I sank my teeth into the chewy oat bar in my hand, taking out my irritation on the snack. For some reason—probably misogyny—Liam had a grudge against women’s sports. He also disliked volleyball. When the two collided, as was the case with the Callingwood women’s volleyball game this Friday, he was often unable to perform his duties for a variety of reasons. Stomach bug, sinus infection, sprained and/or broken limb, stuck in traffic, too hungover, mental health day, dental emergency, flat tire, family commitment, family funeral, and a suspicious number of sick and/or dead pets.

Funny how that worked.

Needless to say, Liam didn’t pull his weight at the paper. He should have been pulled off the sports section long ago. But our faculty advisor, Professor Johnson, was fairly hands-off—which in most cases was a good thing—and tended to avoid intervening. As a student-run group, unless we really wanted to raise hell with administration, there wasn’t a whole lot we could do other than tolerate him and count down until he left.

“On the bright side,” she said, “he’ll be gone next year. Then all the sports coverage can be your baby.”

I sighed wistfully. “Can’t wait.”

Hockey had been a religion in our household when I was growing up. Derek and I learned to skate shortly after learning to walk. Dad poured a backyard rink every winter, and we spent every waking hour on it. We both played hockey when we got older. Unfortunately, hockey was an expensive activity, and our family could only afford for one of us to play. Since Derek was better, he won, and I had to stop in middle school.

But I still loved it, which meant I was a total hockey nerd to this day. Stats, awards, records, rookies, and scores. I followed all of it. Points, goals, assists, you name it. I was a sports nerd in general. I could, and often did, school Liam on stats any day of the week.

I thoroughly resented that Liam had the sports beat simply because he happened on the scene a year before me. If it had been merit-based, it would have been mine by now.

Zara stretched out, propping her feet up on a spare chair beside me. “Are you done with that scholarship application?”

“Not yet. They want my entire life story. I’m surprised they didn’t ask for a DNA sample too.”

“I’m rooting for you. I think you have a good shot.” She gathered up her long curtain of auburn hair, twisting it and securing it with two yellow pencils. On her, it was messy chic. When I attempted it, I looked like the nutty professor.

I gave her a half smile. “I hope so.”