Chapter 5
CHARLIE
By Wednesday, I’ve found a great route to get to the office with minimal traffic. I’ve located the forms I’ll need for an inventory restock. And, thanks to Ana, I’ve sampled the best Cuban food I’ve had in my life at a café not far from the office.
But I have not met with my boss yet to discuss his expectations or any goals for my position. That is about to change.
“Ready?” I lean into Oliver’s office. We have our one-on-one on the calendar, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been pulled into a new emergency or a report of some kind.
“Yes! Charlie, come on in.” He gestures with a wave and pushes the papers in front of him aside.
They go into a haphazard pile that has me itching to straighten it.
His cluttered shelves around the office are full of trophies, medals, and photographs of Oliver and various coaches, athletes, celebrities, and heads of state.
I’m settling into one of the cushioned chairs in front of his desk when he dives right in. “How is your first week going so far?”
The thing with Oliver Hawkins is that when you have his attention, you have all of it. For better or worse. He can be kind of intense that way. I think I once heard someone say “cluttered desk, organized mind.” It must be true because Oliver has the sharpest mind of anyone I’ve ever met.
“I like the office, and having a desk is a nice change,” is the first thing that pops out of my mouth.
I wince. It sounds silly, but it’s true; I do love it.
The buzz of phones and chatter of coworkers is a pleasant white noise, an ambient soundtrack to a peaceful work environment.
That’s what I wanted in a new job. There is also the undeniable cool factor.
“Well, half the team is either heading to a race or heading back from one. Great for concentrating when we are in season, not great for tracking people down,” Oliver explains.
“But this is an office job. Sitting is the new smoking. If you need a standing desk to get on your feet, let me know,” he says, before giving a slight grimace.
He realizes the double meaning of his words.
That I’m off my feet, literally sitting at a desk all day.
Which is a legitimate health concern. But his phrasing also reminds me that I’m off my feet, as prescribed.
No running. Nothing to stress the body too much.
“You let me know at the first signs of any—” Oliver begins, but I cut him off.
“I don’t need bubble wrap.” I spill out the same words I said to my mother two weeks ago when I told her I’d accepted this job.
Yes, it will have a certain level of stress.
But I’ve been healthy for four years now.
And while I loved being my dad’s assistant running coach, I do not miss the blistering sun on a long training day.
Or the smell of the locker room that would permeate the coaching office.
I don’t miss the looks either. Pity or judgment.
I hung up my running shoes years ago and then, a couple weeks ago, I hung up my whistle too.
Oliver pushes his lips together, holding back whatever he wants to say. I understand his worry. But I’m not a child. I can make my own decisions, take an exciting job opportunity, and monitor my own health.
“Maybe I’ll put in a request for a standing desk,” I offer. Not that I think I would actually enjoy one of them, but to show him that I took his words at face value.
Oliver nods. “What have you got for me?”
I go through the list I’ve collected. Requests for his time, mostly from people outside of the company. In house most people run things to their manager, then director, then their C-level if needed. The executive team brings the big-picture items to Oliver, the rest he trusts the team to handle.
“Um, the president of Croatia wants to meet when you are in Dubrovnik for the marathon relay?” I say, but the words come out as a question. I’m not entirely sure it isn’t a prank.
But Oliver doesn’t skip a beat. “Ah yes. He’s a good friend. I’ll get back to him today and confirm a time to meet. I’ll make sure you have the details for my schedule.” Oliver says this quickly, rushing to get to the next topic.
I nod and make a note. I knew FIRE was a big deal in the endurance-racing world. To have the attention of world leaders, though. I’m astonished at what Oliver has built. But I guess he never does anything halfway.
We go over his full itinerary for the next four weeks. Not only is he attending two of our events in North America, but he is racing one of our events in Brazil at the end of the month, which means I need to make sure all his gear is with him too.
“One final item,” I begin, a little nervous to even mention it.
Because, depending on his response, I will either have my faith in Uncle Ollie confirmed or shattered.
“Titus Kilbride is registered for our ultra-triathlon in Miami.” The man is notorious.
An ex-senator accused of sexual harassment and assault by multiple female staffers.
The trial was all over the news, but the case was dropped on a technicality.
