Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
I force away the grandiose delusions. It’s a nice fantasy, but I imagine it’d take years, decades even, before somebody gave me my own show.
The radio clipped to Mischa’s belt crackles with static. “Mr. Mulder is ready for her,” comes Rochelle’s voice.
“See? That wasn’t too long of a wait,” Mischa tells me. “Right?”
Uh-huh. Right. Mulder was an hour and fifteen minutes late to an interview that wasn’t even supposed to be today. Consummate professional.
Mischa walks me back to the production offices, where Rochelle hurriedly ushers me to her boss.
“Mr. Mulder,” I say. “It’s good to see you again.”
As always, his attention is elsewhere. There are several overhead screens mounted on the wall, and one is showing a newscast from a rival network. It’s on mute, but the coverage is on Saturday night’s Oilers game.
He tears his gaze away from the screen. “Thanks for coming back. Friday was a total shit show.”
“Yeah, it seemed crazy.” He doesn’t ask me to sit, but I do it anyway and wait for him to continue the interview.
“So, your school will be facing Harvard in the conference finals,” he says. “What are your thoughts on that?”
“I’m excited to kick their butts.”
Mulder’s smile is mocking. “With Connelly at the helm? I’m afraid you’re destined to lose. You’ve heard of Jake Connelly, right?”
Unfortunately. “Of course.”
Mulder leans back in his chair. “All right, then here’s a nice test for you—our interns are expected to be statistics savvy. Tell me, what are Connelly’s stats for the season?”
I hide a frown. That’s the most generalized question I’ve ever heard. His stats? What stats?
“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” I reply. “What statistics are you looking for? Goals? Assists? Power play goals? Shots on goal?”
Mulder seems annoyed by my questioning. Rather than answer, he shuffles through some papers.
Lovely. This is shitty interview 2.0. I hate this man. He doesn’t care that I’m here, and he has no intention of hiring me. But I patiently sit there even though I can tell he’s totally checked out.
His intercom buzzes, blessedly breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Mulder, your wife’s on the line. She says it’s important.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s never important,” he informs me. He jams a button with his finger. “I’m in the middle of an interview. Ask her to be more specific.”
Ohhhh really? He’s allowed to ask people to be more specific, but when I do it, it’s inexcusable?
After a short delay, Rochelle returns. “She needs to confirm the amount of people to expect for dinner on Friday.”
“Important, my ass. Tell her I’ll call her after the interview.” He hits the button again. “Women,” he mutters.
I refrain from commenting, because hello, I’m a woman.
“We have a dinner party this weekend,” Mulder explains, shaking his head irritably. “As if I give a shit about any of the details. What do I care what the napkins look like? Or if it’s four courses or twenty? I swear that woman obsesses over the most trivial nonsense.”
I’m surprised he doesn’t follow that up with some progressive commentary about how women are trivial creatures who have teeny pea brains and could never, ever work in a sports environment. The sports treehouse is for men! No girls allowed!
On the big screen, ESPN is showing a clip of the Oilers’ Connor McDavid scoring one of the most beautiful goals I’ve ever seen. Sadly, it’s not enough to win them the game.
Mulder whistles loudly, his mood brightening. “That kid is a legend!” he crows.
“He’s a generational talent,” I agree. “Best thing that’s happened to the franchise in decades.”
“And next season we have Connelly, too? Yee-haw! We’ll be unstoppable.”
I nod. “Connelly will bring some much-needed speed to the team. He’s one of the best skaters there is.”
“Lightning on skates. Lord, Brenna, I’ve never looked forward to a season more!” He rubs his hands together with unabashed glee.
My body language relaxes. This is the first time Mulder has actually warmed up to me. I’m not particularly thrilled that Jake Connelly is the reason Mulder is thawing, but at this point, I’ll take whatever assistance I can get. Jerk Mountain is harder to climb than frickin’ Everest.
We discuss Jake for nearly five minutes. I swear, Mulder actually seems to appreciate my opinions. One of my remarks legit causes him to say, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
And yet when I try to steer the conversation back to the internship?
Mulder’s attention goes back to his computer screen.
Frustration claws at my throat. I just want to scream. I can’t figure out if he likes me or hates me. If he wants to hire me or wants me to GTFO.
“Anyway. Thanks for coming in again,” he says absently.
Well, there’s my answer. Get the fuck out.
“We still have a few more candidates to meet with, but you’ll be notified as soon as any decisions are made.”