Chapter 52
A Risk
Kodi
“I’ve rethought some things,” I told Kean as I edited the last bit of footage from our promo shoot.
“What things?” Olli asked from the bathroom. Despite him being benched prior to the game, he still had to go and literally sit on the bench. So he was getting ready for the game by … I don’t know, brushing his teeth or some shit.
“Being Brooker’s PA. No matter how temporary it’d be.
It’d be like wrangling a child high on sugar twenty-four seven.
And imagine having to manage his messages?
Did you see the woman he handed his number to at the park?
She was so fucking hot and I do not want to see whatever dirty texts she sends him. ”
“That’s …” Olli peered out of the bathroom to look at me. “A scary thought. But also, if you can last for a week and get him to … I don’t know, not flirt with every woman he sees, that’d be nice.”
“What? You want me to train him like a dog? Spray him with water every time he looks at a woman?”
Olli tilted his head like he was considering it, so I threw a Styrofoam cup at him.
“I’m not doing that.” I turned back to the computer screen, where all the content was split and captioned and ready to go.
I technically shouldn’t have the team’s login information for all these accounts, but Christenson was able to get it from the team photographer.
But now that I’d gotten everything set up, I was having second thoughts.
Like maybe all the fans would hate this campaign and Olli and I would get fired and he’d be blacklisted from all the leagues in the US.
“Kodi, do you believe this is a good campaign?” Olli asked, stepping behind me and rubbing my shoulders.
“Yes, it’s great. It shows the world exactly who y’all are as a team and as people. It might ruffle some feathers, but the people who get it will come in hard to support y’all. It’ll definitely attract not white men owners. It’s just …”
“Hit post and let’s go.” Olli kissed my forehead then plopped a Dastards hat on my head.
“You’re not at all worried about the repercussions?”
“No. I, and the whole team, trust you. We like the campaign you made, we like the agency you gave us. And since we trusted you, it’d mean a lot if you come to this game.”
“I feel like you’re trying to distract me from being scared by a scary thing,” I huffed and crossed my arms. “You can’t solve my very reasonable anxiety by being cute.”
“Sometimes you need to do things anxious.” He leaned over me, hand outstretched to my mouse pad. Then he looked at my screen and hesitated. “I actually have no clue what button to push.”
“Move,” I grumbled, smacking his hand away so I could set everything up to post right before the game. “There. My beautiful and unsanctioned campaign is set to be out in the world at three o'clock.”
“Amazing, baby. Let’s go … watch a game.”
“Mmm, you sound so excited.”
“So excited. But I gotta show up for the team.”
“You mean our team?” I teased, a little hesitant to call myself a part of the team after all the trouble I’d caused. But Olli pulled me into a hug and kissed my forehead.
“Yeah, our team.”
I did my best not to check the team’s socials during the game by actually watching the game.
But it … wasn’t the greatest. The Harlots were a pretty solid team, especially in terms of defense.
Forty minutes in and the game was still 0-0, most of the action happening center field, and I couldn’t see much from where I was seated behind the team.
So I caved and looked at Instagram.
The numbers were insane, but I’d expected that much. Doing anything different in the public eye would draw numbers, it was a matter of what the comments said.
God, I wish Rosa could’ve come to this game, but she had some family things this weekend.
Ugh, this was stupid, I’m just going to click it and —
There were some hateful, bitchy comments.
Of course there were. Soccer is, like, the oldest sport in the world and there are a shit ton of old, outdated asshole fans.
And a few of the charities we listed were …
bound to piss them off. Honestly, the only charities that wouldn’t piss off those kinds of bitches were animal shelters and boy youth leagues.
But the overwhelming majority of comments were about how refreshing it was to see a team actually engage with the charities they post about.
They were saying this campaign didn’t feel like a photo op.
They were donating to the organizations listed.
There were even some local businesses asking to partner up for matching donations, including TJ’s, which Brooker wouldn’t shut up about.
And, naturally, there were a lot of girls swooning over Brooker and the golden retriever he “found” at the park. I’m 90 percent sure he flirted with some girl to borrow her dog for filming.
But overall, everyone enjoyed the direction the team was going in and the earnestness of it.
This was good. It was going well.
Oh my god, I’m gonna throw up.
Is this how Olli feels whenever he makes a risky move and manages to save?
It was so exhilarating, my body was shaking. And all I wanted to do was celebrate with the team who made it happen. And maybe kiss Olli for not letting me give up on this, even when it got scary.
I looked down at the bench where Olli was sitting, tensely watching the game. Before I could decide how to get his attention, Boyd walked up to him with a … not so happy face and phone in hand.
Well, maybe it’s not about the post. Maybe he got a call from the owners, telling him to sub Olli in. Or maybe that lady Brooker wants to buy the team, did. That’d be really cool.
Then Boyd looked up at the stands, eyes searching until they landed on me and narrowed.
Yeah, he definitely knew about the campaign. And he definitely wasn’t happy. He pointed at me, then the bench before he turned back to the game.
I guess that meant he wanted me to go down there?
Slowly, I made my way through the crowd, dodging some dude waving around his scarf like the team would score if he twirled fast enough.
Once I got to the field one of the assistant coaches waved me through security and guided me over to where Boyd was. He turned to me with a face of utter frustration, all his wrinkles exasperated by sunburn.
“You wanted to speak with me, Coach Boyd?” I said with a tense smile.
“No,” he grumbled and shoved a phone in my had. He moved back to the game, arms crossed, pointedly ignoring me. Guess I should start praying for a cool new owner and new coach.
“Hello, Kodi speaking?” I said into the phone. From over on the bench, Olli tilted his head, brows scrunched in a question. I gave him a thumbs-up, though I’m sure my face was anything but confident.
“Hi, Ms. Davey. It’s Hansen.”
“Oh, hi.” My voice was definitely five pitches higher than normal. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He sighed then said, “You’re lucky you’re talented.”