I can’t believe eleven months have passed since my interview with Kyland for the LA Chronicle.
It’s been damn near impossible to replicate the adrenaline rush I received that day, even with the handful of features I’ve written in the last few months. Flexing my writing muscle outside of sports reporting has been nice, though. Queer publications like them, Out, and Autostraddle approached me for freelance projects, but it’s impossible to top the cover story of Chappell Roan that I wrote for Dazed. I never imagined my beat would step outside of sports, but once you develop the skills to immerse yourself into a new beat—especially one that results in a relationship with talent—you can do anything in this industry, I guess.
My hand moves across Natalie’s face as she peacefully takes a deep breath in, gradually opening her eyes. Between my incessant interest in researching and my admiration for sports, last year felt like I was living in a spin-off of Heated Rivalry.
“Good morning, baby,” she whispers. Her messy French braids are still my favorite sight to start my day, and her smile quickly follows as my second favorite view. “Jen, do you really have to go to Denver this weekend?”
Natalie and I are in a bit of contention after I agreed to participate in a last-minute panelist spot for a journalism conference in Colorado, but I assured her that we can still celebrate when I return. “Babe, I thought we finished this last night.”
The smirk appearing on her face revealed that I set myself up for a joke as Natalie quickly responded, “Well, we did finish something last night, but it wasn’t the conversation.” She leans in for a kiss as her palm touches the warm side of my neck, distracting me from the conversation. Her gaze yanks the words out of my mouth, and I can’t help but to smile.
With a deep breath, I pull her hand away from my neck and intertwine our fingers on my lap. “This is a big moment for me—you know that,” I say. “This could result in a domino effect of opportunities, which would be—.” “Just in time for your book announcement,” says Natalie, finishing my sentence. I’m slightly embarrassed because I have the tendency to repeat myself, but I didn’t expect her to cut me off before I also mentioned the possible promotion. “Well, yes, but David is dangling that features editor position in front of me. I feel like a rabbit chasing a carrot.”
My lucky streak feels too good to be true—especially in this career field—and I need to seize every chance I’m offered. Speaking on this panel could open more doors for speaking opportunities, on-camera appearances, and fingers crossed, a book deal.
The more I get into my head about this conference, I notice an uncertain frown waves across Natalie’s face. “Don’t worry, we’ll celebrate when I’m back.” She still has a look on her face that reveals something else is shaking her. After I ask what’s wrong, she quietly shares that she has a surprise waiting for me and gives me a forehead kiss.
She knows that I love surprises as much as they give me and my meticulous Google Calendar anxiety. I smile anyways as I readjust my hips to land on top of her body, rubbing my thighs against her snug touch. Each kiss I place on her body slowly advances toward her torso, and I begin hiding under our linen bedsheets. Our giggles sync up with scattered moans, and I see exactly how we ended up dismissing the conversation last night.
This evening’s dinner plans with Casey and Sean unsurprisingly start at Bar just in time for happy hour, and Brody slides us three drinks: a Heineken, zesty ginger mule, and a glass of Surely, Bar’s new non-alcoholic Sauvignon Blanc. Casey and I both look at Sean, questioning the odd choice. He scoffs and says, “What? I can’t prepare myself for a weekend of open bars and bar crawls?”
“We’re not judging you, we’re just surprised,” Casey says with a raised pitch. “You do make a good point. The last journalism conference I went to was hangover central. It’s ridiculous how many open bars exist at the Online News Association conference—they might as well put Liquid I.V. in their welcome bags.”
The three of us laugh, and Sean responds, “Well, somebody’s gotta pay for journalists’ coping mechanism to cushion the amount of layoffs and bullshit we experience, especially in sports.”
He’s right. I received about five invitations for happy hours and networking mixers between independent newsrooms and out-of-touch corporate sponsors, and the conference barely lasts three days. There’s a lack of sports outlets featured at this year’s ONA, and it doesn’t help that the LA Times, The Ringer, and Bleacher Report laid off a handful of talented sports writers before the summer. That’s why this panel is a necessity—I have to cement myself as a versatile journalist.
“Guys, I can’t shake my nerves about this weekend,” I admit over my half-empty bottle of Heineken. Casey places her hand on my right shoulder and brings me in for a sweet embrace. “You have nothing to be worried about—have you even looked at your portfolio recently?” she asks. “Discussing all of the things you’ve accomplished in 2025 could easily take up the entire panel.”
With a deep sigh, I recall the previous night’s conversation with Natalie, sharing a bit of context from two weeks prior when I received the offer to attend ONA as a panelist. When I look back on the timeline of our disagreement, I feel for Natalie. I hope I didn’t impose on her big surprise, or worse, choose to be a shitty girlfriend.
