Chapter 3
CHARLIE
“You have no idea how much you are my hero,” I tell my favorite new coworker, Ana, as she helps me carry the sandwiches from the elevator into FIRE’s lobby. “I can’t believe I forgot my badge.”
Ana shrugs, scanning us into the office.
“Happens to the best of us.” She’s about my age, wearing fitted black jeans with a floral-print silk button-down, her long dark brown beachy waves effortless and glam at the same time.
“Shauna said you needed some staff gear, but let’s get the suits their lunches first.”
That’s right. During my tour of the office, Shauna told me to link up with Ana Alonso in merchandise.
“That would be fantastic.” A smile instantly spreads across my face as we cross the threshold. My skin prickles. I could blame the goosebumps dotting my skin on the air-conditioning, but I know that isn’t it. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over the cool factor here,” I breathe.
Ana laughs and flashes me a smile. “That’s why we all stay.
The hours are long, other sports pay better, but you’ll never have a cooler business on your résumé than this one.
” Ana explains what I already know. What I’m already feeling.
The array of Emmys, ESPYs, and other awards filling the built-in glass bookshelves to the left of the entrance is only part of it.
We head toward the executive conference room past a TV screen in the lobby playing the same promotional video on repeat.
Finish-line smiles flash to the sound of drums beating a resounding conclusion.
Athletes of all ages, races, and abilities celebrating.
A voiceover accompanies the music, reciting the company motto, the words spoken at the start line of every race:
The race is not given to the swift, says the familiar voice as images of pro triathletes and ultra-marathoners pop up on screen. Nor valor to the brave. Runners jump for joy, falling to their knees at the finish line, exhausted and euphoric.
But to those who, the voice continues, a drumbeat punctuating each word, Endure. To. The. End!
The final four words remain on screen before the company logo appears beneath them. The letters of ‘FIRE’ morph into two friends lifting their arms in between two mountains, symbolizing one challenge accomplished and another on the horizon.
“So, did you move here for the job?” Ana asks, drawing my attention back from the video.
“Yes!” I say, a little too eager to please. “From Oregon.”
“Oh my gosh, we did an open-water swim on the Oregon coast last year and it was so beautiful!” Ana gushes, and I can’t help but think about what my first event as FIRE staff will be.
The entire office is adorned with inspirational quotes on the walls, along with high-quality finish-line photos. A mosaic of vintage race bibs and finisher medals screams endurance-athlete culture.
In the conference room, Ana helps me set up the beverages and sandwiches on the back table, which is much easier than anticipated with an extra set of hands.
“OK,” she says, “time to do a little spin.” She eyes me up and down.
“Shauna didn’t know what sizes to grab for your staff gear.
” The downside of being hired directly by the CEO without going through the standard process: Oliver never thought to ask my size.
What will my new colleagues think when they learn it’s my family connection that secured me this job?
Turning in a circle, I admit, “I feel like one of those hot dogs left to roast all day at the gas station.”
She laughs at my joke. “Ha! But you look like a cute hot dog.”
I wiggle my eyebrows and roll my eyes, accepting her compliment. “Any chance you can get me a polo shirt in the next fifteen minutes, so I don’t have to wear this sweaty button-down at the meeting?” I ask and gesture at my shirt: rumpled, wrinkled, and beginning to stink.
“Fifteen? I can do better than that. You’re about my size and we’ve got one full set of staff gear left in the merch closet that should fit.” Ana winks. “Wait here. I’ll be back in five.” After that horrible interaction at the front door with Mr. Meanie, I think maybe I’ve made my first friend.
It hits me for the umpteenth time today. I work for FIRE! The butterflies have redoubled their efforts. Damn, this is so cool!
While I wait for Ana to return with a clean shirt, I fish my phone from my purse and check my email.
Shauna already got my phone synced with the FIRE cloud.
Sure enough, there’s a cascade of calendar revisions for Oliver that I’ve been copied on.
Meeting requests for Oliver with local sports officials in different cities around the world.
There’s an invitation from the head of the World Games Organizing Committee – I’ll wait to respond on that one. I need to have my head right.
The final request is from the prime minister of Luxembourg. Wow, I guess our ultra-cycling race there is a big deal if the head of the entire country is asking for a meeting with Oliver.
