Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
However, the eye candy was nice and there were a few sweet “perks,” like prime seating at the games, behind-the-scenes access, and exclusive interviews.
Okay, that last one wasn’t a guarantee.
Grr. You guessed it—I was still sore about my botched attempt to secure an interview with Ty Czerniak. Very sore.
I didn’t deal with rejection well. I was a fixer. I wanted to know what I’d done wrong, what I could do better, and if possible, how I could change your mind. Pathetic, huh? It wasn’t that I wanted everyone to like me. It was more that I didn’t like knowing that someone hated me or harbored actively ambivalent feelings.
By the way, don’t tell me active ambivalence isn’t a thing. As the only child of divorced parents who’d shipped me off to boarding schools at the first opportunity, I was very familiar with the concept of people being aware of your existence without feeling the need to engage.
Oh, boohoo. Life was full of lemons. If you weren’t out there making lemonade, you’d never stand a chance. I knew that better than most.
Did I have something to prove? Darn tootin’, I did. I wanted to be someone, and I wanted the people who’d written me off to take notice. So far, it was going pretty well, if I did say so myself.
What’s New, Smithton? was mind-bogglingly popular. Seriously. A streaming channel with a million followers and prolific sponsorship was nothing to sneeze at.
What had started as a mini side project for a communication class my freshman year had blossomed into a thriving business whose objective was to highlight people, places, and events of interest in a teeny, tiny college town.
Not gonna lie, I’d never dreamed there was an audience for people interested in everything from the history of Smithton to our taste in coffee, music, and food. My highest rated episodes last year had been a segment on a new yarn shop and the shirtless interview I’d done with our curling team. No, no, I’d kept my shirt on, but those goofballs went off-script and the result had been comedy gold. We’d gone viral…again. Honestly, that might have been the story that pushed our subscribership into the stratosphere.
That and the “Valentine Sneak Kiss Cam” episode a year and a half ago.
And yes, that episode was the reason Ty Czerniak hated me.
Sigh.
I understood. I really did.
What’s New, Smithton? was my show, and my name was all over it. If something was good or bad, it was my responsibility. I took the credit or the blame. I had a small staff who helped suss out fresh storylines, but I had final sign-off.
And on that one particular occasion of celebrating hearts, flowers, and all things lurv, I’d let something big slip through the cracks.
Sidebar with full-disclosure-slash-confession: Jett Erickson, a former Bears hockey player and Ty Czerniak’s bestie, had been accidentally outed on my channel. I know what you’re thinking and I accept your contempt. But trust me, as a gay man, I’d been mortified by the oversight that had led to a blurry photo of Jett kissing his boyfriend being published and shared with a few hundred thousand fans. Mortified.
I’d immediately removed the offending photo, publicly apologized, and privately groveled as well. Apparently, that wasn’t enough for Smithton’s hockey hero’s best friend. And that was life. Win some, lose some. Not everyone was your flavor of Cheerios. Some preferred plain or honey nut or they were cornflakes fans. Some people didn’t like cereal at all. This was why we had choices.
Obviously, I wasn’t Ty’s type of person and he held a mean grudge, which was his prerogative. I just wished—
Arlo belched loudly in my ear, violently pulling me from my reverie.
I bit back my grimace of distaste like a pro. “Congrats on your win tonight, man. The fans were on fire tonight.”
Trying too hard? Yes, I heard myself. But give me a break…I was ad-libbing like a maniac. I didn’t know jock-speak, but I’d studied interviews with the veteran reporters on ESPN and had learned to throw in a “man” and a fist bump without coming across as a total dweeb. It usually worked.
Most of the jocks I’d met were sweet, uncomplicated guys who thought shoving each other on the field or ice was super fun. The tougher they seemed, the harder they took a loss. And they all loved to win.
“Dude, it was awesome,” Arlo drawled, affecting an impression of a California surfer. Since I knew for a fact that Arlo was from Scranton, I had no idea what that was about. However, I’d been known to adopt a questionable British accent after a few too many G and Ts, so no judgment here.
“Absolutely. Do you have anything to tell Smithton football fans?”
Arlo cocked his head thoughtfully. “Uh…I got a new tattoo.”
Eye roll checked and a tight smile fixed firmly in place, I inched closer. “Oh, that’s a cool…spider?”