Even though I won’t admit it out loud, I’m not sure how I feel about everything.
After his pregame routine, Quinton was on fire. And as he threw touchdown pass after touchdown pass, the fans seemed to forget about him taking a knee and covering the League’s logo. I got hopeful that maybe this would blow over and not be a big deal. It wasn’t until I tuned in to watch the postgame press conference that I learned how much work I was in for. Because even though the fans seemed to forget, the reporters did not.
The very first question had nothing to do with plays made or points scored. Nope. The only things they seemed to care about were his actions on the field. Why the tape? Why now?
I held my breath. Waiting to hear what he had to say, to hear him explain. I didn’t understand the tape. Plus, he didn’t kneel at all last season when players on other teams started to.
“I blacked out the logo because I work for a company that doesn’t value our lives. Retired players are struggling and they are being met with silence. The same men we ‘honor’ with banners, the men who paved the way for us to get here, are wasting away and nothing is being done to help them. This company owns us, they exploit us, and once we’re injured and battered, they throw us to the side like garbage. The League is a microcosm of our country and just like in our country, racism and discrimination run rampant. So the tape is for my teammates, but the knee is for the Black lives all across the country.” But despite his serious words, his tone was conversational—happy even. He rubbed his hand down his beard, the picture of calm and collected. “I can’t ignore the fact that racism and police brutality in this country are killing Black men, women, and children. This crisis must be addressed. I have a platform and I intend to use it.” Then, without hesitation or his smile fading at all, he nodded to the press and stood up. “Thanks, guys. I think I can count on talking with you all soon.”
I watched the clip approximately a trillion times, until his words were etched inside my skull like an ancient Egyptian text. They even echoed in my dreams during that pitiful hour of sleep I managed to get.
I’ve never been in a position like this before.
I’ve never been made to feel off-kilter by a situation I’m supposed to defuse. Obviously, the downside of this job is I don’t get to have an opinion. I’m one part of the greater whole. And my job is to make the greater whole look good no matter what my personal feelings are.
What Quinton Howard Junior did—and said after the fact—has forced my insecurities to the forefront of my mind.
I’ve never known where I fit in the movement for social justice or if I even belonged. And now, that struggle—the ever-constant push and pull—with who I am is happening at work.
“Elliot?” Paul takes his foot and sends my desk chair gliding across the carpet. “You still in there?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head and force a smile to spread across my face. “Just trying to come up with other ways to spin this since the media is clearly trying to confuse intentions.”
“Welp.” The wrinkles around Paul’s blue eyes deepen and I get the distinct feeling that he’s laughing at me. “I hope you pull something together fast, because Mr. Mahler wants to see you in his office.”
“Just me?” I squeak out, my voice deciding to take a hike.
“Just you, new girl.”
“Now?” I grab the edge of my desk as my eyes go wide and my knuckles turn white.
“Right now.”
Fuck.
Mr. Mahler is the owner of the Denver Mustangs. He sat in on my final interview and literally did not say one word to me. When he had something to say, he would write it down on the clipboard in front of him and pass it to Paul. Then, he would stare at me with an unwavering gaze as I answered. He didn’t even crack a smile. I actually went home and polished off a bottle of wine as I made cookies because I was convinced he hated me and I wouldn’t get the job.
Obviously I got the job, but I’m still not so sure Mr. Mahler doesn’t hate my guts.
I stand on shaky legs and take a deep breath. “It’s been nice working with you, Paul. Remember me when I’m gone.”
Even though I’ve only known Paul for less than a month, I feel like he was meant to be my work husband. The thought of having it annulled so soon breaks my heart a little bit.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He rolls his eyes and grabs his abandoned phone from my desk. “I never remember anyone after they’re given the axe.”
At my gasp, he dissolves into a very unprofessional fit of laughter.
Rude.
—
THE NEW HEELS I splurged on after landing my dream job drag across the carpeted floors as I make my way to hear of my untimely demise. Thank goodness I didn’t go ahead and buy the cream coat too. Even with Liv’s discount, it would’ve been an obscene amount . . . although it did totally look like one Kerry Washington wore once.
Our offices are located inside the Mustangs training facility. A perk I found to be almost as cool as the discounted game tickets.
Almost.
Now, looking at the empty practice fields through the window-lined hallways, I feel like I’m being mocked. But as Mr. Mahler’s office comes into view, a sense of peace settles over me and confidence infiltrates my veins.
I’m a woman in a man’s world. A biracial woman in a man’s world. I’ve had to work twice as hard as most people to get a foot in the door. I got this job because I was the best choice. Because I’m
