Chapter 10: Front Page Material

Tiffany

I take my seat and still my face. It doesn't matter if he gets hurt. I don't care anyway.

My phone pings, and I check it to see a message from Mom.

"Oh heavens, I forgot to call her," I mutter as I stare at her message.

She only wants to know how I am doing in school and asks if I need any help.

I never ask Mom for money. I know she's trying her best for both of us, and that's why I work really hard so I don't have to ask her for anything.

She has suffered quite enough in this lifetime. She needs to worry about herself more.

I assure her I am fine and I don't need any help.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the beginning of the next period.

I see Justin moving back onto the ice rink. He wasn't that hurt after all.

Relief settles in me, but I ignore it and focus on the rest of the game.

_

I stand outside the boys' locker room, waiting for Justin. He insisted I do that to show that I care about him.

Justin doesn't come out first, but Aaron and another player do.

"Hey, Sherlock," Aaron smiles at me, and I frown.

"What has Justin been saying about me?" I ask because I know Justin is the one who told Aaron to call me Sherlock.

"Well... I can't really say. I can't be the one ruining the relationship now, can I?" Aaron chuckles.

"Justin is really serious about dating her?" The other one standing next to Aaron asks.

"Yeah... dude, I'm surprised too," Aaron replies, and they walk away.

I sigh. The entire campus is completely shocked about our relationship, and they are right to be.

Another pair of players comes out, and they pause when they see me. They don't say anything, but their expressions give them away.

Where the hell is Justin?

"Heyyy," I hear him call and turn to leave. "I was injured on the ice, and you don't even bother to ask?" he says behind me.

"I do not care," I say to him, making sure my brain hears it.

"You should care because you're supposed to be my girlfriend," Justin shrugs.

"Fake girlfriend," I correct.

"Don't say that out loud." Justin palms my mouth, and I slap his hand away.

"Don't touch me," I snap, and he raises his hands in surrender.

"Chill, Tiff."

"I'm going back home," I tell him.

"Are you done with your article?" he asks, completely ignoring my statement.

"Almost. I would do some finishing touches and send it to Mrs. Willow tomorrow," I reply.

"I hope you wrote really nice things about me. I can't afford you ruining my reputation if you make the front page," Justin says.

"You'll see." I smile and shrug.

"The first time I see you smile, it has mischievousness written all over it," Justin complains, and I laugh, walking towards my bicycle once we reach where I drop it.

I get on my bicycle, and Justin waves at me. "See you on Sunday!"

Yeah... we are having our date on Sunday. "Fake date."

The campus is gonna have something to talk about for the entire week.

_

I wait for Mrs. Willow to read my article as I sit on the chair opposite her in her office.

She looks up at me when she is done reading the article on her computer, and I stare at her in anticipation.

"So...? Do you like it?" I ask.

"It is good," she answers, and I smile. "But it's not exactly the right vibe," she adds, and my shoulders slump.

"But I wrote on hockey like you said. I attended a lot of games and interviewed the players. What did I possibly do wrong?" I ask. It is clear that I am beginning to lose my patience.

"I know you did all that, but your article didn't cover one important thing... A 'wow' factor." Mrs. Willow sighs. "There has to be a headline that would make people want to read the rest of the article. If it's just boring talk, then not many people would read it," Mrs. Willow adds.

I fall silent, looking at her. She is right. If I want the front page, I need something that would draw people into my writing.

How foolish of me to think I can just write on hockey and automatically make the front page.

"There's still time. You can find something before then," Mrs. Willow assures me, and I stand up.

"Thank you," I smile at her and walk out of her office.

I sigh when I close the door behind me.

"I'm guessing nothing good?" Justin says.

I completely forget he came here with me. We are supposed to have our date on Sunday, but according to him, he is unavailable on Sunday, so we are going on the date today.

"Not good enough. There was no 'wow' factor," I reply as we exit the building.

"What's a 'wow' factor?" Justin asks.

"Are you that dumb? It's self-explanatory," I snap at him.

"Oh, great Sherlock Holmes. My brain capacity isn't half as good as yours, so please have mercy on this poor soul and enlighten me," Justin rambles, bowing slightly to me.

I palm my forehead at his childish behavior, and he smiles at me.

"There was nothing interesting in it," I reply, and Justin nods.

"You do look like someone who would write boring articles that would make people like me sleep."

I glare at him. "Aren't you supposed to be helping me? Isn't that why we are doing this?"

"No... the agreement was... I will give you information on hockey, and you will write the article," he corrects.

"You are supposed to give me information that would get me to the front page," I fire.

"How you write your articles isn't really my problem, you know," Justin keeps on irritating me.

"I'm going to punch you," I glare, and he laughs.

"Okay, okay... I would help out of my goodwill," he replies, and I roll my eyes at him.

"Our relationship is good front-page material. I mean, star hockey player Justin Harris dates a nerdy journalist. Front-page material," he suggests.

As much as I hate to admit he is right, I definitely won't write it that way. It would be way too controversial.

I can switch things up. "That's actually a decent idea," I say and turn to just beside me, but I can't find him.

I turn and see him standing behind me, like he has frozen in place.

I walk towards him. "You okay?" I ask.

He doesn't reply. His gaze is fixed somewhere. I follow his eyes, and I see a man in a green suit.

"Justin?" I call again, and he turns to face me, his expression weird.

"What's wrong?" I ask again.

"My father," he says simply, and I turn back to the man who is leaning on his car, staring at us.