Whistleblower ✓

23 | under pressure

My Saturday morning began with Advil, half a bottle of Gatorade, and a piece of untoasted white bread—all of which I threw up.

I'd never been so hungover before.

While Hanna headed to the Art House to pregame with Mehri, to whom I'd transferred my student ticket so my beloved roommate wouldn't be alone in the stands, I tried to pull myself together. Ellison Michaels was expecting ESPN-grade coverage of this game and, by God, I was going to deliver.

Even if it killed me.

Which, as I marched across campus, I thought it might.

I'd never realized how bright the sun was (blinding, even through Andre's sunglasses) or how loud thousands of people could be when they'd all started drinking at ten o'clock in the morning (deafening). I was on the parkway when Garland's marching band started their pre-kick-off rally outside the student union. I decided, on the spot, that our fight song was the most obnoxious harmony ever composed.

I hated this school. I hated everyone in it. I was never drinking wine ever again.

❖ ❖ ❖

Joey Aldridge was waiting for me outside the media entrance on the far side of the stadium. He looked like the idealized image of a student journalist, with his white Garland University polo shirt and neatly combed hair, an enormous Nikon camera in his hands and a lanyard bearing his media pass slung over his neck.

I marched up to him, knowing full well that I looked like something that'd be plunged out of a public toilet, and pushed my sunglasses on top of my head.

"Hey, Joey."

His smile wavered as he took in the sight of me.

"H—hey, Laurel!" he greeted. "Did you bring your media pass?"

I'd shoved all my crap into a reusable tote from Target. I now regretted this, seeing as our opponent for the day was Stanford, whose colors were also red and white. My glorified shopping bag also provided no organizational benefits, which meant it took me several long, uncomfortable moments of digging around to find my media pass.

"Gotcha," I grumbled in triumph.

I looped my pass over my neck. The lanyard caught on my ponytail. I grumbled out an expletive under my breath.

"Are you—are you good?" Joey asked, eyes wide.

"I'm fine," I snapped. Then I sighed and said, "No. I'm really hungover."

Turns out drinking the equivalent of a bottle and a half of wine will do that to you.

"Oh, same," Joey said with a grin. "We had this massive party at the A Cappella House last night. I had like eight Four Lokos. I don't know how I'm alive right now."

It seemed cosmically unfair that alcohol could affect two people so differently. But I was glad for Joey's clearheadedness as he led me through the security line and explained what kind of notes I should take during the game and when we'd be allowed to walk down to the field and approach the players and coaching staff for interviews.

We took an elevator up past the concourse and the luxury suites, all the way to the long, windowed room perched high over the stadium—the press box. I'd never been inside it before. Most home games, I was somewhere in the student section with Hanna, so all I knew was that I loved the press box because it cast a pleasant shadow across the field during brutally hot afternoon games. Joey informed me that things worked a little differently up here, high above the commoners.

There was no favoritism and no cheering allowed in the press box (which I wasn't complaining about, considering my throbbing hangover headache).

Joey and I had to display our passes at the door, and then we were in.