6. Girl Power & Stuff
Chapter six
Girl Power & Stuff
Eslin
Neither of us looks old enough to be doing these jobs. My new boss is a stunning brunette with long, dark hair, olive skin, and the kind of flawless complexion that screams she’s not a day over thirty.
But hey, I’m thirty-two and still get asked where I earned my degree every time I remind someone to call me doctor, so who am I to judge? Honestly, I’m proud to work for an organization that empowers women like this.
She’s really girly, though. Girly in a way that makes me pray she never wants to hang out.
“It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” Marlow says, wrapping up the formalities now that we’re alone in her office.
Which is gorgeous, by the way.
“Likewise!” I reply brightly. “And, can I just say—mad respect for being the boss at your age? I know it’s probably not PC to point it out, but seriously, you’re killing it.”
Thankfully, she grins—clearly taking it as the compliment I meant. “I appreciate that! It wasn’t easy convincing my dad to give me a shot, but I kept reminding him that if I were a man, it wouldn’t even be a conversation. He didn’t have much to say after that.”
“Valid!” I agree.
“So, how are you settling into Atlanta?”
“It’s beautiful here. Humid, but beautiful. I lived here for a summer once, but never really had the chance to explore. It’s been fun getting to know the city.”
“I love that!” she gushes. “Have you made any new friends yet?”
How do I explain? I don’t just make friends. They have to grow on me—naturally. No forcing, no pushing. And so far, I haven’t let anyone close enough for that to happen since moving here.
“No, not yet! I’ve just been busy getting my place together,” I lie smoothly, because let’s be real—I moved in with seven boxes and four suitcases. Not exactly a ton of unpacking to do.
“Well, you and I are going to be great friends,” she declares.
Oh, yay. Pretty sure that’s an HR violation or something.
“There aren’t exactly a lot of women around here, you know?” she adds.
I let out a nervous laugh. “Right! Girl power and all that!” I say, pumping my fist in mock enthusiasm.
I promise I’m not some mean girl or anything. I’m just…weird.
And what I’ve learned in my short time on this earth—and my long stints in random people’s homes—is that weird isn’t exactly widely accepted. People like fun but not too quirky, smart but not too intimidating, different but only in the ways they can easily explain to their friends.
So I don’t let a lot of people get close.
Not close enough to see the weird.
She slides a sleek black leather folder across the desk—emblazoned with the Atlanta Strikers logo and my name.
“This has all your electronic key cards for the building, gym, and cafeteria. You get five hundred dollars a month for meals on campus, plus a fifty-percent discount if you spend your own money.”
“Love it.”
She beams proudly. “That was one of the perks I fought for when I came on board. I also pushed to add daycare for employees.”
“Nice! Do you have little ones at home?” I ask, noticing a framed photo on her desk but unable to see the picture.
She waves a hand. “Oh, goodness no. But just because I don’t have kids doesn’t mean I can’t support those who do.”
I shake my head, impressed. “How am I seriously impressed and we only just met?”
“Oh, you know,” she says with a playful wink. “Girl power and stuff!” I laugh, loving her callback.
She stands from her desk, and I can't help but smile at how cute and petite she is in this bright pink suit. “Let’s get you a full tour of the facility.”
“Good thing I wore my sneakers!” I say, proudly pointing down to the fresh pair of red and black AF-1’s I just picked up to match the team colors. I also want to find anything else to stare…look at…other than her really pink outfit.
“Nice kicks!” Marlow flashes a somewhat nervous smile. “If only I would’ve gone with the dressed-down look today.”
I laugh a little too quickly, already praying she doesn’t ask the question. “You’re the boss! I’m sure a suit is expected.” Please don’t ask me how you look. Please don’t ask me how you look.
She narrows her eyes, tilting her head like she can see me dodging in real time. “Eslin Saunders. If you’re going to work here—and if we’re gonna be friends—you have to be honest with me.”
I freeze, blinking. Calling us friends already is a bit presumptuous. “Okay?” I say, wondering where she’s going with this.
“I look like a bottle of Pepto Bismol, don’t I?”
I nod furiously, finally exhaling. “Girl! Like a pack of pink bubble gum!”
“Wasn’t what I envisioned but I’m rolling with it”, she quips back. We both crack up, full-on belly laughing.
“Okay, see? That’s better! Ice officially broken. Now, come on, I’ll show you around.”
We step out of her office and into a sleek, modern hallway lined with framed jerseys and team photos. The pride of the Atlanta Strikers is practically built into the walls, even though it’s still a relatively new soccer club.
First stop: the team offices. She leads me into a wing bustling with energy—PR, marketing, operations, coaching staff.
Open-concept, glass-walled conference rooms, bright workspaces filled with the kind of people who look like they belong in a high-profile sports organization.
Young, sharp, a little too good-looking.
“This is where most of the day-to-day magic happens,” Marlow says. “If you ever need anything—team schedules, travel plans, media stuff—someone in here can make it happen.”
I nod, taking mental notes.
“But I keep one of those open door policies so feel free to stop by my office with any questions too.”
Next, we head down a wide staircase that opens up to the heart of the facility—the players’ floor.
“This is where you’ll probably spend most of your time,” Marlow says.
