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Post by Hollywood Heidi on May 15, 2022 13:16:24 GMT -8
KDJA News StationLocated in Los Angeles, CA, flashback taking place in November 2001.
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Post by Kristi Lynne on May 16, 2022 5:45:19 GMT -8
“Is that how you spell Krzyzewski?” Frank asked, tilting his head and looking confused as he stared at the large preview monitor in the control room.
“Yes,” Gwen answered from her place to his right at the chyron console.
“It doesn’t look right to me.”
“It never looks right. And yet it is right.”
“There’s too many consonants,” he persisted.
“Yeah, one for every time Duke has won the championship. Frank, I’m telling you, it’s right.”
As they wrapped up the taping and prepared for the next night’s show, the two anchors Trent and Cole were tossing a football back and forth at the back of the control room. “You know who my Cinderella team is this year?” Trent offered.
“Enlighten me,” Cole prompted, catching the ball.
“Ball State.”
“Ball State?”
“You heard right. Ball State,” Trent declared.
“Ball State?” Gwen repeated in disbelief, spinning in her chair to face him. “Ball State is your Cinderella team?”
“Why not?”
“I do believe Miss Gwendolyn is doubting your choice of team there, Trent,” Cole observed.
“And why would she do that, Cole?”
“Okay, setting aside the strength of schedule aspect and the fact that Miami of Ohio has dominated the Mid-American Conference for years, Ball State almost always finishes its season under 500. Their so-called multiple defense strategy certainly isn’t working if they’re ranked last in field-gold percentage, their average scoring stats are tragic, and their red-shirt center this year is only a few inches taller than me. I mean, how could you possibly think….”
She let her voice trail off when she realized her colleagues were all looking as if they were on the verge of busting out laughing. “Oh. You’re not serious?” she asked Trent.
“No,” Trent smirked.
“You were, in fact, making a joke?”
“Yes,” Trent said, still smirking.
“Simply because you want to say Ball State repeatedly on the air?”
“Yes.”
She threw up her hands and turned back to the desk. “I swear, I work with a bunch of 12-year-olds.”
“It’s so cute when she tries to out-geek you,” Cole observed.
“Idn’t it, though?” Trent agreed.
“I got some oceanfront property in Arizona, G,” Cole taunted. “You wanna’ take a look at it?”
“You are so gullible, G,” Frank added. She narrowed her eyes at the technical director. “Er, I mean, Gwen,” he revised.
But Gwen wasn’t about to back down that easily. “Wait, how is this any different than the time that I picked Olazabal to win the Masters because I liked saying ‘Olazabal’?” she asked.
“Because that’s just silly,” Trent declared.
“Plus, Olazabal never wins domestic tourneys,” Cole added.
“He has a point,” Frank said.
“Oi, you’re supposed to be on my side,” Gwen gasped. “Tech versus talent.”
“Bro’s before ho’s, G,” Trent stated.
“Trent, I do wish you’d stop confusing me with your girlfriend.”
The stage manager stuck her head into the control booth. “Tim wants everyone in the studio in five minutes.”
They left the control room and gathered with the rest of the crew on the set, as lights were being turned down, cameras pushed off to the side, and cables being wrapped.
Tim, looking officious as ever with his clipboard, walked up to address the crowd. “Thanks, guys. Great show, again. Thanks for hangin’ in there; I know it’s been a long day. Promise not to take up too much more of your time. First point, I’m gonna’ need final copy on the BCS rankings on my desk by 11am. No exceptions. Don’t make my assistant producer hunt you down and kill you. Secondly, the nice ladies in Accounting need expense reports from everybody that went to the I-AA semifinals, filled out completely and correctly. They’d also like me to remind you that mozzarella sticks are not a valid claim.
“And last thing…” He paused and walked over to put his arm around Gwen. “I’m madly in love with this woman, and we’re gonna’ be married. Not sure where or when, but I’m giving you guys plenty of notice if you want to go buy us some plastic crap at Target. And she hates pink, just so you know.” He then removed his arm from her shoulders and clapped his hands together in dismissal. “Alrighty, everybody, have a good night. We’ll see you back here tomorrow.”
Gwen just stood there, stunned, while everyone congratulated her. “Yes, thanks, thank you,” she stammered.
Tim had walked briskly away to his office, and she broke away from the crowd to follow him, slamming the door behind her. “What the hell was that?” she demanded.
“It was a proposal,” he said plainly. “Did I not get that point across?”
“We were just…and you did…what the hell was that?”
“I thought you’d like it. I thought it was spontaneous and romantic.”
She crossed her arms, maintaining her defiance and her distance from him. “You ambushed me.”
“Oh, you were gonna’ say yes, regardless of where and when I asked,” he said. Though her expression certainly indicated otherwise at the moment, and his confidence seemed to falter. “I mean, you were gonna’ say yes, weren’t you?”
She exhaled and glanced upward. “Tim, if you are going to propose to a woman…I mean, really propose to a woman, you do it at the top of the Eiffel Tower at sunset like she’s dreamed of since she was a kid,” she explained. “Not at an impromptu staff meeting in front of all the people whom you’ve assured me on several occasions don’t even know we’re dating.”
Without another word, he picked up the phone and started dialing.
“What? What are you doing? Who are you calling?”
“I’m bookin’ us two tickets to Paris,” he answered. “You want first-class or you want to slum it?”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m always serious when I’m wearing Hugo Boss, Gwen.”
“I can’t…I can’t believe this.”
“What can’t you believe?” he asked with his most accommodating look, setting down the phone.
“I thought we agreed about this,” she said. “I’m not the marrying type, you’re not the marrying type. We said that we would consider living together, which we practically do already. We said that we would consider relocating to New York, buying a brownstone on the Upper West Side, getting a Bernese Mountain Dog. Marriage was never on the table. What’s changed? Tim, tell me where this is coming from.”
He hung his head, running a hand over the back of his neck. Like he always did when he had to say or do something he really didn’t want to. “I got word from Austen, my former commanding officer. I’m being called up.”
“Called up for what?”
“To go back into service, Gwen. The Army.”
“But you’ve been out for years. They can’t…they can’t just call you up and expect you to drop everything and enlist again.”
“They can, and they do,” he stated, coming out from behind the desk and stepping closer to her. “Look, the Army paid for my education. I can’t exactly say no, nor would I want to. I have a responsibility.”
Gwen felt like she’d been punched in the stomach. For the man she loved to put on a uniform, to go into battle—that wasn’t a part of the future that she’d pictured. If he was gone, that future was gone. “Well, they’d probably put you somewhere in the States, right?” she asked, grasping at whatever straw of hope she could find. “The National Guard, or one of the bases nearby. They wouldn’t send you overseas or anything.”
“Given my area of expertise, Austen thinks it’s likely that our unit will go back to Bragg for training and then be shipped out to the front.”
The Front? she thought with a growing panic. The Front was not the place to be. The Front was where people got shot and wounded and killed. He couldn’t go to The Front. “Why?” she asked. “What is your expertise that’s so important?”
“I could tell you but I’d have to kill you.”
“So not the time for jokes, Tim.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of this. I know it’s the worst possible timing, and it’s something that I should have asked you long ago. But I’m trying to make up for lost time here.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Gwen, I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I want that to start as soon as possible. If that’s a problem… look, I’m sorry I didn’t do this the traditional way, but you hate all that conventional, frou-frou crap. We don’t need a big ceremony; we can just pick a weekend and drive down to Vegas. Stalk that guy from CSI that you like so much. Gwen, say yes.”
“I’m not sure if I’m speaking to you right now,” she said softly.
“You don’t have to speak to me, just say yes.”
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