Two guards stood firmly in front of the New York Cougars’ locker room. With her index finger, Samantha pointed to the press card attached to her crisp white blouse. She tried to duck past them, but they didn’t budge. “It says here, Sam Jameson.” As other sportswriters breezed by, she conjured up a polite tone and explained, “That’s my byline; it’s short for Samantha.” “I’l have to verify your credentials with the head of security,” the tal er of the two said. She read his name badge. Tom. The man stepped to the side, flipping open his radio like he was a Secret Service agent, while the other guard, Jerry, stil barred her way. Samantha said nothing. Being a journalist led to confrontations such as this and she had more than her fair share, in far worse situations. Stil , frustration nagged at her, even as she reminded herself the guards were just doing their jobs. Though if she were a man she doubted she’d have this much trouble. She bet the star tight-end for the NY Cougars believed women didn’t belong in this inner sanctum, as wel .
