Chapter 5

There's a bitter chill in the air despite the very spring-like weather we were having earlier in the week. It's the type of chill that seeps through your clothes and goes straight to your bones. I'm a Texan through and through. I don't do cold weather. How anyone lives in the north will forever blow my mind. Frigid temps and snow on the ground? Hard pass.

A new romance novel just hit my Kindle, and I'm dying to curl up in an oversized sweater while getting lost in a romantic suspense Mafia book.

Who doesn't want to read about a morally gray brother's best friend falling for the daughter of one of the most feared men in the Mafia who is supposed to be marrying someone else? I'm all about a Mafia baddie.

And to make matters worse, I'm not even supposed to be on campus today. Thursdays are one of my days off from classes. The only reason why I'm stepping foot on campus is because our professor set up a mandatory meeting to discuss our beat assignments for the campus newspaper, The Eagles Gazette. The email I was waiting for the other night came, but inside was not what I was expecting. Instead of our assignments, we were all notified to meet in person for a formal discussion involving the new assignments. The beat assignments are assigned to every member of the staff to inform us which genre of events we will be covering, such as arts, sports, politics, lifestyle, and so on.

The Eagles Gazette is a club organization on campus where a few members of the staff are offered paid positions while others are hired on an intern-like basis. Each semester beats get reassigned to some degree. Our professors and editors want everyone to get experience writing about different topics to help make us well-rounded journalists. While I think the idea is great, I want to write about the things I'm passionate about.

Students' views on current political topics? Hard pass.

The latest local food establishment whipping up new sandwich creations that are geared toward the late-night munchies? Gimme!

This semester my eyes are on the feature beat, though. I've worked hard the last two years to really home in on my skills and perfect my writing. I feel like I've finally earned the chance to be the lead, even though the feature isn't generally something in my wheelhouse. I know I've got the skills to write an epic article.

However, the rumor around the newsroom is that the feature is going to be all about the new festival coming to Central Texas University this spring. It's a two-day food, drink, and music event. That is exactly what I've been put on this earth to cover.

Walking through the quad is a breeze today, taking me no time. Typically the cobblestone sidewalks are jammed packed with students making their way to the different brick buildings that line the campus. Everyone must've been smart and decided to skip today to not have to deal with this unusually cold Thursday in mid-January.

Why couldn't my professor just cancel and email us our assignments?

Climbing up the few steps to the front entrance of the Union—the building that is home to the basement newsroom—I feel my phone buzz in my purse. The incessant vibrating alerts me that it's an incoming call and not a text.

Who calls anymore?

Stepping aside, I move to the outside corner of the building to get out of the wind as I thumb off my gloves. Grabbing the ringing phone, "Dad" flashes across the screen.

"Two calls in less than forty-eight hours. Does my dad miss me?"

"I always miss my Amore Mia," he answers. I can hear the smile he no doubt has spread across his face. "But that's not why I'm calling."

"Dad, that's not ominous at all." A forced chuckle leaves my lips as worry slides down my spine. "Is everything okay?"

"Well," he starts as I notice the noise of the restaurant disappears which means he's just closed himself inside his office for privacy, the action not easing any of the creeping anxiety.

"Dad…" I prompt.

"Sorry, Chloe. It's chaotic today. A shipment is delayed, and everyone is in a panic. But that's not why I'm calling. Have you checked the weather?"

The weather? Of course I don't check the weather. I live in Texas. What could I possibly be worried about?

"No. I don't even think I have the weather app on my phone. I had to delete a few apps when my storage was running low."

Dad grumbles something indecipherable in Italian.

"First thing, download the app. It's irresponsible not to have an application notifying you of weather alerts."

I roll my eyes as his lecture continues about responsibility and being an adult. My eyes drift back to the quad as I watch a handful of students jog into nearby buildings.

"…ice storm," he says, and my attention clues back into the conversation.

"Wait, what did you just say?"

He sighs. "You tuned out everything I just said, didn't you?"

