Chapter 5
Gracie
I huff my annoyance into the steam coming off my coffee with a splash of good old half-and-half as I rush down the hallway for my first official meeting at the Los Angeles Devils corporate offices. I came in the wrong way, and now I’m navigating a warren of halls to the executive lobby.
The team logo—a fierce-looking angel with devil horns on a dark red jersey—is emblazoned on the elevator walls and the floor of each landing.
I’ve already seen three people wearing long-sleeved shirts or hoodies with the Devils logo.
I own exactly zero fan gear, and I’d be swimming in any of Kyler’s swag.
My brother would make more sense in the corporate offices of the LA Devils soccer club. The guy eats, breathes, and sleeps sports, at least when he’s not at his own job running a skate and surf lifestyle brand. I’m not exactly sure what that is.
For practical purposes, it means he gets to travel all the time and visit “epic” surf towns the world over.
He’s an expert at peopling, whereas I should be quietly ensconced in a techie cubicle farm wearing sweatpants and headphones.
Not clip-clopping along in heels, navy slacks, and a cream-colored blouse.
I hope I look like an appropriately dressed data analyst.
I’m right on time, which, to me, means I’m late. I like to arrive at least fifteen minutes early. It gives me time to prepare—mentally.
And this meeting requires more than fifteen minutes of prep. I need to calm my nerves and push away the lonely feeling I get when I don’t yet feel comfortable in my new surroundings. I’m like an animal, needing ample time to circle in one spot and sniff my way through to finding a landing place.
Ugh, I hate being on time.
Sweat dribbles between my boobs as I totter down the hallway in these heels.
I only need one interim job to get my legs back under me before I can go back to my safe haven of Northern California.
I still have my house there on the edge of an open space preserve, where undisturbed forest is all I can see.
That was the image in my head as I navigated freeway exits and urban sprawl on my way to the Devils offices downtown.
I passed by the garment district and a patchwork of cheap-clothing stalls at an outdoor market that went on for miles.
Ten shirts for ten dollars, fifteen pairs of socks for twenty bucks, baseball hats and track pants for a steal.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, annoyed at myself for agreeing to a new layered cut when my hairdresser proposed an “LA do.” At the coffee place I visited earlier, none of the gorgeous women glowing from hot yoga had an “LA do.” Their hair was perfectly messy, piled on top of their heads like a matching set of crowns.
I tuck a wavy tendril behind my ear, and it immediately springs free.
Sigh.
“Hi, I’m here to see—”
“Gracie!” The mountain of a man appears in the well-appointed lobby. I barely have time to take in the cream-colored leather sofas and spotless glass tables before my hand is enveloped in the strong handshake of Gerald Moder, the CEO of the Devils franchise.
He looks like a TV sitcom dad, with a chiseled face aglow beneath a wide smile, an expertly trimmed mountain-man beard, and close-cropped dark hair.
He has the large frame of a former athlete who still keeps himself in peak condition into his fifties, and I know from research that he spends his vacation time white-water rafting whenever possible.
He’s the sliver of light that makes me think I can fit in at this male-dominated organization—a guy who likes his time on the river and isn’t going to kick me out for talking about something other than soccer.
“So nice to meet you in person, Mr. Moder,” I say, wishing the feeling of belonging would last. As soon as he lets go of my hand, however, the loneliness creeps back in.
“No, no, none of that. It’s Gerald. Come, come, let’s get you situated.
” He beckons me down a long hallway that surprises me with the bright light flooding each office we pass.
Floor-to-ceiling windows comprise two walls of his corner office, and he lowers the blinds to shield me from the direct glare coming from the east.
Taking a seat opposite him, I run my hands over the metal armrests and lean against the oatmeal-colored pillow on the low-slung, brown leather chair. It manages to give off both modern and western cowboy vibes, and I wonder if Gerald had anything to do with choosing it.
He smooths his hands over the leather pad on his giant glass desk and taps his fingers a few times like a warm-up. “Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
I must look like a deer in front of a set of high beams because he chuckles and opens a folder containing a stack of pages.
He studies me instead of looking down at the papers.
“I believe the kind of thing you do is the future of this sport. And I intend for this team to be on the cutting edge of it.”
“Sounds good.” I meet his stare.
He slides the folder across the desk toward me.
Inside, I find the set of preliminary calculations I emailed him a week ago. “Oh. Okay. Is there anything you want me to clarify?”
Gerald points at the page and leans back in his chair. “I circled it.” His brown eyes, which looked warm and friendly a moment ago, now look darker and more challenging.
Flipping through the neat stack, I find a circle on the third page. My heart drops to my stomach because next to the name he’s circled, there’s a large X. I don’t have to read it twice to know the name is Hunter Reyes.
“I know he’s had a pretty challenging season.” I hope my gaze looks just as unflinching, but after a moment, I glance down at the sheet of paper, double-checking that he didn’t circle a different name. Nope, still Hunter.
“I’d say. Some here in management think he should go. He’s expensive, and we could get some fresh talent with that money.”
“He’s undervalued, even at his current salary,” I assert.
Gerald keeps tapping his fingers, but instead of seeming jolly, now they seem impatient. His smile looks stiff. This is where people start to lose faith in me before they know how hard I hammer the numbers to get results.
“Look, I like him, but I’m between a rock and a hard place when he’s so volatile,” he says.
“I can see where you’d have doubts.” I need him to know I spotted every detail. “There are other options in case you think his, um, baggage is too much to deal with, but I disagree.”
It’s no secret that Hunter holds the distinction of having the most red cards in the history of the sport, even after a lot of hotheaded players preceded him.
Red cards don’t mean he’s not a good player, but his off-the-field antics are legendary as well, and it’s no secret Liverpool wants to poach him.
“Fans love a hothead. He gets people riled up. That can be a good thing, a very good thing. At the end of the day, pro sports is a business,” he says.
On one hand, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m glad Gerald isn’t questioning my methods. It would be a bad start to my new job.
“But Reyes is polarizing. Some teammates can’t deal with his antics, but that’s their problem. If you can convince me his talent outweighs the rest, I’m listening. I like that you’re a contrarian. That’s what made you stand out among the other candidates, frankly,” Gerald says.
My data doesn’t lie. If I’m sure of anything, it’s that I know how to do my job.
Unfortunately, my analytics show that, by far, the team’s best move is to sign a new contract with Hunter Reyes, the player with the worst attitude in Major League Soccer. I can only hope that means he’ll find a more permanent place to live.
Until then, I’ll stay holed up in the corporate offices looking at game tape and statistics. He’ll stay on the soccer pitch doing what he does best—racking up penalties and keeping opponents from scoring.
And I probably won’t ever see him. Fine by me.