*Slow updates*| currently editing heavily.
He needs the spotlight. She wants to disappear. What happens when they're forced to collide?
***
After an injury nearly derailed his basketball career, UCLA senior Charlie Murtaugh has one last shot at go...
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The Daily Bruin buzzes with the same frantic energy I remember—maybe even more, if that's possible. The open workspace holds at least forty small cubicles, each a tiny island for a busy worker. Despite the overload, there's something electric in the air: phones ringing sharply, fingers flying across keyboards, quick footsteps and occasional raised voices. It all stirs a giddiness in my chest.
"And this here is Conference Room B," Angie says, stopping in front of a grey door marked as such. "It's the backup when the main one's booked for something more important. As an intern, you won't be booking meetings—your job is to be at meetings, and on time. Nobody likes a latecomer."
She grins as if delivering a verdict. "That's the tour done. Any questions, or are you still confused about anything?"
I shake my head. Angie's thoroughness leaves no room for doubt.
Her smile widens, bright and warm. "The chief editor's in a meeting in the other conference room, but she'll be with you shortly."
At the mention of Melissa Huntley, my stomach twists. It's not just nerves; it's the weight of her reputation. Melissa is a force—a blend of Rosalie Hale's fierce edge and Miranda Priestly's icy command. The youngest chief editor the college's ever had, she's led the school paper to rake in awards at every level—state, regional, national. If anyone here holds the real power, it's her.
Did I impress her during the interview? Honestly, probably not. But being here, that counts for something, right?
"Hey," Angie's voice breaks into my swirling thoughts. Her hand lands gently on my shoulder. "I saw you in the bathroom after your interview and you looked like you were having a full-on panic attack."
I want to disappear.
She laughs softly. "But you're doing great. This place is tough at first, but you'll settle in. Trust me, I've been there."
Her words calm the butterflies fluttering wildly in my gut. Having someone who understands, that could mean everything.
"If you need anything, my office is right by the front." She nods, then walks away.
Not wanting to stand awkwardly in front of the glass door, I step inside the conference room. It's plain but functional: a large white wooden table anchors the space, surrounded by comfortable black swivel chairs. Spare seats line the glass wall near the whiteboard at the back.
Carefully, I settle next to the window, pull out a pen from my bag, and double-check that my phone is off.
I hope this goes well. Even though Angie said not to worry. That this welcome meeting was just about paperwork and the basic dos and don'ts, I can't shake the weight of fear settled heavy on my shoulders. Especially knowing I'll be in the same room with Melissa Huntley.
Just thinking about her makes my palms sweat.
Damn, I wish I could stop panicking.
Melissa Huntley is like anyone else—except with an extra sharp edge for criticism.