"Sure did. My brain is freezing. I'm standing outside waiting to go into class."

"Dammit, why didn't you say something? There's an ice storm coming this weekend. You need to prepare," he repeats, grumbling something else I can't make out. He really needs to work on his whole grumbling under his breath. "I'll text you a list of items you should have. If you can't get something, let me know. Get inside." He pauses. "Oh, stay safe, and I love you, Chloe."

I smile. How he can go from rough and gruff to overprotective in a single conversation just amazes me. "I love you too, Dad."

Tossing my phone into my purse, I reach for the handle and swing the door open. The blast of hot air hits me, and I sigh at the warmth, even though it almost takes my breath away.

I hate the cold.

So much for me going home to read. Instead, I'm going to have to fight all the unprepared Texans at the store.

An ice storm? What the hell?

This is Texas. We don't do ice.

Rushing down the stairs, I enter the newsroom and make my way over to the last empty desk. I still beat the professor so I'm not technically late, but I'm definitely tardy by my standard.

The room is filled with desks which would resemble an office space with cubicles, only our desks aren't separated by walls. It's an open space that can be chaotic when people are in a rush to get their articles in on time, but I love the chaos. I thrive on the noise. The sound of fingers hitting keys. Of phones ringing. And our editor demanding assignments. It all thrills me.

Flopping down in my desk chair, I start unbuttoning my trench coat and removing the multiple layers I have on. Abby, one of the other staff members, gives me a quick nod as she smiles over at me in a way of greeting. She handles more of the political beats. I don't envy her.

Professor Weaver enters the room as she slams the door closed behind her. Everyone, including me, jumps at the loud noise. "I did not mean to do that," she says, cringing at the noise. "Okay, today is going to be quick. In case you hadn't heard, there's an ice storm heading this way, and I want you all out of here as soon as possible."

She is now the second person to bring up this potential storm. Maybe my dad wasn't overreacting for once. Shit, I really shouldn't have deleted the weather app off my phone. But we aren't supposed to get harsh winter weather in Texas. It's why I love living here, well, part of the reason. There was no way I was moving out of state and away from my dad.

Tossing her coat on her desk, she quickly types in her login for her computer. The projector flicks on, and we take in the screen before us.

"Now, this semester is not going to be what anyone was expecting. It's taken a couple of weeks to sort out assignments given the circumstances the newspaper organization has found themselves in with the university."

What does she mean? This is supposed to be my year. My turn to showcase how much my writing has improved. If I don't get to cover the festival, I'm going to be devastated. This is my chance to break out from the pack. To show other magazines and newspapers that I have what it takes. Dread courses through my veins, and I'm really questioning my decision to even get out of bed.

"As you all know, we had quite the drama with our sports beat team. Joe and David have been removed from our staff and are facing further disciplinary action from the university."

Murmurs fill the room as everyone whispers over the rumors that caused CTU to expel two students on the staff. Rumors have been flying throughout campus, but no one has gotten the entire truth told to them. Supposedly, the two were engaging in illegal drugs and sex parties at the hotels the school was paying for. Not sure of all the details, but no matter what, it wasn't good.

Professor Weaver clears her throat, gaining everyone's attention before continuing. "With that being said, we now need to shuffle veteran staff members around to make sure that an experienced writer is covering the Sports A Team, especially with it being Coach Weber's honorary year."

Please don't let it be me. Please don't let it be me.

"Chloe Mariano, you will be assisting in the sports coverage this semester. You'll be the lead with a focus on the baseball program and the featured article on Coach Weber." And my stomach sinks. "Abby Taylor, you'll be shifting focus and covering the Red, White, and Brew festival."

Sports? This is not how this semester was supposed to go. I was supposed to be the lead and write the most epic article that was going to be my big break. It would've been the perfect article to submit for any upcoming internships, which I need to start applying for this semester.

"Professor Weaver." I force myself to speak up.

