Chapter 1 | New Assignment
The first Monday of a new semester always makes Vanmore look more organized than it actually is. Everyone has fresh notebooks, clean sneakers and coffee cups they haven’t started reusing for three consecutive days yet. Students cross the quad with schedules open on their phones and the kind of determination that suggests this will finally be the semester they attend every lecture, submit every assignment early and stop surviving on vending machine food after nine at night.
It usually lasts about a week.
I make it through the glass doors of the Vanmore Athletics Center at eight fifty-three, coffee in one hand and my laptop bag sliding off my shoulder. My employee badge has somehow migrated to the very bottom of my bag overnight, underneath my wallet, three pens and a charger I was convinced I’d lost last month. By the time I find it, the girl behind reception has watched me search long enough that pretending this is normal feels pointless.
“Found it,” I tell her, holding up the badge.
She smiles. “I was rooting for you.”
“Appreciate the support.”
I scan myself through and head upstairs.
Vanmore Athletics Media takes up a collection of offices on the second floor, tucked between Athletic Communications and two conference rooms that always seem to contain at least one coach having a serious conversation. I’ve been working here since last year, and despite the early mornings and the number of athletes who believe I’ll send it tonight counts as meeting a deadline, I still like walking through these doors.
Almost everything people see from Vanmore Athletics starts somewhere around here. Game photos, interviews, score updates, social content, player features and the graphics that inevitably get reposted by someone’s mother with seventeen green heart emojis. For someone studying journalism, there are worse places to spend ten hours a week.
“Ellison.”
I look toward Rachel Morgan’s desk. One of the full-time Athletics Media coordinators, she’s standing with a coffee in one hand and pointing toward the conference room with the other.
“Meeting.”
“I’m seven minutes early.”
“Six now.”
“Still early.”
“You’re cutting it close.”
I narrow my eyes at her as she walks away. “Good morning to you too.”
Her laugh follows her into the conference room.
There are nine student employees around the table this semester, spread across journalism, communications, marketing and digital media. I recognize most of them from last year and take a seat beside Priya, opening my laptop as Marcus Hale, Vanmore’s Director of Athletic Communications, starts the meeting.
Behind him is the spreadsheet we’ve all been waiting for.
Team assignments.
Every semester, each student worker gets a primary sport. It doesn’t mean we never work with other teams, but your assigned team becomes your responsibility. You learn their schedule, attend selected practices, coordinate interviews, create content and spend an unreasonable amount of time trying to convince athletes that standing still in front of a camera for forty-five seconds won’t kill them.
Last semester, I had women’s volleyball. They were organized, friendly and generally capable of replying to emails within twenty-four hours, which probably means I’ve already used up all my luck.
“We’re increasing student-produced content this semester,” Marcus explains. “More short-form video, behind-the-scenes material and player features. We want people following Vanmore sports because they care about the athletes, not only because they want a final score.”
That catches my attention.
The credits I get from this job are useful, but they’re not the reason I applied. When I graduate, nobody interviewing me for a journalism position is going to care that I wrote a decent paper about media ethics. I need actual work. Interviews. Deadlines. Published content. Proof that I can sit across from someone and find something worth asking about without a professor telling me what to say.
More access means more material for my portfolio.
Rachel takes over the assignments, working through football, soccer, swimming and basketball before my name appears on the screen.
BROOKE ELLISON | MEN’S LACROSSE
Underneath it sits the green and cream Sentinels logo.
Men’s lacrosse. Not what I expected, but definitely not bad.
“Coach Donovan wants more consistent coverage this semester,” Rachel tells me. “Their account performed well last year, but there wasn’t much structure. You’ll handle regular socials, selected practices, game days, quick interviews and some player features.”
“Previous analytics?”
“Shared drive.”
“Content calendar?”
“Also shared drive.”
“Account access?”
“By lunch.”
Rachel points her coffee at me. “This is why I like you.”
Someone across the table mutters, “Favoritism.”
“Competence,” Rachel corrects.
I smile and type down the last thing she gives me.
Coach Donovan. 3:30. Lacrosse facility.
By the time the meeting ends, I have three new folders, two access requests and a full Sentinels roster sitting unopened in my inbox.
I’ll learn the names later. I have class in twenty minutes.
“The Sentinels?” Sophie reacts as if I’ve told her I’ve been cast on a reality show instead of assigned a college lacrosse team.
We’re sitting across from each other at Campus Grind between lectures, and her voice carries far enough that the guy at the next table looks over.
“Yes.”
“The men’s team?”
“No, Sophie. The secret second Sentinels team nobody knows about.”
She ignores me. “This is going to be fun.”
“It’s going to be work.”
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“They are when I’m getting graded.”
Sophie reaches across the table and tears a piece from the muffin I bought after she explicitly told me she didn’t want one.
I stare at her hand.
She eats it anyway.
“You said no.”
“I didn’t want a whole muffin.”
“That’s not how no works.”
She smiles and reaches for another piece. I pull the plate closer to myself before she gets there.
