Page 5

Chapter Five

Justin

There’s a particular art to selling sports equipment to middle-aged English men.

You’ve got to let them reminisce about that game-winning try they scored twenty years ago, nod in the right places, and pretend you haven’t heard the same kind of story from twenty other ex-rugby players who now work in procurement.

Today, I’m currently in the conference room of United Sports, listening to the head of purchasing, Brad, tell me about the time he almost got selected for the England under-twenty-one squad.

“Three defenders in front of me, pitch like a bloody swamp, and I somehow managed to plow my way to the try line.”

“That’s incredible. Must have been quite a moment.”

My accent seems to jolt Brad into realizing his audience isn’t someone who was raised on warm beer and Match of the Day.

“Of course, you wouldn’t have played rugby growing up in the States, would you?”

“I played gridiron,” I say because when I arrived in the UK, I quickly learned to not refer to American football as football unless I wanted to start an international incident about what the word “football” actually means. It turns out that using the term soccer in England is a cultural crime that ranks somewhere between queue jumping and putting milk in your cup before the tea.

“Were you any good?” Brad asks.

I shrug. “I was okay.”

“You miss it?”

Memories of my football-playing days in high school and college stir up mixed emotions.

The roar of the crowd under Friday night lights. The satisfaction of a perfect spiral throw. The way a well-executed play could make you feel like you were part of something bigger than yourself.

For a while, I lived every Texas high school quarterback’s dream, right down to getting a college scholarship to play ball.

But for me, there was another edge to football.

I was always pretending. Always putting on a front. Trying to desperately pretend I wasn’t any different from all the players.

And it led to me being someone I didn’t like. Someone who valued blending in more than standing up for what I knew was right. I try not to think about who I was in high school in particular because shame always floods my stomach at those memories.

It was a relief to leave the days of the locker room behind.

Of course, I’m not about to confide in the head of purchasing at United Sports about how sometimes being the golden-boy quarterback felt like being in a gilded cage.

“You know what I miss most? The feel of a perfectly balanced ball when everything about its weight and shape feels exactly right in your hands,” I say.

His face splits into a grin. “God, yes, that perfect feel. I know exactly what you mean.”

“Which is exactly why I’m so excited about our new Sport-tec range. Our R&D team has spent two years perfecting the weight distribution. Want to see them?”

“Sure. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

I open up the box of samples I brought and throw a cricket ball across the table at him. He catches it, throwing it from one hand to the other, his smile growing with every juggle.

“You wanna see the velocity data on these balls? It’ll blow you away,” I say.

I reach for my laptop. Last night, I ran through my presentation one final time, ensuring every slide was perfect and every transition was smooth. Which is why my stomach goes into freefall when my screen flickers to life and…what the hell?

My cursor starts dancing across the screen like it’s auditioning for Strictly Come Dancing . I try to wrangle it back under control, but it’s having none of it.

“Just give me one second.” I keep my voice steady even as panic claws at my chest. “I’m just having a minor technical issue.”

I jab desperately at my keyboard, but apparently my laptop has decided today is the day it’s going to live its best life as a disco fever dream. Colors start flashing across my screen and every time I click the mouse I trigger a new and more elaborate visual effect.

Brad has given up waiting for me and has instead reached for some more balls in my sample box, spinning a tennis ball around on his fingertips.

“Sorry, my computer has apparently decided to have a party I didn’t receive an invitation to,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it, happens to the best of us.” Brad chortles. “You can’t trust technology.”

Yes, I’m beginning to agree with that sentiment.

“I’ll send you the uncorrupted presentation with the velocity data as soon as I’m back in the office,” I promise.

Brad waves my assurances away with a hand.

“I don’t need to see the data. I trust you, and I trust what my hands are telling me. What’s the lead time on this range?”

My shoulders relax as I start talking through the logistics of the ordering process.

I walk out of United Sports feeling quite proud of myself. Somehow, I managed to turn my laptop’s dance party into a six-figure order. Sometimes, you just have to embrace the chaos and hope your client has a sense of humor.

When I’m sitting in an Uber heading back to the office, my phone starts to vibrate like it’s trying to break the world record for the most enthusiastic massage device.

When I fish it out of my pocket, my screen lights up with notifications.

