“You called? I didn’t even notice any missed calls.”
I am so going to hell.
And by the look on Quinton’s face, he knows I am too. An actress I am not.
“So we’re alright? I felt like we were just getting to a really good place, I don’t want to ruin that.”
“No, I mean yeah.” I crack my knuckles, a habit I always revert back to when I’m nervous. “We’re good. It will never happen again. And I’d like it if we got along, because if you thought the work leading up to the launch was intense, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
Even though I stayed clear of the office today, I’ve been checking my emails all day. And the amount of interest in Quinton’s foundation is wild. The inquiries about what he was talking about, what pension parity even is, were borderline overwhelming.
“I’m ready, I’ve been ready.” He pulls the beanie off his head and toys with it between his hands.
I swear he’s testing me. Letting me get a good look at him with and without the beanie. I could conduct a thesis and still not know which way he looks hotter.
“Good.” After seeing his speech last night, I have no doubt he’s telling the truth. If anything, I’ll need to remind him to focus on the field. “So why don’t we meet tomorrow after practice and plan on setting up meetings with Pro Players for Equal Treatment? Their cause is one a lot of people still need to be educated on. I was thinking I could set up a joint interview with you and their representative to really get the message out.”
“Sounds good.” He shoves his hat into his pocket as he heads for the door. I trail behind him, careful not to get too close, reminding myself of personal boundaries the entire ten-foot walk. “Alright then.” He lifts two fingers to his dark, full, always stern-looking brows, and salutes. “See you tomorrow . . . friend.”
Friend? Awww, the friend zone. It’s so cozy in here.
“Okay, yeah. Tomorrow—” I forget what words are and how they work. “We’ll get to work then.”
He walks out of the door and I watch him until he disappears into the stairwell. I close the door, only locking it by muscle memory, before walking back to my half-melted ice cream.
Friend? Did Quinton Howard Junior just call me his friend?
What in the entire fuck just happened?
I guess whatever it is, it’s still better than being unemployed . . . or at least not for another two to three months.
Twenty-one
The ping of my email is almost white noise at this point.
I knew coming back to the office after the launch party would be wild, but I still managed to underestimate just how wild it would be.
I was prepared for press inquiries. I had interviews set up. Press conferences for the next two weeks were scheduled. I was ready with Quinton’s mission statement and the press kit we prepared before the launch. What I wasn’t prepared for were the calls and emails from other teams’ PR managers, telling me that their owners are starting to panic and I need to figure out a way to shut Quinton’s protesting down and fast.
I wasn’t prepared to hear from the players union about staying in my lane and telling Quinton if he was so worried about this, he should’ve done more than taking a knee and throwing them underneath the bus. That they had to worry about current players and now cleaning up his mess before they can actually protect the players he’s claiming to be so worried about.
Even though I listened to Quinton as we set up the foundation, he always seemed to skate around the details of the individual charities he wanted to focus on. And he did a full-on dance routine when I tried to get him to tell me what, exactly, pension parity is and why it means so much to him.
On the surface, I get it. Equal pensions. Cool. Easy. But there’s been a piece of this puzzle that’s been missing since day one.
And figuring it out is why I’ve been ignoring my emails and why I continue to do so until my office phone begins to ring on my desk.
“This is Elliot,” I say, half distracted reading about one of my dad’s favorite players who is now struggling with ALS.
“Elliot, yes.” The voice on the other end is familiar. “I have been sending you emails for the last twenty minutes. Mr. Mahler would like to see you in his office now,” Gemma—I now recognize—says into the phone before disconnecting without a goodbye.
“Oh shit.” I open my email and see seven new emails from the man upstairs.
“You alright?” Quinton’s deep voice makes me jump in my seat.
“Fuck!” My vocabulary continues to spiral out of control when I check the clock and realize it’s three minutes before I’m scheduled to meet with Quinton and of course he’s not late, like a considerate person. “Shit.” I shake my head, trying to clear out all of the profanity that is occupying my brain right now. “I mean, I’m so sorry. Mr. Mahler needs to meet with me.”
His thick eyebrows arch to his hairline. “About what?”
“Another project I’m working on for him.” I spin back to my computer, hoping to close all of the tabs I have open fast enough that Quinton won’t see what I’ve been obsessing over. I’m sure the last thing he needs to be reminded of is a former player with ALS. “Don’t worry, this one isn’t about you.”
He tries to neutralize his expression, but every time he gets angry, he gets this look like he just sucked on a sour candy. I’m not sure if he even knows he does it, but his chin tucks in and his lips purse out like he can taste whatever’s bothering him so much. “Good for you. Makin’ boss moves, I see.”
I pretend not to
