“Yes.” The word comes out weak. I close my eyes and take a deep breath and try again. “Yes, I understand.”
He nods his head. Satisfaction is written across his time-weathered face, but I speak before he can, because for some reason, I know that he’s not finished with me yet. “Just so you know, Mr. Mahler, this job means more to me than just a paycheck. My father passed away earlier this year. We spent his final months together watching the Mustangs play. My favorite memories of him are wrapped up with your organization. I want what’s best for everyone.”
His gaze softened as I spoke, but I have a sick feeling in my stomach. It was less because of what I said, and more of what he hadn’t. “I’ll hold you to that. We can’t have an entire season of bad press, and if you don’t have a handle on this by playoffs, we will have to find someone who can get it done.”
Dammit.
Sometimes I really hate being right.
Three
“Wait,” Liv’s voice booms through my car speakers. “You’re meeting who?”
“You heard me.” If the bumper-to-bumper Denver traffic wasn’t enough to make a sane person go crazy, listening to Liv’s voice rise approximately twenty decibels would be mad entertaining. “Quinton Howard Junior. The stubborn quarterback who just had to do this on his own and possibly put an end to my career before it even started.”
I figured a lunch meeting would mean avoiding rush hour. However, I forgot that with the influx of Denver residents over the last few years, every hour is rush hour. It has taken almost an hour to finally reach my exit and I’m most definitely not amused.
“By stubborn, do you mean extremely hot?”
“No, I definitely do not mean hot.” I used to think he was hot, but the whole “could cost me my job” thing has changed my mind. “Do you understand how good I am at my job? I’m really fucking good. All he had to do is reach out to me and I would’ve helped him organize this! Do you know how many people would love to have me at their back? Now the Mustangs—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Liv cuts me off. “I know you love a good rant, but I think you forgot that I don’t actually care about the Mustangs. I just wanted to talk about his pretty face and white spandex pants.”
“This is why I didn’t invite you to the game.”
At least Marie will pretend to care about football.
“And this entire ‘the Mustangs turn me into a ranting lunatic’ is the reason I would’ve said no even if you did ask.”
“Fair point.”
I’ve known Olivia Pearson since freshman year of high school. I don’t know if it was because my dad thought nuns could replace the missing female presence in my life, but he sent me to an all-girls Catholic school when I was in kindergarten and kept me there until high school. It was fine. I definitely didn’t hate it. Still to this day, I have a soft spot for plaid pleated skirts and cable-knit tights—it’s probably the only reason I joined the field hockey team too. But I wanted to have the full “what you see on TV” high school experience. Mainly, I wanted Friday Night Lights. And lucky for me, so did my dad. He played hardball, but I promised straight A’s and he gave in. But the luckiest part for me was that Liv was assigned the seat next to me in my first period class and had an affinity for the spoken word. And since I really like to listen, we decided we’d be best friends.
She still likes to talk.
“So, since this is a work lunch, does that mean they are going to pay? HERS has really good cocktails, you should order a few of those bad boys.”
I almost don’t see the light turning red with how hard I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure if you caught the part where I told you my job is literally hanging by a thread, but I think getting trashed when I’m supposed to be wrangling a grown-ass man is probably a bad idea.”
“Well, I get off in a couple hours, want me to meet you there?”
“Doesn’t that mean you should be working now? Don’t you work on commission?”
Liv has had her job at Nordstrom since we graduated from high school. She’s the most stylish person I’ve ever met. Which is why her fashion blog has taken off the way it has. She doesn’t need her day job anymore, but she loves her clients . . . and I love her discount. She’s a true freaking friend.
“Eh.” I can picture her tossing her perfectly highlighted mane over her shoulder. “I had a huge sale this morning. I’m in the back going through inventory now. But yes to drinks, right?”
“Yes.” My phone buzzes in my cupholder, telling me I’ve arrived at HERS. “I have a feeling drinks will be mandatory after this.”
“Yay! Best Monday ever!”
At least for one of us.
—
IF I HADN’T sat in traffic for half of my life (only a slight exaggeration) to meet the man who holds my dream job in his hands, I’d be stoked to get an afternoon, work-sponsored trip to HERS. I don’t like the term “guilty pleasure,” because if I’ve learned anything the past couple of years, it’s to not feel guilt over things that bring me joy. But if I had to label one thing as a guilty pleasure, it would be my love of reality television. And Love the Player is at the top of my reality TV obsession. Not only does it take place in my city, but it’s based on my favorite football team! It’s the only reality show my dad actually
