Marina St. Clair is a USW alumnus who graduated with her Master's in journalism from Columbia two years ago. She was invited back to speak about her experiences in graduate school, her four different internships, and her first two years working at a prestigious political publication.

I've been excited about this Q&A since I found out about it a few weeks ago because Marina took the exact path that I'm trying to pave for myself—graduate school, internships, and finally, a steady job working at a publication that, according to her, allows her to write the kind of articles she's genuinely passionate about.

"I'm sure there are quite a few audience members who are anxious to head over to the stadium to catch the last half of the semi-final game—go Warriors!" She smiles at the different cheers that echo through the small crowd. "I won't keep you for much longer. How about one final question?"

The girl next to me raises her hand, and when Marina nods toward her with a smile, she asks about internships—more specifically, how Marina managed to land four of them. By the time Marina's done answering, I have half a page worth of notes written and newfound anxiety blooming in my chest. Apparently, the resume of internships is just as important, if not more, than the graduate degree itself, and based on Marina's timeline, I'm already behind.

"Alright, I think we'll close out questions there." Paige, our sitting editor-in-chief, who's been moderating this Q&A, thanks Marina for taking time out of her busy schedule to come back to visit us.

Most of the crowd is already filing through the exit to run across campus to the arena. Glancing at the clock on the back wall, my chest tightens when I catch the time. It's nearly eight, which means they're about to break for halftime. Part of me wants to follow the crowd out, but when I look back at Marina speaking to Paige just off stage, I know this is probably the only chance I'll get to talk to someone who has experience in the industry before it's too late.

Edging through the crowd, I slip past the people loitering near the refreshment table. By the time I make it to the front of the auditorium, my stomach is a tight, twisting knot, and I have to remind myself of why I'm doing this—I need a second opinion. I need to know if there's a way. I need to know if there's hope.

Paige's gaze finds me as I walk up, and when she grins and waves me forward, I look over to Marina, who's smiling at me as I stop beside Paige.

"Marina, this is Abby Ryan, one of the best and brightest on the paper." Paige beams at me.

"Abby Ryan," Marina muses. "You wrote that feature article on the basketball player." I'm a little shocked that she read through our latest issue and even more amazed that she remembered my name on the byline. "I have to admit, I'm not usually one to read sports features, but you did an amazing job with it. There was so much presence in that article; I was captivated the entire time."

"Thank you." I grin, looking from her to Paige and back. "It was my first sports feature, so I'm glad I didn't completely bomb it."

"You killed it, Abs. Seriously." Paige laughs. "It's been this issue's most clicked article by far. Had I known sports features would get that kind of attention, I would've written one myself."

Glancing down at the watch on her wrist, Paige's eyes widen. "I have to go, but please, feel free to stick around for as long as you'd like. Abby, I'll see you in class Monday, and Marina, thank you again for your partnership. It means the world to us." She pulls Marina into a quick hug before turning and hurrying out of the nearly empty auditorium.

Marina looks over her shoulder toward the door, but before she can excuse herself, I take a step closer.

"Marina, could I—could I speak to you for a second? About your experiences in the field."

Her brows pull up a little, and I know she can sense my anxiety, but she nods and smiles as if to say, you don't have to be nervous. I do, though. I do have to be nervous because this is my last thread of hope.

"I wrote an article..." I try to keep the situation as vague as possible not to incriminate myself too much. "And the lines kind of blurred between myself and my subject. I know that especially now, with everything that happened with Danielle Young, it's incredibly taboo, and I just—" I hesitate because I don't really know what I'm asking here. "I spoke with my mother about it, and she warned me away from continuing the relationship, about how detrimental it could be to my career and reputation . . ."

She nods in understanding, and I keep going because if I'm going to do this, I might as well really do it. "And I know that she's right, especially with everything that just happened, but I just—I'm just wondering if maybe you know something different. If maybe, with your experience in the field, you might know something that could be helpful to the . . . situation."