“That’s tricky,” Sean says. I tuck my chin into my palms and avoid eye contact with Sean and Casey to prevent myself from crying, but my eyes glance at a basketball game on the bar television, and a tear makes its way down my visibly red cheek. Casey leans in for another shoulder hug and asks if I considered inviting Natalie to Denver. “I don’t know, it is lesbian capital of the country. Or that’s at least what I saw it nicknamed in the headline of a TimeOut article.”
Predictably, that gets a laugh out of us all. I know which article she’s talking about, because I read it to get tips for any free time we have outside of the conference. “Like Denver, Colorado? Was Chicago busy? Or the PNW?” I ask, knowing that that’s the truth about Colorado. “If you’re a granola gay that likes bar crawls,” I say, as my voice trails off. “I love inviting her on work trips, but this one? I don’t know—I mean, what if I just wanted to use this weekend as an excuse to spend time with you two?”
I hadn’t revealed this to them—or really anyone—but I was worried about confrontation.
I don’t regret anything about falling in love with Natalie, our relationship, or our outpour of love for each other, but I do question my ethics. I’m haunted by the stereotype of a sleazy journalist that sleeps with a source for an exclusive interview, and I hear my journalism professor harking on the necessities of ethics in our field. I noticed my jaw tightened, which led me to take a deep breath, and confess in the direction of Casey then Sean.
“I’m worried that I’m going to be judged for my relationship with Natalie.”
Releasing the words from my thoughts to my tongue stung, and I was frightened that this would come off as a form of internalized homophobia. Sean and Casey looked at each other before revealing that they’ve picked up on this, citing a drunken night at trivia last month.
“You confessed something similar to this, Jen. You fell in love and didn’t let that affect your work ethic. Just know that we’re here for you,” said Casey. “Literally, we’re on the same plane…and staying at the same hotel,” Sean added. I raised the remaining swig of Heineken in the air and declared, “Cheers to new opportunities and almost one year of a healthy relationship. And a weekend full of more cheers!”
I’m grateful for Sean and Casey, and I’m content with Natalie. But I still can’t shake this feeling that something larger than me is in store for this weekend.
Our flight to Denver landed the next afternoon, and I immediately called Natalie once we reached the airport’s baggage claim. “Hey CZ, you busy?” I asked, knowing that she wasn’t. The call didn’t even ring twice before she answered. “I won’t be busy this weekend since I know that you’re in the lesbian capital of the country,” she joked. “Thank goodness they don’t have a WNBA team.”
“You know a hot-headed athlete isn’t my only type, right?” I asked. After laughing, we briefly talked for six minutes until my suitcase toppled down the baggage carousel. “I love you, and I’ll see you soon,” I said. “I love you, too. Let me know when you check into your hotel,” she responded before hanging up. Once Casey, Sean, and I collected our belongings, I spent our Uber drive scrolling through tomorrow afternoon’s rundown.
CALL TIME: 1 P.M. SHARP
Jennifer Felix, LA Chronicle
Delia Huang, Freelance writer
Stacey Goodman, Defector
Delainey Wychip, moderator
PANEL STARTS PROMPTLY AT 2 P.M. AND ENDS AT 3 P.M.
Sports Signaling - a discussion among women in sports journalism. The LA Chronicle’s Jennifer Felix was recognized as a proficient sports writer for her profile of the Lights during a remarkable winning streak and profiled Kyland Green, the first openly gay quarterback. You might recognize Delia Huang’s name from her exquisite portfolio that includes The Nation, The New York Times, and Jezebel, or maybe you’ll recall her viral interview with the Liberty’s electric mascot Ellie the Elephant. And Stacey “Maestro of the Mountains” Goodman is a contributing editor at Defector, covering winter sports and competitive rock climbing, along with her first book: Black Skin, White Mountains. These talented women have earned notoriety among athletes, fans, and other sports media mavens for their dedication to sports, especially at the intersection of race, gender, and class.
Seeing my name near Delia and Stacey and their similar list of achievements felt damn good. The brisk breeze from our window cooled down my worry, and I slid my phone into my duffel bag to avoid sinking into an anxious spiral. Since Sean and Casey didn’t sleep much on the flight, they fell asleep in the Uber. And with 27 minutes left in our drive, I stared into the mountains, keeping an eye on the bright blue sky that reminded me of Natalie.
Sean, Casey, and I decided to skip the first happy hour of the weekend and call an early night, which is probably the best move for my jitters. I placed my pinstripe pantsuit in the hotel room’s closet and started muttering a handful of responses for tomorrow’s panel, just in case I’m asked about last year’s reporting for the Lights.
