Page 19 of Making It Live!

That part was overruled.

"Bruce, I need you to either sit down and be quiet or leave this control room, because I'm producing a live broadcast and you're not helping."

He stood there another five seconds, mouth opening and closing like a man who had things to say but couldn't locate any of them.Then he straightened his tie — because of course he did — and backed out of the control room without another word.

The technical director — a stocky man named Ray, who'd barely acknowledged me before the broadcast — glanced over his shoulder at the closing door."Loser."

"You said it, I didn't," I muttered."Camera Two, tighten on Nelson for the toss."

For the rest of the broadcast I produced the show without Bruce, which was not a noticeable downgrade from producing the show with Bruce.I made calls.I restructured the C-block on the fly because the rescue-dog segment was filler and I'd rather eat glass than let my first show go out with dead weight in the third act.I talked to Ray, pleaded with the graphics team, and nearly fired the live reporter at the animal shelter.

I did my job.

And the entire time, on Monitor Three, Nelson sat behind that desk with the poise of a man carved from ice and delivered a flawless hour of television while I was inside his head.

His voice never wavered, and his face never changed.He took every direction I gave with seamless precision, and not once — not a single time in sixty minutes — did Nelson so much as glance at the control room.

That was how I knew he knew.The Nelson I remembered couldn't resist a fight.The Nelson on that monitor was avoiding one with every ounce of discipline he had.

Whatever Bruce was bracing for, he was bracing for the wrong storm.He thought Nelson would be furious that he'd hired me without consent.He thought the worst case scenario was a memo.He had absolutely no idea what was waiting for him in that meeting, and the kindest thing I could do for him was let him keep not knowing.

The broadcast ended.Someone said "Good show."Someone else said "That C-block restructure was sharp."Ray turned in his chair and gave me a nod I recognized as the highest form of compliment a control room veteran offers a new EP on night one.

I nodded back, calmly.

On Monitor Three, Nelson unclipped his mic, stood, and walked off set without looking back.

I pulled off my headset and set it on the desk with the deliberate care of someone defusing a bomb.It was warm from an hour against my skin, and I resisted the urge to wipe my palms on my slacks, because the crew was still here, still forming their first impressions of the man who was supposed to lead this show.

"Nice work tonight," Ray said."You always restructure on the fly like that?"

"Only when the lineup needs it."

He made a sound that might have been approval."Fletch never touched the C-block.Just let it run, whatever it was."

"I'm not Fletch."

"No," he said."You're definitely not."

The crew filtered out.I stayed and watched the monitors switch to overnight coverage, and I didn't move until the control room was empty.Then I pulled out my phone and called Jillian.

She picked up on the second ring."How was it?"

"The show was good."

"I didn't ask about the show."

Of course she didn't.Jillian Morris, professional reader of subtext, was the only person on earth who knew the full scope of what walking into this building actually meant.

"Nelson knows it's me, Jillian."I leaned back and stared at the ceiling."First direction I gave.His hand gripped the side of the desk."

"Did he look at you?"

"No.Not once during the entire broadcast."

A pause."That's worse."

"I know."