To: Justin Morris

From: Dave Wilson

Subject: Re: Check out these sexy trolls!!!

Mate…is everything okay?

To: Justin Morris

From: Pete Hughes

Subject: Re: Check out these sexy trolls!!!

I always suspected you were into weird stuff, but this is next level. I’m now starting to see why you’ve never gone for the women I’ve tried to set you up with…

To: Justin Morris

From: Roger Davies

Subject: URGENT - INAPPROPRIATE EMAIL

Please come see me as soon as you’re back in the office.

My stomach drops. What the hell?

Sure enough, in my sent emails, there’s an email titled Check out these sexy trolls !!!

I click into it, and my stomach now relocates somewhere in the vicinity of my shoes.

The contents of the email can only be described as Fifty Shades of Green . The detailed drawings show trolls engaging in activities that would get them instantly banned from living under any respectable bridge. Strategically placed fig leaves ensure there’s nothing too graphic, although one image hints that the giant clubs trolls carry around might have…alternative uses.

I squint as I scroll through the images because I’m not sure my eyes can handle more than a narrow view of trolls proving that moss can indeed grow in the most unexpected places.

What the absolute hell? How did I manage to become the office’s leading distributor of troll pornography?

I’m almost hyperventilating by the time my Uber pulls up outside DTL Enterprises.

I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve tried so hard to be someone who gets along with everyone, the friendly sales guy who remembers everyone’s coffee order and projects the exact right amount of charm to make everyone comfortable. Not too much to seem fake, not too little to seem aloof.

I take deep breaths to steady myself as I head inside on shaky legs.

As I walk through the hallway, Sarah from Accounting, who usually gives me a wave, instead clutches her calculator to her chest like a shield and scurries into the break room. Kieran from Marketing, who just yesterday tried to convince me to join his fantasy football league, takes one look at me and practically dives into the supply closet.

But Carl from procurement, who I’ve always thought gave off slightly weird vibes, gives me a knowing wink and a thumbs-up that makes me want to bathe in hand sanitizer.

Oh my god. Would HR accept a request for an immediate relocation to Antarctica?

Luckily, the sales department is empty, so I don’t have to deal with Dave’s and Pete’s jokes, which I’m sure will feature speculation about whether trolls are technically considered woodland creatures and if this means I should be banned from visiting national parks.

I head straight to Roger’s office and knock on his door.

“Come in.”

I’ve never been in trouble at work. I’ve never had Roger look at me with disappointment.

It triggers something inside me, and I immediately start to babble like a freshman caught with a fake ID at his first college party.

“I didn’t send that email. I promise I didn’t send it. My computer started misbehaving while I was at my client meeting. It’s having some kind of technological meltdown.”

Of course, when I open it, my computer behaves like the most well-adjusted piece of equipment in existence. The screen is clear, the cursor obedient, everything running like it’s starring in a Microsoft commercial.

Roger watches patiently as I desperately click on different presentations to replicate the same issue with no luck.

“Did you leave your laptop unattended at any point this morning?” he finally asks me.

His words stop my frantic clicking.

“Um, yeah. I mean, I left it in the conference room at United Sports while I grabbed a cup of coffee with the head of procurement.”

Roger’s shoulders relax. “That explains it. Someone must have opened it and sent that email as a prank.”

Pranks do seem to abound in the sporting goods industry. Like last month, when Dave replaced all of Pete’s product samples with children’s versions, and Pete spent an entire presentation trying to demonstrate a tennis racket that was roughly the size of a dinner spoon. Or the time someone switched all the display mannequins’ heads around in the showroom right before the big client from Liverpool arrived.

“Yes, that’s what must have happened,” I say slowly.

Even as I say the words, doubt swirls in my mind. Does that explain what happened during my presentation? Did someone have time to sabotage that as well?

“Lesson learned, eh, sport? Don’t leave your laptop unattended. Meanwhile, compose an all-staff email explaining what happened and apologizing for any trauma inflicted.”

“Okay, I’ll do that,” I say.

I walk back to my desk on shaky legs. This is the advantage of working in a company like DTL Enterprises, which has a laid-back, jokey culture. I can only imagine how this incident would’ve played out in corporate America.

I sit at my desk to compose the email, and my computer continues its impeccable behavior.

Hopefully, nothing else will go wrong.