But before I have a chance to continue, she interrupts me. "Chloe, I understand this isn't what you were wanting. Truthfully, none of us wanted this outcome. However, we are all doing what we have to do given the situation. You're not only one of our strongest writers, but you're someone I can trust to take traveling seriously and not participate in any behavior that would embarrass the newspaper. I know that you'll do a fantastic job covering sports. At this time, either take the position or see yourself out."

The harsh tone and words cut through me, and I'm taken back at the forceful nature Professor Weaver speaks.

With a forced, tight smile, I nod in acceptance.

"Great. Now that that's settled, the rest of you will be covering your usual assignments. Politics will be discussed at a later time as we work to create a joint task force." She pauses, and her eyes sweep over the room where some of the underclassmen are sitting. "Sports B Team, while I know this is also not the news you wanted, as no one is being promoted to lead, please know it's not because I don't think you're talented. It's because we need a veteran on this story. You'll be splitting up the coverage of the remaining spring sports. That's all for today. Look forward to more details coming in your email. In the meantime, get out of here and start prepping for the ice storm. Stay safe everyone."

While Weaver is busy closing out her tabs, I quickly stand and start dressing with all of the warm layers that I had on. I never should've taken them off considering we were only in here for a few minutes. I understand she didn't want to deliver this news in an email, but it was seriously a waste of everyone's time to venture in here today.

Grabbing my purse, I turn to leave and ignore Abby calling my name.

Not only did she steal my opportunity, but now I'm going to be forced to spend the entire semester with Cody Jacobs.

Tears burn the corner of my eyes as I fight like hell to keep the moisture from sliding down my cheeks. I'm not going to let my fellow team see me as weak. But dammit, the disappointment is strong.

Climbing up the stairs, I turn down the nearest hallway that I know has a public restroom. I just need to make it to the stall, and I can let myself be weak.

Pushing through the doors, I find the room vacant as I make my way to the last stall and flip the lock behind me. Ripping off a piece of toilet paper, I hold it in my hand to use while placing the seat down for me to sit on. As soon as I sit, the tears flood my vision.

With my face in my hands, I just let myself have a moment to react.

To feel all the feels.

Anger and disappointment for not hitting my goal for the semester.

Anxiety and nerves about having to cover a new topic.

Then, on the other hand, a small part of me feels excited about having to push myself to write a new topic.

Dread for having to spend my semester traveling with the baseball team—and Cody Jacobs.

Moisture is escaping my eyes like a waterfall, and I fight to keep the sob from erupting as it builds pressure in my chest. I can feel the mascara streaking my cheeks, and I know I'm going to have to do some major damage control before I leave this bathroom.

But at this moment, I don't even care.

I'm Chloe Mariano, I always have it together. The girl who always has the shoulder for her friends to cry on. But right now, I just want to curl up in a ball and mope. I want to be the hot mess. The girl who doesn't have it all figured out and gets to fly by the seat of her pants.

Voices filter in the space as I quietly grab a handful of tissue paper to start erasing the black streaks that have no doubt wiped away all of my foundation. Remind me to never skip the waterproof mascara.

After a few minutes of listening to the girls and their gossip, footsteps begin to retreat and I hear the door open with their exit. I could have gone out there, but I didn't want to see the look of judgment over my mascara-streaked face.

Sticking my head out, I take a quick peek around to make sure the coast is clear. Seeing that I'm the only one in the bathroom I rush through the process of washing my hands. Digging through my purse, I find my emergency supply of makeup remover wipes and begin fixing my streaked mascara.

Finally, at a point where I feel ready to face the few students on campus, I exit the bathroom to begin my journey to the student parking lot.

I guess I'll be putting my book on hold for a little while longer. And on top of that, I can't even properly sulk because there's an ice storm coming. Pulling up the text from my dad, I scan over the list of supplies he sent me. Time to pull up my big girl panties and embark on the madness of winter storm preparation shopping.

This is not how this morning was supposed to go.