6. A Shit First Day
A Shit First Day
Kodi
My first day as Kean’s PA was mostly spent filing out paperwork, NDAs, and being shown around the stadium offices. For better or worse, I didn’t have to interact with the grumpy asshole again until the next morning.
And this time, I was fully prepared for him.
I spent all evening reading through his overly detailed binder and combing through soccer sites and articles to learn more about him.
And while I got his measurements memorized, there wasn’t anything, anywhere about who this guy was.
Even in post-game interviews, his answers were robotic, maxing out at fifteen words a response.
It was kind of insane. I know players don’t usually get media training unless they’re, like, the next fucking Messi.
But Kean essentially had no presence in sports media.
He barely even got any coverage when he transferred to Destin.
If it weren’t for his impressive track record, he’d have likely been forced into an early retirement simply because he was so forgettable.
So beyond being difficult to work with, getting him a social media presence was going to be like pulling teeth.
But I had a plan for that. I needed to get to know Kean and what he liked about soccer, or honestly anything he liked, and build a plan around that. Only problem was that meant I had to actually talk to the asshole on top of getting his insane task list done.
“Oh, damn. Are you Kean’s new PA?” some dude shouted from behind me as I made my way down the hall towards the physicians' offices, where Kean was scheduled to be.
“Uh, yeah, I am,” I said, turning to see who was talking, only to be faced with a handful of the first-string players.
Brooker was the one who’d spoken, the stereotypical white man who looked like he could double as a member of a boy band, with the same salacious reputation as one.
He was accompanied by Alvarez, one of the youngest players who transferred from a Colombian team just last year, and Fuller, a lanky white man who was only a bit tanner than the Irish-man on the team.
“Nice to meet y’all, I’m Kodi Davey,” I told them, holding out my hand to shake each of theirs, repeating the sentence in Spanish for Alvarez in an attempt to be helpful. Though as soon as I said it, I realized it might come off as pedantic, like I assumed he needed such a simple translation.
“Shit, you speak Spanish? You’re an absolute waste on Kean,” he said with a laugh that I took to mean he wasn’t offended. But then he said something in Spanish that I couldn’t catch and I felt stupid again.
“Ah, I’m sorry. I only speak a little bit of Spanish. I was just trying to … be helpful,” I told him in Spanish.
“That’s all right,” he said in English, patting me on the shoulder. This dude was a solid four years younger than me, but standing next to him, he felt older and way more put together. “I appreciate you trying, though. This dick doesn’t.”
Alvarez nudged Brooker, wrapping an arm around his senior’s neck to rustle his knuckle on the guy’s head.
“Oh, fuck off.” Brooker nudged Alvarez away. “I told you I got that app. But it starts off with stupid shit, like saying I’m American.”
“Oh, yeah?” Fuller chimed in. “And how’s that going?”
“I’m American,” Brooker said in Spanish, looking expectantly at Alvarez.
“Good job, I guess,” he said, shrugging.
“Ah, fuck off.” Brooker nudged him again and Alvarez rolled his eyes. “But anyway, Kodi, what’re you up to down here? Would’ve thought Kean’s first task for you would be filling his closet. That dude’s lived here for years now and he still doesn’t have clothes beyond team merch.”
“Hold up, have you ordered any clothes for him yet?” Fuller asked, eyes going wide.
“Uh, no. Why?” I didn’t know what the team’s dynamic was, but I got the feeling they were the types to razz their grumpy keeper.
And honestly, I’d be willing to hear them out. Not because I’d follow through on whatever they suggest, but because it might give me insight into what Kean likes and dislikes.
“What if you bought him a shit ton of, like, Hawaiian shirts? Like the cringiest, dad-est type of shirts?” Fuller suggested and the other two broke out into a fit of laughter that I couldn’t help but join.
“Why the fuck are y’all being so loud?” a deep voice asked after the door clicked open behind me.
I turned to see Kean, jaw working under his thick, dark brown beard as he looked down at me.