Following—no, hm—witnessing. That feels neutral. Witnessing the Lights’ lucky streak championed by Natalie Czapski was a “you just had to be there” moment.” I mean that’s true, right? Last year’s memorable victory deserves its own answer at tomorrow’s panel. Knots form in my stomach, but they begin to subside when my phone buzzes. It’s her.
“Hey Jen,” she answers when I warmly greet her on Facetime. “How you feeling about tomorrow?” I start to rearrange the distressed look on my face, but she knows me too well. It’s obvious that something is wrong. In order to distract her from my actual thoughts, I quickly reply with something that still holds some truth. “Maybe waking up to you would make me feel better,” I expressed. “I’m sorry that I’ve been acting weird. My nerves about this panel didn’t even exist when I accepted the offer.” Even though I know what’s different between that moment and now, I didn’t know how to tell Nat without sounding unsure in our relationship. We talked for twenty minutes before I fell asleep with the phone in my hand.
Around 8:42 a.m., I silenced my last phone alarm and turned sleep mode off, which revealed notifications from three missed calls. One from Casey, one from Sean, and the other from David.
“Wake up! There’s an open bar downstairs,” my group chat read. “By open bar, he means that we got breakfast vouchers. Free biscuits and gravy!! Check your welcome bag.” This promising breakfast would’ve been an ideal text to wake up to if it wasn’t shrouded in mystery with David’s unexpected call.
“I just opened my eyes so give me some time to get dressed,” I responded. A deep breath and sip of cold water gave me some time to wake up, and I called David back. Fortunately, he picked up after a few seconds and sounded enthusiastic over the phone when I greeted him.
“Morning superstar! I got some news for you. Mychael wants to join the call tonight, so we’re sending a team to record the video and audio. All we need you to do is grab a mic from one of the sound guys,” he said. My heart sank after he mentioned Mychael’s name, and the knots from last night immediately returned to my abdomen. I didn’t realize that I hadn’t said a word until he checked to see if I was still on the line.
“Hey Jen? Can you hear me?” he awkwardly asked. “Oh David, that’s great!” Not for me, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I’m glad it’ll be recorded,” I responded. “I knew you’d love it, I’m sending you the team’s number now,” he replied before hanging up.
My phone chimed with the information from David, confirming that a team was on the way to the conference. Mychael’s tuning into a livestream…of me…? Could this mean…?
Oh my God, I’m up for promotion. It’s time to get it together. If my boss’ boss is interested in listening to my big moment, this could only mean one thing. This has to be perfect. I continued reciting my answers and smearing my face with concealer, and I dialed Natalie while straightening my hair.
She declined the call—unusual for her—but she must be busy. This news can’t wait, so I record a lengthy voice memo mentioning David’s weirdly happy tone. As I was recording, she started typing, only for the three dots to disappear. Seven minutes later, my phone read her response: “Will call you back when I’m home.” Weird and vague, but I didn’t think too much about it. All I could think about was Sports Signaling.
It’s 12:26, and I receive a text from Joseph, one of Mychael’s recording crew. He directs me to the lobby of the Hilton hosting the conference and shows me how to operate the mic’s pin. His tutorial is just long enough to rush to the restroom for one final look—glancing at my hair, makeup, and at the perfect time, a call from Nat.
“Is this Jennifer Felix, the famous journalist from the LA Chronicle? I heard you have a big day today and wanted to wish you good luck…and maybe get a signed autograph,” she said flatteringly. I jokingly played along, saying that she had the right number and an autograph left for one special fan. “I listened to your voice memo, can I stream it now since Mychael’s made it a whole thing?” Until she mentioned it, I didn’t think to ask Joseph for a public streaming link.
“No Nat, it’s exclusive to the ears of the panelists and attendees…and I guess Mychael.” Her shrug didn’t seem too devastated, since she’d hear all about the event from my retelling in a handful of hours. After exchanging I love yous, I clicked my black heels down the hotel hallway.
By 1:45 p.m., the entire room was filled with curious journalists—some familiar faces like Sean, Casey, and a couple of Bluesky mutuals—and others were well-known editors or students. I chilled out after Delia, Stacey, and Delainey also expressed their stage fright. Casey and Sean silently cheered and threw a thumbs up in the air once we locked eyes, and by 2 p.m., it was time to start.