She considers me for a long moment and then looks down at the water cup in her hands. "Your mom isn't wrong, Abby. You can see that with what just happened to Danielle Young. Women in our industry—in most industries—are held to a different standard, especially when it comes to sex and expectations in the workplace. I knew a few people in grad school who worked as interns at USASN under Bradshaw; it was widely known that he influenced the women around him with sex. He would offer promotions in exchange for favors, he would sleep with sources that he used in his articles, and he's had more than one run-in with women refusing to work with him because of his behavior. So, yes, unfortunately, your mom isn't wrong." Her voice is soft, but it still hits me like a slap to the face because that was it. My last, dwindling thread of hope was just cut. "But that doesn't mean that she's right, either."

My eyes flick back up to hers.

"If you were my daughter, I would probably tell you the same thing your mom did. She's trying to protect you. But you have a choice, you always have a choice, and in this situation, you have two options. The first: keep your head down, don't make any waves, write your articles, and work through your career while silently dealing with the double standards and the gross injustices that we as women have to deal with in the workplace. Or option two: recognize that there's an injustice and do something to change it."

Do something to change it.

The words send a rush of adrenaline through me because I've never considered that I could do something to change it. Not realistically.

"It's not going to be easy. You're going to open yourself up to a lot of criticism, and you could see your career implode right in front of your eyes. The road less traveled is rarely successful, but that doesn't mean it's not worth taking. And if you are successful, you'll be changing the lives of every woman who steps into our field after you. So, I guess I don't really have a good answer for you, Abby, because it depends on what you're willing to go up against and what you're comfortable with sacrificing."

The adrenaline is still coursing through me because I've already made up my mind before she's finished speaking. I made up my mind the second I realized that I could change it, or try to, at least. That I don't have to be a silent observer of this injustice. That I can take a stand.

"I'm sure that probably wasn't the answer you were looking for, but—"

"No—" I interrupt quickly. I can't hide my smile as I say, "It was the perfect answer, actually."

I think she can tell that I've made up my mind because she smiles at me as she rifles through her bag on her shoulder. When she pulls her hand out, she's holding a small business card.

"I have to head out, but I have a good feeling about you, Abby." She hands me the card. "Please, feel free to reach out if you have any questions or need anything at all."

I nod, eyes trained on her business card in my hand. She starts to turn to the door at the back of the auditorium but hesitates for a moment.

"And Abby?" I glance back at her. "If this is about who I think it is, I'd say he's worth it." She smirks at me before turning around again and pushing through the back exit. The loud click of the doors sliding back into their lock is like a shock through my body, pulling me out of my daze, and when I pull out my phone, I'm shocked to see that I have forty-three notifications—all from Nia and Jenny.

I have to scroll to the top because the bottom messages aren't making any sense. The very first message is a link to a video, and when I click on it, my heart clenches in my chest as I read the description. Tristan Beck and the entire USW basketball team walk out of a pre-game interview in solidarity with USASN's former lead reporter, Danielle Young.

I click on the video as fast as I can, and my heart pounds painfully in my chest as I listen to Tristan's speech shaming Greg Bradshaw. He tosses the microphone down onto the table and walks off the stage straight back into the locker room with the most pissed-off expression I've ever seen on his face. Then, Micah leans into the microphone and says, "I stand with Danielle Young," before walking off the stage behind his captain. All of his teammates follow his lead until they all disappear into the locker room behind Tristan, leaving his coach alone at the table. He looks shocked, and then a broad, proud smile spreads across his face as he leans forward and delivers the last blow to Bradshaw.

Oh, my God.

I don't have time to read all the messages in the group chat, but I catch the final one from Nia—if you don't marry him, I will.

I bite down on my lip to hold back my smile, and I'm already pushing through the front doors of the auditorium, walking straight out into the rain before my mind registers what I'm doing. The droplets of ice-cold rain are soaking through my jeans and knit sweater already, but I tighten my grip on my bag, stuff my phone into my pocket, and start running.

The arena isn't too far from the auditorium, but it's still a three-minute jog, and since I already can't run, and I'm weighed down by my backpack, I'm embarrassingly out of breath and soaked beyond recognition by the time I reach the back lobby of the arena. I try to pull open the door, but it's locked, and that's when I remember that Jenny had a scan card to get in last time.

The same media setup from the video is still constructed in the back lobby, but most of the reporters must be in the stadium now because aside from a few people with headsets, no one's here. A gust of icy wind whips my hair across my face, and an intense shiver racks my drenched body as I knock hard on the glass door. I must look pathetic enough to let in because one of the guys wearing a headset opens the door for me. I have a feeling he's going to tell me this is a restricted access entrance and to go around, but I don't give him the chance because the second he opens the door, I push past him and sprint toward the hall. He calls after me, but I don't stop as I round the corner.