Dating Noah has slowly absorbed Sophie into the Vanmore Athletics world without her ever officially joining it. Hockey games became team party's, team party's became late nights at the Copper Fox, and now there are enough athletes who greet her across campus that I’ve stopped asking where she knows them from.
Apparently lacrosse isn’t an exception.
“I know some of them,” she says.
“Of course you do.”
“Not well. Mostly through Noah. We’ve been at parties with them.”
“We’ve been at parties with half of Vanmore.”
“True.” She pauses with her straw between her fingers before her expression changes. “Wait. You’ve literally been to Ryan’s house.”
I look at her. “Ryan who?”
“Calloway.”
The name registers before the house does.
“The giant place off campus?”
“Yes.”
“That was his?”
Sophie stares at me. “How did you not know that?”
“Because you disappeared with Noah twenty minutes after we got there.”
“We didn’t disappear.”
“You went upstairs.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is at a college party.”
She makes no attempt to argue with that.
I remember the house now. Huge kitchen, outdoor bar, pool, more bedrooms than any group of students reasonably needs and enough people moving through it that I assumed it belonged to several rich kids whose parents had collectively made questionable financial decisions.
Apparently only one family was responsible.
“His parents own it,” Sophie explains. “Ryan lives there with some of the lacrosse guys.”
“Of course he does.”
Ryan Calloway is one of those people whose name you learn without ever deciding to. Rich parents, lacrosse player, enormous house, parties, girls and, more than anything else, a temper everyone on campus seems to know about.
I’ve heard the stories. An opposing player shoved into a locker after a game. Someone physically thrown out of Ryan’s house during a party. The details change depending on who’s telling them, but the conclusion never does.
Don’t piss off Ryan Calloway.
For reasons I will probably never understand, that only seems to make more girls interested in him.
“Half the girls on campus would volunteer to manage that team for free,” Sophie says.
“Then half the girls on campus need better career goals.”
She laughs. “Noah says Ryan’s actually all right.”
“Noah voluntarily lets people slam him into boards several times a week. I’m not sure I trust his judgment.”
“Fair.”
I check the time and start putting my things back into my bag.
“Who else do you know?”
“Mason Keller. Kellan Rhodes. I’ve met Beck once, but he barely said anything to me.”
“Those names currently mean nothing.”
“They won’t by the end of the week.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
I stand and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“What time are you meeting them?” she asks.
“Three-thirty.”
“Have fun.”
“I’m working.”
“Have fun working.”
I make it halfway to the door before she calls my name.
“And Brooke?”
I turn.
“Maybe don’t piss off Ryan Calloway on your first day.”
I give her my sweetest smile. “I’ll add it to my content strategy.”
At three twenty-five, I’m standing beside the Sentinels’ practice field with my employee badge clipped to my jeans and my camera bag over one shoulder.
I hear practice before I properly see it. Whistles, shouting, the sharp crack of sticks colliding and the sound of cleats against turf follow me through the gate. More than twenty players in dark green practice jerseys move across the field, and for the first few seconds I can’t even work out where the ball is. A pass cuts across midfield, someone catches it without appearing to look and another player sends it into the goal hard enough to snap the net backward.
From a content perspective, this is going to be good.
“Brooke Ellison?”
I turn toward a man in a Vanmore quarter-zip walking toward me.
“Coach Donovan?”
“That’s me.”
We shake hands before he gestures for me to walk with him along the sideline.
“Rachel explain what we’re looking for?”
“More consistent coverage. Practice content, game days, interviews, player features.”
“I want people to know the team,” he says. “Scores are easy. I want people to care about the guys wearing the jerseys.”
“I can work with that.”
“Good. Just stay out of active drills unless someone tells you otherwise. Some of these idiots can barely avoid hitting each other when they’re paying attention.”
As if summoned by the insult, two players collide near midfield.
Coach Donovan doesn’t even blink.
A few minutes later, he blows his whistle twice and calls the team in. Players pull off their helmets as they jog toward us, conversations overlapping until Coach Donovan points in my direction.
“This is Brooke Ellison. Athletics Media. She’s assigned to us this semester, so when she asks you for something, cooperate.”
A dark-haired player wearing number twenty-seven raises his hand.
“What if she asks for money?”
“Then I strongly recommend she starts with Calloway.”
Several guys laugh.
Twenty-seven grins at me. “For future reference, I have none.”
“I’ll adjust my interview accordingly.”
“I like her.”
“Kellan Rhodes,” Coach Donovan says. “You’ll hear him before you see him.”
“That’s because I have presence.”
“That’s not what that means.”
The introductions continue quickly enough that I have to concentrate to attach names to faces. Beckett Sullivan, number three, corrects Coach Donovan immediately.
“Beck.”
“Kellan says you can’t smile,” I tell him.
Beck looks at Kellan. “I smile when he leaves.”
Mason Keller is number six and somehow already has a protein bar in his hand despite having walked directly off the field.
“You’re Sophie’s friend,” he says.
“Apparently that’s my official title now.”
“Noah talks about her.”
“Hopefully nice things.”
Mason shrugs. “Mostly.”
“Reassuring.”
