance. Fans called him the Angel of Death.

Beautiful, but deadly.

His unexpected retirement also happened to be the biggest sports mystery of our time. One I intended to solve.

“It’s no accident that you just happened to be riding your bike past my house, is it?” Finn asked, backing up from me. “No accident that we keep running into each other?”

“What do you mean?” I said, holding my breath. There was no way he could’ve known who I really was or what I was really doing there.

Just play it cool, Casey.

“I admit,” he laughed, balling his hands up into fists. “It’s been awhile since I had a little visitor. I guess I should be flattered that the girls haven’t forgotten about me. Who sent you? Gina? Heather?”

He moved in closer and my heart thrashed around in my chest. I had no idea what he was talking about, but it couldn’t have been good. I tipped my chin up so he’d know I wasn’t afraid. He would not intimidate me.

If I were producing this clusterfuck of a story for TV news, I would definitely use this scene as the Teaser. I had learned that starting a story with blood
and
the hint of sex was pure magic. It didn’t get much better for the viewing audience.

Looking back, however, I guess there was more than just a hint of sex that day — so there’d have to be some major editing done before it ever hit the air.

Consider this the unabridged version.

Chapter 1

STAGGER-THROUGH (n.):

The first TV rehearsal with the camera rolling.

Casey

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked Jonathan, while checking out my new
wardrobe
in the mirror. “You can see my areolas in this shirt.”

I dropped into the chair in one of the private green rooms Jonathan was able to snag for us and buried my face in my hands. I couldn’t believe that after all I accomplished in college — my nearly perfect GPA, the media awards and accolades, and the breaking news stories that actually made a difference in the community — I was here in whorewear trying out for a job as a KXAA Sports Girl.

Yes, despite our journalistic forewomen’s best efforts to get the Weather Bunnies of the 70s off the air, they had been reincarnated in the very peppy KXAA Sports Girls.

Go team!

“Trust me, you
can’t
see your areolas,” Jonathan said with a blush. “If you could, I’d be breaking out in a sweat by now.”

“Dude,” I said, peeking through my fingers. “You really need to get some, instead of lusting after my business all the time.”

“You should talk. How many months have you been here now? And I’ve yet to see anyone in
your
business.”

“That’s because you’re cockblocking me all the time.”

He rolled his eyes, but I wanted more. I was pissy and ready for a fight.

Jonathan was my best friend from UMD — actually, one of my only friends. I would like to believe it was because I was new to the Twin Cities and spent all my time working. But that’s not why. I had the tendency to rub people the wrong way.

“Whatever. If you didn’t have me, you’d be back in Duluth crying in your beer. You certainly wouldn’t have this opportunity land in your lap.”

I flipped him off in response, the mature and professional woman I was.

Jonathan and I worked on our college news program together before he graduated. As expected, he landed a video photog spot right away. At Minnesota’s highest ranking TV station, no less. It wasn’t a surprise. He killed it behind the camera.

Minneapolis/St. Paul is a market 15 news station, which is impressive in its own right. But to land the job right out of college without making any stops in Bumfuck, North Dakota? It was virtually unheard of. Most of us would land a position at a tiny town where the top news of the day would be the farm report or a kids’ spelling bee. Then you’d be expected to work around the clock for minimal pay, all the while praying for at least a few decent news stories to put on an audition reel. After that you’d start over at a slightly bigger station and so on and so forth. Then, if you were lucky, you’d work your way up into a top 20 market before hitting your thirtieth birthday.

I wasn’t so lucky.

When I graduated last spring, I got nada. No callbacks. No interest. Nothing from the dozens of resumes I sent out. Not that I was surprised. After fighting off the sleazy advances from my limp dick department chairman all year, I assumed he’d get me back in some way. I later found out that one of his minions tracked all the stations where I sent my resume. Then Limp Dick made a few calls, and just like that I was blacklisted.

Every night, I prayed that he would be struck down with anal warts.

Thank god I still had Jonathan.

He was able to pull some strings and get me into the KXAA newsroom as an intern. Though it was several heads lower on the totem pole than I expected, it worked out okay.

In June, I moved into my brother’s place in the quaint river village of Stillwater — beautiful, small, and fairly close to the TV station in St. Paul — and worked my ass off for three months. I loved every second of it. But even without having to pay rent, I still burned through what little savings I had by working for free all summer. And when the dog days were over, so was my job. Not one department had an opening.

