6. The End of the Fun Fact Era #2
This guy signs autographs after every game. He rolls down his window when he leaves the players’ lot sometimes to snap selfies with fans. Why would he be arguing about baseball, even from a burner account?
Asher’s clever green eyes spark, like a flame’s been lit in them.
“Because the trades some of the teams are making in the off-season are insane. Did you know that the Cougars let go of one of their big bats, and now the New York Comets think they’re going to land Julio Martinez, and it’s ridiculous.
We needed Martinez and his RBIs. I swear I should have been a baseball general manager because I could do this better in my sleep. ”
“And I ask again,” I say, kind but firm, “why are you arguing with fans online?”
“They don’t know it’s me,” he says with a casual shrug.
“Yet, Asher. They don’t know it’s you yet.”
Wesley clears his throat. “Asher likes to get in fights online because if he does it in person, Max always points out where Asher might be wrong. But with the Internet trolls, Asher can just fire off scathing insults about the other teams, so it’s a more satisfying argument for him.”
Asher shoots Wesley a look like his teammate has wounded his heart, when it’s more like Wesley wounded his pride. “Dude. You don’t like my arguments?”
“Dude, I tune them out,” Wesley says.
“So, you can see why I need to argue online. It’s an outlet.” Then Asher looks around, spinning in a full circle. “Speaking of Max, where is our resident Eeyore?”
Wesley shrugs as he scans the hallway. “Good question. Max usually tries to make it to yoga class.”
It is odd that he’s not around, but Max tends to follow the rules less than guys like Wesley and Asher, who show up for every morning skate and every yoga class.
“Goalies. What can you do?” I ask with a shrug as Hugo and Miles emerge from the weight room.
Hugo’s our teddy bear of a defender, a burly guy with a happy grin.
He must have heard most of the conversation, since he says like an announcer, “And today, playing the role of Max Lambert is Hugo.” Then, he clears his throat, narrows his eyes, and adopts a dry tone, sounding uncannily like Max as he grumbles, “Dude, it doesn’t matter who the Cougars traded for. They’re gonna suck next year anyway.”
The guys all crack up, and I fight off a laugh since I can’t be seen laughing at a player’s expense. I clear away any remaining amusement in my tone, then look again to the winger with the golden-streaked light brown hair. “Why don’t you just argue in person with Max then?” I ask Asher.
Miles strides over to Asher and claps him on the shoulder, taking the question. “Because Asher’s trying to keep up his points streak in his baseball Reddit group.”
Oh for Pete’s sake. I’ve heard enough. I press my palms together, imploring Asher. “Asher, my sweet Asher who makes my life easy, I promise if you keep this up it will bite you in the butt. Please stop. Someone will find out it’s you.”
Asher sighs, frowning. “Do I have to?”
I can tell this is hard for him. It’s a hobby he clearly enjoys, so I try harder. “I’ll find you a support group if I have to for former online arguers. I’ll help you find some employees here in athletic training or equipment who like to debate baseball trades, but no more burner accounts, okay?”
Another frown. “If you say so,” he says with the world’s most forlorn sigh.
“I do. And I appreciate you so much. We could even include the fact you’re a big baseball fan in the fun facts our broadcast partner will do about our players,” I say, then quickly explain what we’re doing with that initiative.
Asher’s trademark cocky smile returns. “Can mine be—fun fact: he’d be aces at managing a Major League Baseball team?”
Since I know he’ll actually stop arguing now that I’ve asked him to, I nod, giving him that victory. “Yes.”
“Mine is: can imitate all his teammates uncannily,” Hugo puts in.
“And mine is: beats all his teammates easily in pool,” Miles says.
Not to be outdone, Wesley reminds them he bests the boys in poker. I have a feeling they’re going to stay on this alpha male competitive merry-go-round until it runs out of steam so I excuse myself and say goodbye.
As I head down the corridor to my boss’s office, my phone buzzes with a text from my former physical therapist. Who I went out with once over the summer after I was no longer his patient.
Interesting. I didn’t know he was back in town.
But I don’t need a single distraction now, so I set my phone to do not disturb.
A few minutes later, I’m knocking on Zaire’s office door when heels click against the concrete floor behind me. “Actually, we’re meeting in the GM’s office today.”
I try not to flinch in surprise at the sound of her smooth, rich voice. Or worry. Because that’s serious, if we’re meeting Clementine Carmichael on her turf. I don’t let the GM’s sweet name fool me. She’s the ice queen. If she says you’re not unpleasant, that’s a compliment.
But she’s British so everything sounds lovely coming out of her mouth.
I turn around to face Zaire. Her parents named her after where they’re from, and she looks like a woman who can pull off being named after a country.
She’s statuesque and strong, with elegant box braids.
I put on my best roll-with-it face and head to the general manager’s office with her.
Along the way, she lowers her voice. “I need to warn you—Clementine is going to want a yes.”
Yes. There’s that word again. But the context feels ominous. “For what?” I ask, trying to mask my worry.
“A project that should be perfect for you.”
Why do I feel it won’t be?
We enter Clementine’s immaculate office. Her black lacquer desk is so shiny, she can touch up her makeup in its reflection, and she is dusting more blush onto her porcelain cheekbones as we enter.
She looks up and sets down the brush. “Good to see you, Everly. How are you doing these days?”
She asks that of everyone, but I’ve learned it’s best to never truly answer with anything but “great.” For all the talk about employee mental health these days, the mental health most companies want is theirs—that you’re not going to sue them. And I’m not, so it’s true enough when I say, “Great.”
“And has Zaire informed you about the promotion you’re up for?”
I do my best not to smile. Clementine might perceive it as a sign of weakness. “Yes, she has. I am excited about the possibility.”
“Good. I’d love to have a healthy competition for the Director of PR job.”
Not me. I just want the job, not to fight for it. It’d be a step up from manager, my current post—more pay, better benefits, a chance to grow…“I’m ready for it,” I say, since my job is to spin things.
Zaire clears her throat and says, “As I was telling you, Clementine, Everly has increased our social media engagement by fifty-two percent in the last year, which has led to a thirty-nine percent increase in jersey sales coming from our social channels.”
Clementine barely cracks a smile as she looks at me. “Which is why we have a wonderful opportunity that will help you show exactly what you can do for the team,” she says in her cool British voice.
“I’m up for anything. I’m currently assembling fun facts from all the players,” I say as if that proves my mettle.