I've never been in this hall before, but I've seen where they usually come out, so I search the different doors for what looks like the entrance to a locker room. When the sign reading Team and Coaching Staff Only catches my eye, I don't let myself stop to think about how wildly inappropriate this entire thing is as I crash through the door and stop short instantly. Tristan's entire team is in a half-circle surrounding their coach, who's stopped yelling at Luke about shooting percentages and is now looking over his shoulder at me incredulously.

Almost everyone is staring at me, shocked, and I'm sure I'm a sight to see. Not only should I not be in their locker room right now, but I'm panting hard because I just sprinted across campus, and I'm drenched, dripping a puddle on the floor as my jeans and sweater cling to me while the ice-cold water sends shivers down my body.

I spot Tristan immediately. He's sitting on the bench with his elbows on his thighs and his head down. His eyes don't leave the floor at my intrusion, and I don't need to look at his game stats to know he's been messing up on the court; I can tell by the tense set of his shoulders.

"Ryan?" Micah's confused question echoes through the room, but I don't look away from Tristan, and when his head snaps up, my chest tightens as his wide eyes meet mine.

"I'm so sorry," I say breathlessly. When my eyes dart to his coach, I hurry because I can tell by how his eyes are flaring that I'm about to get kicked out of this locker room any second. "I was wrong, I was—well, I was right, but I was also wrong. And I—" I probably should have thought about what I was going to say before barging in here with an audience, but I didn't, so I just start to ramble. "I'm sorry it took me this long to realize. I was a fucking idiot."

His lips quirk up when he realizes that I'm quoting him. "And I know it won't be easy, but nothing worth having ever is, right? And even if my career implodes, I know that it'll be okay because this is so much bigger than just you and me. It's about change; it's about first steps, and movements, and starting conversations. It's about every other professional woman in the world who just wants to be treated with the same respect. Who's just in love and—"

His eyes widen, and I realize what I just said—in love. I said that out loud. But I don't have time to think about how I feel about that because his Coach is turning toward me, and I know I'm about to get booted out of here, so I just keep rambling because I have a point, and I need to get to it.

"And someone once told me that life is one big game of high-risk, high-reward. And even if I lose, even if I ruin my entire career before it even begins, the reward still far outweighs the risk because, more than anything, I am in love with you, Tristan Beck. I am wholly, and completely, and incontrovertibly in love with you, and—" The telltale sting of tears is starting to prick my eyes, but I don't want to cry in front of his entire team, so I take a deep breath and focus back on him. "And I want to stay. If you—if you still want me—I want to stay."

He stands up and walks toward me, unhurried as if we're the only two people in here, and the air catches in my lungs when he stops in front of me, blocking me from view from the rest of his teammates.

"You're sure?" His voice is throaty, and I can tell by the desperation in his eyes that he's not letting my words sink in yet, not until he knows that I really mean them.

"I'm sure," I promise.

The harsh set of his shoulders gives out instantly, and the uncertainty in his eyes evaporates—it's there one second and then gone the next, and when he reaches up and cups my face in his hands, my lungs unfreeze in my chest for the first time in what feels like years.

"Say it again." He smiles. It's a toothy grin that indents his dimple deeply, and my chest releases every bit of tension at the sight. His eyes search my face and finally linger on my lips as if he wants to read them as I say the words. I know exactly what he wants me to repeat, and I wrap my arms around him as I say them.

"I'm in love with you, Tristan Beck."

The tension in his body releases as he pulls my lips to his, and I can't stop myself from smiling when the whoops and cheers from his teammates echo loudly through the room. He ignores it all as he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me tightly against him. I knot my fingers in his curls and pull him closer, and when his tongue slips through my lips, a shiver runs down my spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the ice-cold clothes clinging to me right now, because this is it; this is what I've desperately wanted since the night I broke up with him.

Tristan Beck is everything I will always want, he is everything I will always need, and right here—with his lips pressed against mine and hands clinging to me like I might disappear if he doesn't hold me tightly enough—this is everything.

Everything, and so much more, because this is home.