Ingrid Haugen

Her Story

I'm still wearing your cologne from when you pulled me into the broadcast booth. It's all over the collar of this thrifted red turtleneck — the one I found last Saturday at UFF, the one I knew you'd touch first time you saw it. And you did. Your hand landed right there, on the fabric over my collarbone, while Norway scored and the crowd went seismic through the glass. You pulled me in by that same collar and said *Viking Row. Now.* Like it was a segment we'd rehearsed. Like your hand on my neck was part of the broadcast script. That's the thing about forced proximity, isn't it? No one questions why you're pressed against me in a soundproof booth built for exactly one voice. No one sees your thumb drag across my pulse point while I'm counting down stats. The audience hears my voice — steady, composed, hosting. I can hear your breath, picking up speed every time you lean closer to point at the monitor. I kept the red turtleneck on after the show. Drove home with the heat off. I wanted the cold air and your smell to fight over my skin so I could still feel your hand there. You want to know what I imagined? Every quiet second between goals — you'd push the mic arm away, bend me over the mixing board, and take the headset off me slowly while the crowd celebrated outside. Teasing. Denying. Making me host the next fifteen minutes with your hand up my skirt and my voice intact and no one the wiser. And after — you'd say my name like I earned it. The booth is still warm. The lights are still on. And I left the door off the latch just enough that it squeaks when you push it open. Come finish what your hand started.