When my phone rings, I half expect it to be Jake, and my pulse speeds up. When the words HockeyNet flash on the screen, my heart beats even faster. Finally.

I take a breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Hello?”

“May I speak to Brenna Jensen, please?” inquires a brisk female voice.

“Speaking.”

“Brenna, hi. This is Rochelle from Ed Mulder’s office. Mr. Mulder was hoping you’d be able to come in tomorrow to discuss the internship position.”

“Oh. Um.” I quickly run through tomorrow’s schedule. My first class isn’t until one o’clock again. It’ll be close, but I could make it. “Yes, but only if it’s first thing in the morning. I have a seminar at one.”

“I’m afraid he’s all booked up in the morning.” I hear typing on the other line. “How about later afternoon? Does five thirty work for you?”

“I can make it work,” I say instantly, because I’m not about to be difficult.

“Perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

She disconnects.

Excitement flutters inside me. In the back of my mind, a little voice cautions me not to get ahead of myself. This doesn’t mean I got the job.

But…how am I not supposed to be hopeful? He wouldn’t make me drive all the way to Boston just to turn me down.

Nobody is that big of an asshole, right?

“We decided to go with somebody else.”

Oh. Apparently Ed Mulder is that big of an asshole.

From my perch on his visitor’s chair, I swallow my resentment and muster up a calm tone. “For all three slots?” There were three internships up for grabs.

“Yes. We’ve got some good guys coming in. Don’t get me wrong, your academics are on par, but two of them are athletes, and all three simply brought something unique to the table.”

Penises.

They brought penises to the table.

There is no doubt in my mind of that. But I force myself to remain courteous. “I see. All right. Well, thank you for your consideration.” Thank you for making me drive all the fucking way here.

He could have easily sent an email like a regular old jackass, but noooo, he had to prove that he’s a supreme jackass.

I start to get up, but Mulder chuckles and holds up a hand. “Wait. That’s not the only reason I asked you to come in.”

My butt sinks back on the chair. Despite myself, a teeny flicker of hope tickles my throat. Maybe he’s offering me a different position. Maybe a paid one, or—

“I wanted to invite you and Jake to the Bruins game this Sunday.” He beams at me, as if expecting me to clap my hands together in glee. “The network has a private box at TD Garden. Oh, my brother and sister-in-law will be there, too. Lindsay and Karen really enjoyed meeting you the other night. You ladies can catch up while us boys enjoy the game.”

Is murder illegal in Massachusetts?

It’s illegal in all fifty states, I remind myself.

Maybe I could get a good lawyer who could spin it as self-defense? Summer’s dad is a defense attorney. I’m sure he’d be able to keep me off Death Row.

The fury bubbling inside me is so close to spilling over. This asshole made me drive all the way to Boston so he could reject my internship application and invite me to talk about knitting and interior design with his wife and sister-in-law while he and my fake boyfriend get to watch my favorite hockey team.

It’s probably a good thing I don’t own a gun.

“I appreciate the invitation. I’ll have to ask Jake,” I say tightly, hoping the sheer rage isn’t showing on my face. “I’ll let you know.”

“Perfect. Hope you guys can make it. My wife can’t stop gushing about what a great couple you two make.” He winks. “Don’t worry, it’s still our little secret.”

I fake a smile. “Thank you.”

“Let me walk you out.”

“No bother!” My cheery expression is in grave danger of collapsing. “I know the way out. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Mulder.”

“Ed.”

“Ed.”

The fake smile disappears the moment I exit the office. My movements are stiff as I grab my coat from the row of hooks near the door. “It was nice meeting you,” I tell Rochelle.

“Yes. Best of luck to you,” she says sympathetically.

I step out into the corridor, but I don’t leave the building right away. I want to walk by the studio one last time, give it one last longing look. When I reach the cavernous space, there’s a news show in progress. I creep in, keeping a discreet distance, and watch as two analysts recap last night’s Ottawa Senators game and the game-winning goal by Brody Lacroix. One of them says, “Geoff spoke to Brody after the game. Here’s what the rookie had to say.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch a flurry of activity in the control booth. The director signals to someone, and a video of the interview suddenly comes on the screen between the two hosts. Geoff Magnolia’s annoying face appears. He’s the one who does most of the locker room interviews after games, and players view him as “one of the bros.”

Most of the time, Magnolia is too busy exchanging wisecracks with the players to ask about the actual game. With this Senators’ game, however, he’s attempting to be a real journalist while chatting with star player Brody Lacroix. They discuss Lacroix’s success in the third period, as well as his overall success during the season so far. At three different times, Magnolia says that Lacroix’s parents must be very proud of their son, and all three times, Lacroix gives an uncomfortable half-smile before finally mumbling some lame answer and turning away.

I shake my head. “Moron,” I mutter at the same time that a low female voice growls, “Idiot.”

I spin around to find Georgia Barnes, my idol, standing a few feet away. She eyes me, looking intrigued.

“And it’s time for a commercial,” one of the hosts tells the audience. “After the break, we’ll catch up with Herbie Handler down in Nashville and hear his predictions for tonight’s Predators matchup against the Flyers.”

“And we’re out,” a cameraman barks.

As if a switch has been flipped, the set comes to life. Bodies rush by, the chatter of voices echoing in the studio. “Someone fix that light!” one of the hosts complains. “It’s burning my goddamn retinas.”

A lowly assistant sprints over to deal with the lights. Georgia Barnes glances at me again, then walks off the set.

I hesitate for a beat. Then I hurry after her, awkwardly calling out her name.

She stops in the brightly lit corridor, turning to face me. She’s wearing a black pinstripe skirt, a white silk top, and black flats. Despite the elegant attire, I know that she has a fiery streak in her.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I tell her. “But I wanted to let you know what a huge fan I am. I think you’re one of the sharpest, most intelligent journalists in the country.”

Georgia responds with a warm smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Her shrewd gaze sweeps over me. “Do you work here?”

I shake my head. “In fact, I was just informed that I didn’t get the internship I applied for.”