My rapidly expanding to-do list is coming together in my mind as Ana rushes back in. She hands me a forest-green polo embroidered with the FIRE logo. “Here you go.”
“You have saved me again!” I tell Ana. “I seriously owe you.”
“First round is on you for happy hour,” she says as we part ways at the conference-room door.
“You bet. Thank you, thank you!” I say and walk-run to the bathroom to change into the new top.
A quick glance in the mirror and it’s not a completely mismatched outfit. I can make this work. I feel the seconds counting down to my first meeting with the executive team as I undo my ponytail and finger-comb my hair.
I pop by my desk to lock my sweaty blouse in the bottom drawer so any odor doesn’t escape.
My smile falters as I spot the second large feature at my desk.
The quote in bold forest-green block letters on the wall behind my chair.
It’s not personal, I tell myself. There are quotes all over the office.
Quitters never earn a line in the history books.
I can’t help but bristle. As if I were destined to end up here, to sit as Exhibit A proving this quote to be true.
I shake the thought from my mind because I have no time for self-pity. It’s like I’m staring down a race clock again. I decide that the rest of today will be better. No more run-ins with judgmental douchebags, I hope.
Checking the time, I make a beeline for the break room to mix Oliver’s requisite shake before the meeting.
“Charlotte, is everything OK?” Shauna from HR sidles up next to me and continues walking with me toward the break room. It’s weird to be called by my legal name, but, of course, it’s on all the paperwork she had me sign: NDA, Healthcare, retirement savings, and other benefit registrations.
“Exec meeting starts in three minutes,” I tell her. “And I’ll need every second to whip up Oliver’s shake.”
Shauna is about ten years older than me, with an impeccable tan, blond highlights, a bright tropical-print pantsuit, and an even brighter smile. “Run, walk, or crawl,” she says and points at the quote on the wall leading to the company kitchen with a knowing smile.
This is the official rule for crossing the finish line at any FIRE event. While elite athletes like my dad can win his age group, many sign up just to do the thing, to finish before the race cut-off. Finishing at all is a huge accomplishment.
We both laugh, and I’m relieved by her generosity.
“Do you need a coffee?” Shauna offers. “You must be exhausted with the time change from the West Coast.”
“You’re so kind. I’ll be good,” I demur, not wanting to explain I don’t drink coffee unless it is a half-caf iced latte, so really one-eighth caf in the entire mug.
I worry it sounds too high-maintenance. Although my radical shift in diet is high-maintenance, the head of HR doesn’t need to know that on Day One.
“Let me show you what you need for Oliver’s shake,” she says. It’s strange how everyone here calls him Oliver – so formal – when to me he’s always been Uncle Ollie. I watch Shauna pull out the items needed for his protein and collagen shake, committing their location to memory.
When the blender finishes groaning, I pour the concoction into a glass with the FIRE logo etched on it – the liquid matches both the consistency and color of a murky mud pie.
I’m about to walk-run out of the break room when a woman in three-inch heels, their soles crimson, click-clacks imperiously toward the water cooler. Her flowing raven tresses fall perfectly across her shoulders. Her outfit is impeccable, her cheekbones high and sharp. She makes quite an entrance.
The woman doesn’t so much as glance at me or Shauna until the head of HR clears her throat.
Shauna starts the introductions. “Celine, this is Charlotte Ross. She’s our new executive assistant.”
I smile and timidly extend a hand. Celine assesses me, considering if she should accept.
“Everyone calls me Charlie,” I add nervously, my fingers itching to grab the hair tie on my wrist and put my hair up.
As a lifelong runner and then a coach, a ponytail was practically a uniform.
For my first corporate job, I took time to blow-dry my hair this morning. The Florida humidity had other plans.
“Celine Charboneau,” she says, a French lilt to her words.
With tight lips, she offers me a limp hand and a quick shake.
“I run our public relations.” PR? More like Project Runway.
I thought I would be comically overdressed today in a navy pinstripe pencil skirt and blue button-up.
Given the attire of the women with me in the break room, I now know I’m woefully underdressed.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I reply, but Celine is already breezing through the exit with her full bottle of water. There’s no time to contemplate her cold greeting.