Chapter 3 #2
I thank Shauna again for her help and hustle into the conference room, placing Oliver’s shake at the head of the table before I take a seat in the back corner, pen in hand, ready to learn and take notes.
A man in his mid-forties wearing an eccentric plaid button-down, a smartwatch on his wrist, and a micro laptop tucked under one arm, is the first to enter.
He walks right toward me, beaming. “You must be Charlie.” He extends a hand.
I stand to greet him. “I’m Ian Turner, chief technology officer and the head of network security. ”
Isn’t CTO and head of network security the same thing? I want to ask. But I don’t. His title is a mouthful and sounds redundant to me, but some people like having long titles.
“Welcome aboard. I know Oliver can be busy, and I am too, but if you need anything, never hesitate to reach out,” he offers with a nod. Ian glances at his watch. “Oliver should be here momentarily. He’s still on with the Sri Lankan minister of defense.”
What in the world does the minister of defense have to talk about with the CEO of an endurance-sports company?
“Right,” I say. “Of course.” I must have misheard. Ian must have said minister for sport. I’m overwhelmed by how much there is to learn, so I don’t question it. I took so much for granted in my last job. I knew everyone; they knew me. Now I’m starting from scratch.
Ian glances at the platters of sandwiches that Ana and I laid on the back table. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I abandon you for a chicken wrap, Charlie.”
I laugh and take my seat. “Not at all. Although I’d recommend the mojo pork sandwiches – I saw them making it fresh.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Always good to have insider intel.” He strolls toward the buffet table.
Uncle Ollie strides purposefully into the room, talking to the CFO – Finn. He cuts an imposing figure. Oliver Hawkins is an endurance-sports icon. He looks like he just stepped off a cover shoot for a glossy sports mag: gray polo and green chinos, his salt-and-pepper hair buzzed.
“Charlie, you’re in the room. You’re sitting at the table,” Oliver commands without looking at me.
My cheeks heat and I move from my inconspicuous corner to a chair at the middle of the table.
When I sit down, I hazard a glance over at Oliver and he gives me a wink.
“You’ve got this,” he mouths, and I feel a surge of confidence.
He takes a sip of the shake and doesn’t immediately spit it out. Phew.
I’m taking in the view of the bay from the windows as the execs grab their sandwiches.
The midday sun is dazzling on the calm water, shooting rays in different directions.
I’m struck once again by the epic nature of this job, this office, this company.
It’s an epic job because I can still do epic shit! I tell myself.
“Where’s Davidson?” Finn asks.
Tearing into his sandwich, Oliver replies, “On his way – caught the red-eye back last night.”
The sound of footsteps hurrying toward the conference room distracts me from my thoughts. I turn my head in time to see Mr. Douchebag-at-the-Door waltz in.
He appears freshly showered and cleaned up, he’s lost the baseball cap, and his hair is slicked back and tidy.
He is wearing a FIRE polo, the same one I have on, and khakis.
He looks every bit the polished professional.
Not the troll-like guard who leaves people sweating in the sun with their arms full that he is.
“Sorry I’m late,” he announces, not seeming especially contrite, and takes the seat opposite me.
It isn’t until he sits down that our eyes lock. I catch a brief expression of shock before he composes himself. His dark brown eyes turn stormy, as if he still doesn’t quite believe that I belong here. As if I’m an intruder. He shoots Oliver a look.
“Declan,” my uncle begins, “this is my new executive assistant, Charlie Ross.”
I smile and nod at the various executives now seated round the table.
My title may be executive assistant, but my primary role is to help Oliver do his job.
Today that was to finish my onboarding and make sure the executives had lunch.
Tomorrow it could be tracking down delayed event incident reports or getting a shipment of finisher medals through customs. Keep the plates spinning is what Oliver told me.
After helping my dad as his assistant coach for years, I knew I could tackle this too.
“Everyone, Charlie is my new right hand. Anything you need from me goes through her first.”
I can still feel Declan’s gaze boring into me. When I lift my eyes to his, I want to shout, I told you so! at him, but that wouldn’t exactly be professional. Instead, I say, “I think we met downstairs earlier.”
He swallows, and for a moment I feel the same exhilaration I used to get when I passed someone on the track.
But that feeling is quickly replaced with disappointment.
The person who didn’t let me in the building is a senior-level member of the team.
Declan Davidson. I recognize the name from the empty office opposite my desk.
He’ll be sitting across from me every day.
Silently judging my ability to do basic tasks, I’m sure.
Seated beneath the most befitting quote: Quitters never earn a line in the history books.
“Welcome aboard,” Declan mutters, his words insincere.
The meeting commences and beneath my pasted-on smile, I feel myself deflate.
All that confidence and excitement for starting a job at FIRE seeping away.
I contemplate throwing in the towel, telling Uncle Ollie this was a terrible idea, but then the quote above my desk becomes an epitaph.
And Declan, who clearly thinks I don’t belong here, would be proven correct. How long until they find out anyways?
That I’m the girl who forfeited her spot to race at the World Games in Auckland four years ago.
I’m the girl who took an assistant coaching job and had to see the looks of pity on everyone’s faces.
The girl who quit said coaching job because she couldn’t stomach watching her dad coach another team to victory at this summer’s World Games when it wasn’t something she’d ever be able to achieve herself.
Charlie Ross: the girl who quit.
And if I leave now, if I let even one person here see me back down, then it becomes true. I need to prove to this team – including Declan Davidson – and more importantly myself, that I can do this.
I will not be the girl who quit. Not anymore.