Chapter 7: First Day

Ava’s reaction came through the phone so loudly I had to pull it away from my ear.

“You got the job? At Easton?”

“Yes,” I said, trying—and failing—not to smile as I paced my room. “Lower your voice.”

“No.”

“Ava.”

“Absolutely not.”

Her refusal was immediate and completely expected. She kept talking over herself, emphasizing every word like she was announcing it to a stadium instead of one person on the other end of the call.

“You got the job. The job. The one that could literally save your degree.”

That part landed differently. Not dramatic, just factual in a way that settled into my chest with weight. I dropped onto my bed, pressing my hand into the mattress as if confirming something solid existed beneath me.

“I got the job,” I repeated, quieter now.

“You got the job,” she echoed, matching my tone for once.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was relief settling in after weeks of everything going wrong.

Then Ava made a small, thoughtful sound that immediately put me on edge.

“Oh.”

I closed my eyes. “What?”

“You’re working for Easton.”

“Yep.”

“Northbridge is going to hate you.”

“Yep.”

“Like, really hate you.”

“Thank you for your support.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She sighed, dramatic as ever, but there was a thread of sincerity underneath it. “I’ll help you hide the bodies.”

“That’s friendship.”

“It really is.”

We talked a little longer, drifting into easier territory, but when I hung up, the excitement had sharpened into something more complicated. Not regret—just awareness. This wasn’t a clean break from everything that had happened. It was a step forward that came with consequences.

Still, I had the job. That mattered more than anything else.

My first official day started before my alarm could wake me. This time, it wasn’t nerves that had me wide awake. It was excitement. I got dressed, grabbed my things, and headed across campus.

Melissa was already outside the media offices when I arrived, clipboard in hand, looking like she’d been up for hours.

“Ready?” she asked.

“No.”

“Excellent.”

Her laugh came easily, and the tension I’d been carrying loosened just enough to let me follow her inside without overthinking every step. The next hour passed in a blur of forms, signatures, and instructions. Melissa walked me through access passes, equipment protocols, and arena guidelines with the quiet confidence of someone who expected me to keep up.

When she handed me my staff badge, I paused longer than I meant to. My name sat beneath the Easton logo, clean and official in a way that made everything feel suddenly real.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.” I turned it over once before clipping it on. “It just feels real now.”

“That’s usually how jobs work,” she said, dry but not unkind.

I laughed, then hesitated as a thought I’d been pushing aside surfaced again. “There is actually one thing.”

She stopped walking and gave me her full attention. “What is it?”

I lowered my voice out of instinct, even though no one nearby seemed interested in us. “Can we not announce it publicly yet?”

Her expression shifted, not confused, just considering. “Not forever,” I added quickly. “Just for a little while.”

Understanding clicked almost immediately. “The Northbridge situation.”

“And… everything else.”

She nodded after a brief pause. “I think we can manage that.”

Relief settled in, not dramatic but noticeable. “Thank you.”

The media team was smaller than I’d expected—just seven people—but the introductions went smoothly. Everyone was friendly without being intrusive. No one asked about Mason or mentioned the video. We exchanged names, roles, and schedules before getting to work.

Blake was the only one who acknowledged the obvious.

He gave me a quick once-over, then grinned. “Northbridge must really hate us now.”

A few people laughed, and I joined them because it was funny, even if there was truth underneath it. The rivalry wasn’t subtle, and my presence here wasn’t exactly neutral territory. Still, no one pushed further, and the moment passed without turning into something uncomfortable.

Melissa clapped her hands once, and the room shifted into focus.

“Alright. Our newest addition needs an assignment.”

I straightened instinctively.

“Practice coverage,” she said, looking at me. “Photos and a short article.”

Simple. Manageable. Exactly what I needed.

The rink felt familiar the moment I stepped inside. I adjusted the camera around my neck and moved along the boards, settling into a rhythm that came naturally. Players ran drills, coaches called out instructions, and everything unfolded with a clarity that had been missing from the rest of my life lately.

By the second period of practice, I realized I hadn’t thought about Mason once. Not the breakup, not the video, not any of it. I was focused on angles, timing, movement—on capturing something real instead of reacting to something already broken.

A whistle cut through the rink, and the players gathered near center ice. That’s when I noticed it—not Dean himself, but the way everyone else responded to him. Coaches deferred to him without hesitation, players leaned in when he spoke, and even the louder personalities seemed to fall into step around him.

Ryan Cole was still talking, still loud, but even he adjusted when Dean spoke, like it wasn’t a question of authority so much as expectation. Dean didn’t demand attention. He didn’t need to.

I lifted my camera and took a few shots, capturing the subtle shifts in posture and focus, then lowered it again before I could overanalyze what I was seeing. It wasn’t my job to interpret it yet—just to document it.

Practice resumed, and I moved with it, collecting photos, jotting down notes, and conducting a couple of quick interviews that gave me enough material to build something solid. By the time I returned to the office, the initial rush of the day had settled into a steady rhythm.

Writing the article came easier than I’d expected. The structure fell into place, and after one final read-through, I handed it to Melissa.

She reviewed it right there, standing beside my desk, and I tried to look casual about it while failing. My attention kept drifting back to her expression, searching for any sign of hesitation or critique.

After a few minutes, she looked up. “Good work.”

That was it. No qualifiers, no hesitation—just a straightforward assessment that landed with more impact than anything more elaborate could have. It wasn’t about my past or the circumstances that brought me here. It was about the work.

As she walked away, I leaned back in my chair and took in the room around me. People were focused on their own tasks—typing, editing, discussing assignments in low voices. No one was watching me. No one was whispering.

For the first time since championship night, I wasn’t defined by what had happened. I wasn’t Mason Hart’s ex-girlfriend or the girl from the video.

I was just me.

Iris Bennett.

Sports journalist.

For the first time in weeks… I felt like I was finally moving forward.

I had no idea the internet was about to remind me that moving forward didn’t mean the past was finished with me.