The consensus is he did it; the prosecution just can’t prove it.
“Do we really want him on one of our courses?”
Uncle Ollie nods his head, thinking of his response. “Hmm, I do believe in the justice system. Even when it doesn’t work as well as it should. I’m happy to relieve him of his money if he wants to spend it.”
My childlike admiration for my dad’s best friend, my uncle, one of my sports heroes, buckles.
“But won’t it tarnish our brand?” Most everyone agrees he is guilty and getting away with it.
Not to mention that he poses a potential security risk for our female athletes, and the damage his association could do to our brand is significant.
“Should we be in the business of judging people?” Uncle Ollie’s face is unreadable.
He leans back in his chair, as if the burden of this topic is heavy enough to push him back.
“Do we decide that his punishment for his crimes is that he can’t subject himself to seventeen hours of voluntary torture?
I don’t like the guy. But cancelling his registration doesn’t feel like justice. ”
The potential headlines flash in my mind.
If FIRE refunds him and bars him from competing, the logical next question is, on what grounds?
We could have a PR nightmare because “he is a jerk” is unfortunately still not a crime.
I let out a frustrated sigh. “Could I throw a stick in the spokes of his bike tires?”
Uncle Ollie leans in and gives me a wink.
The same one he would give me when he would sneak extra cookies onto my plate at one of my parents’ BBQs.
“I like that plan. Has some wrinkles in it, though. Primarily, you getting charged with assault. Then he sues the company and we may have to go under, due to a mountain of legal fees.” He is silent for a moment, as if he is actually considering this.
His playing along pacifies my concerns. He locks his eyes with mine before raising one eyebrow.
“Or what if we could get him to admit to his crimes on course? Get incriminating evidence?”
I laugh, because that has to be a joke. A daydream. That this notorious predator could be put away. “Like he’d confess so easily.”
Oliver resets in his chair and shrugs. “You’d be surprised what smug criminals think they can get away with.
He thinks no one can touch him. He’ll forget the part of the athlete waiver that says we record all of our events.
The assumption is that it is for marketing and promotion.
But he doesn’t know that we could pick up the audio. ”
That’s the stereotype of criminals; they slip up eventually. Get too bold. But what does Uncle Ollie know about criminals? It would be nice to see the guy behind bars, but we’re not trained to coax out confessions. Best we can do is hope he has the worst day of his life on course.
“I hear your concern, Charlie. Let me think on this,” Oliver says as he checks his smartwatch, which is actually a top-of-the-line fitness and biometrics tracking device. “I have another meeting in ten and I still have one topic for us to go over.”
“Sure thing, what is it?” I ask, trusting he will circle back to this problem.
“You’re brand new – what are your impressions of the team so far?” he asks, his hands behind his head, reclining in his chair once more.
“Oh.” My shoulders relax at this question.
I was expecting a new laundry list of items to complete.
I think about his query, realizing there are office politics in play.
I don’t know enough about them to answer carefully.
I choose the brutally honest route. “Everyone is on their A game, that’s for sure.
” You have to be an elite athlete to win a FIRE race and you need to be elite in your profession to work here.
Oliver nods, but I sense this isn’t the answer he was hoping for. “Charlie, I know you are a hard worker; you’re a team player.”
I nod along, eager for this praise.
“But you are also very trusting.” As he says this, something in my gut reacts.
Because I tend to believe the best in people.
I trust people until they give me a reason not to.
And the only person to betray that trust thus far in my life has been, well, me.
My body. “I need you to be on the lookout for me. Someone on the team . . .” He pauses, searching for the exact right way to phrase his next words.
“I think someone is sharing company secrets.”
I sit back. As if this knowledge is a hot stove that I’ve skirted too close to. What Oliver is concerned about makes sense. With success comes competition. Each year, more race operators try to put their own spin on FIRE events. Mimicking distances, course venues, and sometimes even the branding.
“Can you keep an eye out for anyone acting suspiciously?” Oliver tasks me with this secret responsibility.
Immediately, I think of Celine and her cool attitude. About Declan and his refusal to let me in the building. What am I looking for? Watching out for? Will I know corporate espionage when I see it?