Her tablemate made a face and Holly rolled her eyes at the childish gesture. Grow up, she mouthed, and then said into the phone, said, "I'm just having breakfast with Paige-hey. Be nice."
Paige frowned at the unheard insult.
"What? Are you serious? When? Oh my God. Thanks for the heads-up! Yes, of course I'm going to submit my résumé right now. Yeah. I'll talk to you later. Thanks again."
"What? What's going on?"
"Jim Purcell finally retired!" The announcement came out a little high-pitched and squealy, but Holly was so stoked she didn't even care.
"Oh my God!" Paige seal clapped with glee. "Who is that and why do we care?"
Holly laughed. She and Paige might be polar opposites, but she couldn't ask for a better, more supportive friend. "Jim Purcell is the sports anchor on Portland News Now."
"Right! The old guy with the bad toupee."
"Exactly. And if he's retiring, that means that the one and only Corey Baniuk is most likely getting promoted to the anchor desk as we speak. And that means..."
"That they will be looking for an amazing, knowledgeable, well-spoken replacement-who is you!" Paige's seal clap was genuine this time. "We have to get you home immediately," she exclaimed, downing the rest of her espresso. "You need to email that stellar résumé of yours to them at once. At once, I say! And then later, I'll take you out for dinner and we can celebrate this big step in your quest for nightly news dominance."
Holly smiled, appreciative of Paige's enthusiasm. "A lovely offer, but I'm having dinner with my dad tonight."
"Fine. I'll eat alone. But I'm having champagne in your honor and you can't stop me."
Paige's over-the-top zeal was a nice little ego boost, but Holly couldn't afford to lose sight of the truth. There were a lot of résumés out there far more stellar than hers.
But, she rationalized, if she could be the one to break a certain hockey scandal wide open at just the right moment... that was exactly the sort of thing that could make her stand out from a crowd.
* * *
"HEY, POP. How's it going?"
"I'm still alive."
The gruff response was a typical one, and Holly sighed as she stopped at her father's recliner and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Well, at least you've got that going for you. Tacos okay tonight?" she asked, heading toward the kitchen.
"I could eat a taco or two."
"Perfect. Put the game on and turn it up so I can hear it from in here." Holly hefted the bag of groceries onto the counter and set about unpacking. She put the hamburger in a skillet, sliced up some toppings and dumped the cheese in a bowl, glad she'd sprung for pre-shredded.
The third game of the series had ended with an uninspired 1 – 0 win for Portland. She knew that because she'd ghostwritten no less than seven articles about it. Not that she was complaining. Play-offs were always a nice bump to the bank account. Tonight they were playing the second of their two-game road trip. Which meant that, except for televised interviews, she hadn't seen a certain hot captain in a few days. She missed him.
But tonight she had to focus on the game and on Pop. Judging by the announcers' lack of enthusiasm, the Storm seemed to be headed for a scoreless first period. She hoped the second period would bring more excitement, because she had another seven articles due bright and early in the morning.
What could she say? Freelancing was not the most glamorous lifestyle. You wrote what people wanted, when they wanted it. That was why she preferred op-eds. It was nice to inject a little personality and analysis into a piece every now and again. But she couldn't afford to be too choosy. It was the no-frills assignments that paid the bills.
Whenever the cooking permitted, she snuck a glance at the big TV, her father's only real indulgence. Everything else in the small bungalow was almost exactly the same as it had been when she'd grown up here. Same oatmeal-colored carpeting, same dated brass lamps, same crystal knickknacks sitting in exactly the same spots, as evidenced by the dust.
It was a house full of good memories and dismal reality. Before her mother had died, the place had been cheery and full of love. Since her passing, it had gotten stuck in time, and there was a palpable desperation to a house that seemed to just be waiting for someone who was never coming back.
With a sigh, Holly served up two plates of soft tacos and headed into the living room to join her father. She took her usual place on the threadbare couch after she handed him his supper, which he accepted with a grunt. "Pop, you think maybe it's time to get some new furniture?" she asked, noticing that he'd finally given in and duct-taped the armrest on his recliner. "You know, spruce the place up a little?"
"It doesn't need sprucing."
"Your chair is falling apart. It's older than I am."
"I fixed it, didn't I?"
Holly sighed. There was no budging him when he was being stubborn. "Like trying to charm a pig outta mud," her mother used to say, although to Holly's recollection, Diane Evans had always managed to get her husband to come around to her way of thinking.
Holly hadn't inherited that particular gift, so instead of arguing with her father, she dug in to her taco.
As they waited for the second period to get underway, the station was showing highlights from another game being played that night. A San Jose player tipped the puck into the opposition's net, and the home crowd went wild.
"Montana's gonna blow it. Those guys can't get their defense in order." Her dad's words were muffled by a mouthful of taco.
"I don't know. Federov and Rogers are a pretty good duo when their forwards are hot."
"Your brother thinks they should trade 'em both."
Holly shook her head. "No way. If they're going to trade anyone, it should be Powell. He's not living up to his potential because they don't have anyone good enough to play with him. But he's had a decent enough season, so they'll get something in return for him. Plus, he's got a real attitude. He's not gelling with the team."
No comment. Of course. Instead of acknowledging the brilliance of her strategy, he took another giant bite of his taco.
She watched and reported on sports for a living. Her brother was an electrician. Why wouldn't Neil's comments hold more weight?
Holly took a sip of her beer. It wasn't unexpected, but it always stung. She couldn't figure out why she kept setting herself up for the TKO, but at some point on these visits, she always brought up sports and always got shut down.
You'd think I'd have learned by now.
For a long time, Holly had figured her father's distance had something to do with her being a girl. Maybe he couldn't relate to her without her mother there as a buffer. And that sucked. But then her niece Melissa had come along and wound her grandpa around her little finger. He went to her hockey games and cheered louder than anyone. It hurt.
As they settled into watching the second period, Holly grabbed the notebook she'd set on the small table next to her dad's chair and began taking her usual game notes. It didn't take long before she found herself nitpicking the game, though. Well, not the game so much as the players. More specifically, the players she most suspected of game tampering.
Holly started an impromptu plus/minus tally on all the potential suspects from the last game. Brett Sillinger, for a boneheaded penalty, Luke for coughing up the puck, Eric Jacobs for a heroic play that had maintained the two-goal lead. It was more in-depth stat keeping than she usually bothered with, but then again, this was about more than a couple of "last night in hockey" reports. This was about making a name for herself in the world of sports.
Each time one of them was on the ice and the Storm scored, she gave them a plus sign. If one of them was on the ice and Colorado scored, she marked a minus sign. When the final buzzer scored to herald a 3 – 2 win for the Storm, Eric was +1 and Luke and the rookie were both sitting at -2. Not up to the season's standards for any of them. Which wasn't to say that bad games didn't happen. Still, trends were tracked for a reason.
"I thought these guys would walk all over Colorado. None of them are playing up to snuff."
Holly nodded at her father's summation. "You're right. Even when they win, they're performing statistically worse than I'd have suspected."
Her father harrumphed. "I'm going to get another beer. You want one?"