Except for the sports department. That’s when Jonathan had the brilliant idea of the Sports Girl position. I so wanted to cut the bastard for suggesting it, but in all honesty, I needed the money. They currently had openings for the basketball and hockey beats, and Jonathan said I was a shoo-in.

Sports Girls are KXAA’s cheesy gimmick to rope in viewers and up their ratings. They are the magical link between the fans and the players, responsible for the pre- and post-game coverage for every sports team in the state, as well as interviews during the games. And they do it all while wearing tight team jerseys and pearly white smiles. Sad thing is? It’s working. KXAA’s game coverage has never been better.

“Well, let’s get on with it,” I said to Jonathan. “Stop staring at my tits and help me get this slimy gig.”

Jonathan brushed me off and set up his camera so I could do a practice run. “It won’t be that bad,” he said, trying to divert his eyes from the girls.
My
girls. He was pretty darn cute as he did it too — clean cut and as wholesome-looking as you could get: blonde hair, blue eyes, and the just the sweetest face. I loved to fuck with him.

But this wasn’t a good sign — if my very gentlemanly platonic friend couldn’t fight a sneak peek at the goods, what were the viewers going to do when they got a load of this getup?

“No,” I disagreed. “It’s worse. How will anyone ever take me seriously?”

“Because they won’t have a choice when they get to know your brilliant mind like I do,” Jonathan said.

I scoffed and he put his arm around my shoulders, trying to calm me down. I so didn’t deserve him.

“Once you land your national correspondent position, these will be the days you laugh about. You’ll also be forever kissing my ass because this will be the job that gets you noticed.”

“Right.”

“Do you know how many serious journalists were beauty queens before they got their big break? Or how many female sports reporters started as cheerleaders?”

“That’s disgusting,” I said, wrapping my arms over my chest. “And depressing.”

“Things are changing, Casey.” He smiled. “You are allowed to be both beautiful and intelligent. This is good news for women like you.”

“Watch it,” I told him.

My looks were a bit of a sore spot with me. I’d grown up hearing it all from my mother.
“Casey, you’d get more boys if you took off your glasses, if you wore your hair down, if you tried.”
Well, I didn’t want to try, dammit. I liked my comfortable clothes and I preferred to have my hair off my face and my glasses on. The thought of sticking plastic in my eyes creeped me out; make-up made me itchy; and I once sprained my ankle trying to walk in heels at prom.

Of course, with my mother, there was much more to her criticisms.

“I need to white balance and then we’re good to go,” Jonathan said.

I held up my reporter’s notebook so he could make the camera adjustments and said, “Let’s do it.”

The producers had already watched my college newsreel and the stand-ups we recorded over the summer. They liked me enough to promise the role of production assistant when my internship was up, but that was before the budget cuts. Jonathan said the loss was a blessing in disguise. He didn’t want me pigeonholed. He said I was
talent
— something broadcasting people called the anchors and reporters — and not someone who should be working behind the scenes. At the moment, I would’ve given anything to be working behind the scenes instead of preparing to pimp myself out for the world to enjoy.

But it was too late for that.

Jonathan and I did a few more practice runs, and I pretended to ignore the other women coming in and out of the audition.

“Casey Scott,” the speaker in the dressing room rang out. “Casey Scott to the studio.”

“Go get ’em, Scott,” Jonathan said, with a little swat to my butt. “And don’t forget to smile.”

Aw, shit.
That was the part I always forgot. At UMD, the crew used to joke about my intense reporting and stoic expressions. Apparently I was wound a little tight. They teased me relentlessly and even made a gag video for me at graduation. They spliced in new audio on all of my stand-ups to cover my voice. Things like:

This is Casey Scott, and I’m very constipated right now.

No, that isn’t a stick up my ass, I’m just reporting the news.

And I won’t even go into all the comments about my tits.

Fuckers.

Maybe Jonathan had a point. I could at least pretend to enjoy myself out there.

Once I walked into the studio, I was given three different scenarios for my audition. During two of them, I would read off the teleprompter for: a crowd shot at the Wild hockey game and a bar shot before the Timberwolves tipoff. The third was a twenty-second ad lib about why I wanted to be a KXAA Sports Girl.

I looked over the copy, worked out my answers to the questions, and before I was even ready, the camera operator gave me a countdown. Three, two, one ….

Barbara Walters, Diane Sawyer, and Christiane Amanpour, please forgive me, but a girl’s gotta eat.

“Hey, sports fans.” I raised my voice a full octave and — I’m mortified to say — bounced a little. “I’m your new KXAA Sports Girl, Casey Scott.”

And that’s how I began my descent into hell.

BOOK: Talk to Me

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