Delainey is a stellar moderator and warmed up the crowd, and time flew by with questions about reporting fellowships and athlete drama. All of my repetition in the hotel room paid off, and it was eventually time for the audience Q&A. “And we want to thank our guests for patiently waiting for Q&A time! Does anyone have any burning questions for our panelists?” Silence sat for about eight seconds before a hand shot up toward the back of the room.
“I have a question for Jennifer!”
The voice introduced herself as Amy, an editor for The Rebound, a website known for more sleazy sports scandals than prestigious coverage. I smiled as she approached the stand mic positioned between the audience aisles. “Jennifer, I loved reading your riveting coverage of the Lights last year. Your attention to detail should be on a syllabus for sports writing, but I’m curious about the ethics of your relationship with Natalie Czapski. As the star of the Lights, wouldn’t your romance be unethical?”
The moment she mentioned the Lights, I knew what was happening. From my temples to my fingertips, I felt a chill. It was like I was a first grader presenting their monologue at a school play, and all eyes were on me.
Seconds after her question, Amy folded her arms and stood in front of the mic, posing like she was satisfied with her instigating. In order to keep it together, I immediately thanked her for asking and spoke from the heart.
“Last season was unforgettable for many reasons. Natalie Czapski plays with all of her might on the court, and it’s visible in interactions with her teammates and fans. Attending my first game reignited a flame in journalism that I feared was gone, because we all know this crumbling industry is filled with layoffs, false promises, and underappreciation for our work. It took time for Natalie and I to understand how to speak to each other as a diligent reporter and a headstrong basketball star.” I paused.
“During that season, we had to meet each other halfway to meet both of our goals—a coveted profile and a vulnerable interview—and things took a romantic turn. If the reporting I’ve done for the LA Chronicle is meaningless because of that, then that’s your prerogative. But the last forty minutes of this panel proved that all of us are more than our work. Speaking for myself, I hope I’m known for thorough queer reporting that engages readers to learn more about the subject. And maybe that will result in my work on an actual syllabus.”
As much as I wanted to call her a nosey bitch, my response wasn’t as reactionary as I thought. Amy left the mic, and Delainey didn’t even need to encourage the audience to applaud as they did it anyways. This earned a few nods of respect from unfamiliar faces in the crowd, and Delainey closed the event with two less intense audience questions.
After grabbing a group photo with Delia, Stacey, and Delainey, Stacey pulls me aside to say that she liked my answer and can identify a microaggression when she sees one. “Girl, trust me, I’ve been there,” she says, placing her hand on top of mine. “People see you doing well and the envy reveals itself, it’s canon to being a journalist, especially a queer woman.” A quick hug from her and Delia were a relief, and Sean and Casey made their way to me.
“What a cunt, right?” Casey whispers. “It sounds like she’s mad that you got the girl and the byline,” Sean replied. We embraced each other in a group hug, and they told me to go to my room for a surprise, reminding me to stop by tonight’s happy hour. Why would I forget? Defector’s happy hours are my favorite kind of media party, and it’s about damn time to celebrate. I finished greeting my Bluesky mutuals, inquisitive students, and others with well wishes.
Right before I stepped onto the elevator, David called. “Great job today, Jen,” he exclaimed. “Mychael likes that you’re quick on your feet, and he’d like to see you rep the Chronicle more often.” I can translate what that means. “We’ll meet with him when you’re back next week, enjoy Colorado!” Our call ended, but the celebration was only beginning. I almost fell to my knees, pleased that I could finally enjoy Denver and the rest of ONA.
I approached my hotel room door and a whiff of bergamot—my favorite scent—caught my nose. “Weird,” I thought, “someone in this hallway smells great.” While searching for the key card in my computer bag, I hear something shuffling on the other side of the door. I must be making things up, “I guess I’m so stressed out that I’m beginning to hear things.” The door swings open, and I see Natalie. In her signature blonde braids, a sleek navy blue tank top, and black slacks, her hands were full of daisies and a wrapped gift. “Surprise!” Our embrace nearly drove me to tears—still riding the high of the last two hours—and I could only utter a quiet “I love you.”
“Happy Anniversary, baby. I’m so proud of you. Before you tell me about the conference, I have to admit, I saw your panel. Casey and Sean FaceTimed me, and they’re the reason I was able to sneak into your room and plan all of this.” Her hand stretches across mine to rub my thumb, and it looks like she’s fighting back tears. “When you were asked that question and defended our relationship, Jen, I—.” She pauses.
“I know I fucked with you at the press conference when we met, but that reporter using your moment to ask a question about me was fucked up. You really handled that shit. I love you.” There goes that whiff of bergamot again. Between the daisies, the surprise, and the scent, I wanted to live in this moment forever. I got the girl and the byline. What was I worried about?