The space is massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the practice fields.
The vibe is luxe but functional. There’s a lounge area with plush seating, a café stocked with every imaginable protein bar and smoothie, and a media room outfitted with big screens for game reviews.
Marlow points out the locker room. “State of the art. And smell-proofed, thank God.”
I grin.
Then the gym—no basic treadmill situation here. We’re talking Olympic lifting platforms, cryo chambers, hyperbaric pods. It’s the type of place I would imagine athletes actually want to be.
Hell, I can barely lift a five pound weight but I’d love to spend some time here.
Finally, she stops in front of a wide glass door near the gym. “And this,” she says, swiping her badge, “is your office.”
I step inside and my jaw practically hits the floor.
It’s huge. Way bigger than I expected. Damn near bigger than my first New York City apartment.
One entire wall is glass, offering a view of the gym and practice fields.
A plush sectional sits in one corner, with a sleek desk positioned front and center—modern, clean lines, high-end everything.
Built-in bookshelves, a stocked mini-fridge, even a coffee station.
“Wow,” I breathe, running my hand over the polished wood desk. “This is... incredible.”
Marlow beams. “Told you we take care of our people.”
She’s not kidding. I’m officially blown away.
“Take your time getting settled in. Today is your official first day but since the team is gone for an away match, things will be quiet so you can take your time getting up to speed with everything.”
I nod. “Got it. Thanks.”
“Your laptop’s been loaded with the latest HIPAA-compliant therapy software, and the team’s files are already pre-loaded,” Marlow says as she gestures toward my sleek new setup.
“I went ahead and added photos of each player to their profiles, along with some notes on a few... let’s call them behavioral challenges we’ve been dealing with.
Your job is to figure out why they are the way they are—and help channel that energy back into their game. ”
I frown. “Funny. Xavier Darcy made it sound like my job was just to get them to stop screwing around and win more games.”
She laughs, light and knowing. “Spoken like a true man. Please—take your cues from me.”
I nod. “Will do.”
Before I can brace myself, she pulls me into a hug. Oh! Ok.
“Welcome to the Atlanta Strikers. I really hope you love it here!” she says, and her warmth actually feels genuine.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t.”
She starts to head out, but pauses in the doorway. “I mean, I’ll know you’re doing a good job by how well my boys perform on the field.”
“With the world watching,” I mutter under my breath, dread curling in my stomach.
“No pressure, though!” she calls cheerfully over her shoulder, then disappears down the hall.
I settle into the plush leather chair and pull up to the chic, modern desk. The oversized computer monitor flickers to life, prompting me to scan my fingerprints.
“Fancy,” I murmur to no one, pressing my thumb to the reader.
Once I’m logged in, everything is exactly as Marlow promised—files, software, player profiles, all cleanly organized. My curiosity wins out and I click straight into the team files.
The first profile that pops up: Caleb Martinez, right wing. The notes describe him as fiercely competitive—so much so he’s prone to explosive outbursts during practice and matches.
Multiple incidents of yelling at teammates, berating refs, and, on more than one occasion, punching lockers hard enough to break skin. Emotional regulation: major work needed.
Next: Matteo Santos, striker. On paper, he’s a star—lightning fast, instinctual, technically gifted. Off the field? Shy to the point of isolation. Doesn’t bond with the team, refuses to engage in group activities, avoids eye contact in team meetings. Trust and confidence issues flagged.
I click again. Malik Thompson, midfielder.
The word volatile is bolded at the top of his notes.
Known for going head-to-head with coaches, storming off the field, and ignoring strategy in favor of showing off.
Rumors of deep-seated authority issues dating back to his academy days. Definitely one to watch.
I scroll down further, pulse ticking up a notch when I hit the next name: Luca Chidubem, center back.
Ah. The cute one. The reason the Atlanta Strikers suddenly have a spike in female fans. Social media’s been having a field day with him—#CaptainChidubem trending more often than not.
I glance at his profile photo and can’t help but smirk. The resemblance is uncanny—he’s giving serious Aaron Pierre meets Michael Ealy energy. Smoldering eyes, chiseled jaw, the kind of grin that’s equal parts charming and dangerous.
But charm won’t keep him on the field.
I figure, since he’s from Europe, he probably calls it the pitch—something I only know because I binged Ted Lasso while cramming for my new job.
He’s poised to become team captain, a role he should excel in, given his leadership instincts and natural presence on the field.
But the file tells another story. Focus issues started surfacing after a team trip to Vegas a few months ago.
Since then, he’s been making solo trips back—sometimes flying out between matches for what most assume are all-night parties and drinking binges.
“Lacks discipline” is flagged multiple times in bold.
I blow out a breath and click to the next file: Croix London, goalkeeper.
Class clown. Resident prankster. The notes practically read like a rap sheet. Multiple minor arrests for stunts that went too far—one involving spray-painting an opposing team’s bus, another ending with him zip-tying a teammate to a goalpost.
Charismatic and well-liked, but with zero impulse control. He’s labeled as both a team asset and a potential liability.
I lean back in my chair, letting it all sink in.
No pressure, I think wryly, Marlow’s words echoing in my head. The world will definitely be watching. And from the looks of it, I’ve got my work cut out for me.