Austin Mercer, number nine, has glasses balanced on top of his head and manages to correct Coach Donovan within thirty seconds of being introduced. Theo Bennett, number eighteen, asks whether Athletics can make him look taller in every photo this season.
“I can stand downhill from you.”
Theo nods seriously. “I knew this arrangement would benefit me.”
By the time Coach Donovan reaches the last player in the group, I’ve already learned enough to know the Sentinels are going to be very different from the volleyball team.
“And Calloway.”
Number fourteen looks over.
I recognize Ryan from the party at his house once I know who I’m looking at. We’ve never spoken, but he has the kind of face that appears often enough around Vanmore Athletics that I probably would have placed him eventually. His blond hair is damp from practice, his helmet tucked beneath one arm, and there’s a red mark along his jaw that looks fresh.
Up close, he seems less like the mysterious campus legend Sophie was making him out to be and more like a guy who’s irritated that practice has been interrupted.
“Brooke Ellison,” Coach Donovan says.
Ryan’s eyes flick briefly toward my badge before returning to my face. “I know.”
“Ryan Calloway.”
The corner of Mason’s mouth twitches.
Ryan gives me a short nod, apparently deciding that’s enough conversation for one afternoon.
Fine by me.
Coach Donovan explains that I’ll be back tomorrow for baseline content, which earns immediate complaints from several players.
“It’s thirty seconds each,” I tell them. “Maybe a minute if you’re terrible at it.”
“Threatening us already,” Kellan says.
“Managing expectations.”
“What kind of questions?” Beck asks.
“Name, year, position, something people don’t know about you. Nothing that requires deep emotional reflection.”
“Thank God,” Theo mutters.
Mason looks at Beck. “Can my thing people don’t know be that Beck sleeps with blackout curtains, a sleep mask and earplugs?”
“No.”
“I think the public deserves to know.”
“I think you should sleep outside.” Beck counters him.
“Technically Ryan owns the house.”
“My parents own the house,” Ryan corrects.
Mason glances at him. “Then tell your parents Beck is threatening a tenant.”
“You’re not a tenant.”
“I live there.”
“You don’t pay rent.”
“Exactly. Best lease I’ve ever had.”
For the first time, Ryan actually grins, although it lasts only until Coach Donovan tells them they’ve wasted enough time and sends them back onto the field.
I move behind the barrier and take out my camera while the next drill starts. Now that I have names to attach to numbers, following them becomes easier. Kellan talks even while he’s playing, Beck takes every drill as seriously as if there’s a trophy waiting at the end of it, Mason somehow looks relaxed even at full speed, and Theo seems to enjoy irritating Beck whenever the opportunity presents itself. Austin mostly ignores all of them and plays with the same concentration he had while correcting everyone five minutes ago.
Ryan is harder to read, although I don’t particularly try. I know enough about his reputation to expect that he probably won’t be the easiest person to work with, but he’s one player on a roster of twenty-four. If he doesn’t want to talk, I’ll get my content somewhere else.
Through the viewfinder, I catch Beck cutting across midfield before sending the ball toward Mason. Mason passes to Kellan, who loses possession when Theo checks him hard enough to send him sideways. Their argument starts before the play has even reset, and Coach Donovan shouts at both of them to move.
A few seconds later, Ryan catches a pass at full speed. A defender steps into his path and neither of them backs off. Their shoulders collide hard enough that I hear it from the sideline, but Ryan stays upright, drives forward and fires before anyone can close the space around him. The ball hits the net and he immediately turns back into position when Coach Donovan calls for another repetition.
I check the burst of photos on my camera. One catches the collision. Another has Ryan just before the shot, stick drawn back with two defenders closing in around him.
It’s good.
I mark it for later and move on, finding Mason through the lens just as he nearly misses a pass because he’s talking to Kellan.
That one’s useful for an entirely different reason.
As practice continues, I start to understand what Coach Donovan meant. The Sentinels already give me more to work with than scores and game graphics. There are personalities here, and they’re different enough that I won’t have to manufacture anything to make the account interesting. I just have to figure out how to capture them without Kellan hijacking every video or Austin fact-checking my captions.
By the time practice starts winding down, I have more than enough photos to sort through tonight and six names I won’t need the roster to remember tomorrow. Somewhere in my pocket, my phone vibrates, probably Sophie checking whether I’ve survived my first terrifying encounter with Ryan Calloway. She’ll be disappointed to hear that nothing remotely exciting happened. I met a coach, learned a handful of players and discovered that photographing lacrosse is significantly harder than photographing volleyball.
That’s enough for me.
I’m not here because Sophie thinks the Sentinels will make my semester entertaining, and I’m definitely not here because half of Vanmore seems fascinated by one aggressive rich guy with a reputation. I’m here because Athletics Media gives me access most journalism students would love to have. Every interview is experience, every game gives me material, and every finished piece is something I can eventually put in front of someone who might hire me.
When the Sentinels spread across the field for one final drill, I lift my camera again and wait for the play to develop.
It’s only the first day.
I have an entire semester to figure out the rest.