I hadn’t really taken a good look at him yesterday and while researching him last night, my focus was on facts over visuals, but with him inches away, I was suddenly very aware of how Kean was exactly the kind of player I thirsted over.
Fuck, he had the same build as Marshall in his heyday, and I flashed a whole stadium for him.
Kean was the quintessential, white lumberjack guy who would better fit somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. That beard was as dense as a forest and would make for a great —
Nope. No, no, no. Not thinking of my essential boss like that. I’m a mature, responsible adult and I will pack up those inappropriate thoughts and throw them in a furnace.
“Hi, Mr. Kean. There’re just a couple of questions I had for you before I get started on your list.”
“You have my number,” Kean said.
I bit my lip to keep from saying the first thing that came to mind, but apparently Brooker had the same thought and wasn’t afraid to vocalize it.
“Who put a stick up your ass this morning, Kean?”
Kean leveled Brooker with a dark look that I couldn’t decipher, but it had some macho man, bitch energy to it that Brooker laughed off.
“I see,” he said, moving over to nudge Alvarez. “Looks like Kean’s forgotten how to talk to women. Should we show him how it’s done?”
Before the two could get through the first syllable of their laugh, Kean slammed a hand on the physicians’ door, knocking it back so hard that it thunked against the other side. Alvarez and Fuller stiffened, looking at Kean with wide eyes, suddenly very intimidated by their senior.
Brooker, on the other hand, was unfazed. He merely raised an eyebrow at his teammate and crossed his arms.
“Dustin is waiting for y’all,” Kean grumbled, stepping away from the door so Alvarez and Fuller could skitter by.
“Uh-huh.” Brooker clicked his tongue at Kean, but walked past him and into the physicians' office, letting the door thunk shut behind him.
Kean huffed, then turned to me. His jaw worked again as he looked me over, eyes narrowing in what I assumed was disapproval.
I’d ditched the professional attire I’d worn yesterday after Hansen explained that most everybody in the office wore athleisure wear.
So in place of my suit jacket, I was in a full coverage sports bra and leggings.
I’d passed a handful of women wearing similar outfits, some with even more cleavage showing.
I’d been confident I was dressed appropriately for work here.
Kean’s look smashed that confidence.
“Is my outfit bothering you?” I asked through gritted teeth, trying not to let him get to me.
“Yes.”
I pulled back, shoulders tense, and looked up at him. He was a solid few inches taller than me, a whole foot if his binder was to be believed. But it felt like more in this moment.
“Okay,” I said quietly, crossing my arms to cover myself and dropping my eyes to the floor. “I’ll change between errands then.”
“Wha?” Kean stumbled and when I looked back at him, his face had dropped.
“What?” I parroted back.
“I didn’t mean —” Kean straightened, stepping away from me so he could lean against the wall, and shook his head. “What was it you wanted to ask?”
I knew exactly what I wanted to ask. I even had a checklist of everything I wanted to go through, specifically about what could get him to engage with the online soccer community.
But now I felt uncertain, too shaky to ask for anything beyond what was necessary.
So I chickened out.
“I wanted to know your favorite color. Or I guess your favorite color to wear. For the clothes part of your list.”
Kean was quiet for a long while and I spent every one of those seconds with my eyes on the ground, just feeling like shit.
Maybe this job was a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for social media management for a soccer team, for a group of men with a variety of personalities.
I’m sure every team had their own grumpy asshole, it was hardly a unique personality trait. And if I couldn’t —
“The same color as your top,” Kean said quietly. My eyes snapped up to him, but he’d already turned away, pushing back through the physicians’ door. As it shut behind him, I looked down at my sports bra to confirm the color.
According to the shop, it was digital lavender, a soft, pastel purple. Certainly not the kind of color I thought a guy like Kean would like.
But given how shitty that interaction was, I wasn’t going to question his color choice. Just buy clothes as requested and make sure to get receipts with information on how to return everything.