Page 7

CHAPTER 7

ROSE

T he thing about working for a professional baseball team is that the hours are messed up, and no one does anything to un-mess them up.

We return from Mexico in the wee hours of the morning and while the players get a rest day, I don’t have that privilege. We take the team bus from MCO straight to the Orlando Wild facilities downtown, and I get right out to head to the office where a long day of editing footage awaits.

The perk is that, since we don’t have a game today, I can go home in the evening and basically transform into a full blown potato. My plan is taking a long bath with my favorite lavender bath bomb, read a book from Madeline Berkley latest series of bodice rippers, and wrap myself in my fluffiest robe to rot in my bed the rest of the night.

I sigh as I round the last corner in the corridor. The walls that separate the back office departments are just iced glass that open to the designated areas. Overhead signs indicate whether you’re in the operations department, or marketing, strategy, finance, and the rest. The only office in a different—higher—floor is of course the CEO and owner. And we’re all thankful for that because dealings with Charlie Cox are usually never pleasant.

A little shudder racks my back as I enter the marketing area, both from thinking about Cox and also because it’s cold here. I rush to my cubicle to grab the cardigan I permanently leave here, and to start taking out all the equipment from my carryon bag. Laptop, camera, phone, cables—so many cables. It probably takes about twenty minutes alone just to set up.

By the time I power my laptop, I have a million ideas running through my head for further edits. This week’s posts are going to be fire and I’ll?—

“Huh?”

I lean closer to my screen. There is, in fact, a meeting invitation organized by one Dave Rogers for me and one Tom Waterman, that was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago.

“Mierda.” I jump to my feet, poking my head over the cubicle walls like a meerkat until I zero in on Tom’s office in the farthest corner.

The executive office walls are clear glass, and he spots me right away. He motions with his hand for me to join and I probably look like a cartoon to anyone watching me scramble out of my cube.

Am I getting fired? Is that it? But I didn’t do anything to warrant that this time—no exposés, no protests, and aside from this meeting I’ve been in time to every appointment. For goodness’s sake, I’m not even dating any players in secret anymore.

Crap, when I think about all my transgressions I wouldn’t be surprised if this is it for me. I hope they at least let me pack up the things in my cubicle because I really like them. That custom lavender keyboard cost me a pretty penny.

But then where do I go? Who’s going to hire me? Sports social media teams tend to be pretty small. Like, it’s just Dave and me in here and we just interface with the graphic designers, producers, and so on.

Dave. Who is supposed to be going into surgery any time today. And instead called me in for a meeting with his boss. That I’m late to.

This has to be bad.

I’m about ready to upchuck the breakfast I had on the plane when I barge into Tom’s office. Surely that would be the cherry on top.

“I’m so sorry I’m late I didn’t realize we had this meeting and we caught all the morning traffic on I-4 and?—”

“Breathe, Rosalina,” Tom instructs, using his hands in the universal gesture of calm the heck down, you freaking weirdo .

I take a deep breath. Then another.

“I’m sorry for being late,” I repeat a lot less winded.

Dave’s voice comes out from the speakers. “Don’t worry about that. I wasn’t sure when you arrived but I’m going into surgery soon, so I thought I should YOLO.” Someone should tell him that YOLO is a thing of the past, but that someone won’t be me today.

“Um, first of all are you okay, calling from the hospital? And second, is this because I’m getting fired?”

“Fired?” Dave exclaims.

Tom blows a raspberry in the most professional way possible, which is to say not a lot. “Where did you get that idea from?”

“The circumstances are kind of scary for any employee, and that’s excluding the fact that I’m on probation,” I say very clearly, not missing a beat, even though my heart is hammering like a rabbit’s.

It’s thanks to the broadcasting journalism training I got in college. Maybe I should plaster on my Miss Florida pageant smile too. It might help me get out of trouble.

“Girl, we don’t care about your probation, remember?” Dave asks and I can practically hear him roll his eyes.

“Besides, we only put you on it to appease HR.” Tom folds his arms and leans back on his chair. “The post with the players defending Starr and Garcia’s romance is one of our most viral in history. It even brought in new sponsors.”

“Right. From a marketing perspective it was a success,” Dave adds, including a little cough. “Even if the method was unorthodox.”

“And that’s why we’re disappointed in you right now,” Tom throws that from left field.

“Whoa,” is all I manage to say and collapse on one of the chairs across his desk. “So I am getting sacked.”

Dave’s tone shifts to a deadpan. “For the last time, no. But we’re surprised at how your instincts failed this time.”

I drop my face in my hands. “Please put me out of my misery and explain it to me like I’m five.”

Tom chuckles, which from him is a series of snorts through his nose. “Dave, will you do the honors?”

“Certainly,” my boss picks up from there. “So last night while I was in the hospital room bored out of my mind next to a random stranger who doesn’t want to socialize with me?—”

An unknown voice from his end of the line says, “Whatever.”

But Dave continues. “I was scrolling through TikTok and came across a video about you.”

“What?” My face snaps up.

In less than a second, my mind flashes through every single possibility. The time I tripped during the swimsuit portion of the Miss Florida pageant. When I was in college and got turned into a meme after I was filmed eating an ice cream cone during a game with my college baseball team.

Or worse, Ben Williams. The worst of my exes. Does he have some incriminating footage?

But no. I’d really get canned then, and Dave and Tom have already reassured me that’s not the case.

“I could tell it was you from your hair,” my boss keeps saying without noticing my lapse, “but the one we see the clearest is Logan Kim saving you from a fly ball.”

“Oh.” I could melt on this chair right here, that’s how big my relief is. But then I sit up straighter again. “Wait, there’s footage of that?”

“Yes, it was posted by the SPORTY press account.”

“And our question is”—Tom leans forward—“Why is it not posted from ours?”

“Because a moment like that?” Dave makes a kissing sound. “Priceless. Kim is a hero, an extremely athletic one. That’s the kind of stuff that helps build up the public appeal of the Orlando Wild brand. So what gives, Rose?”

I squirm. “Well, in my defense I almost got my head smashed to smithereens. It kinda stopped thinking for a moment after that.”

But that’s kind of not it. I specifically remember the moment when humiliation washed over me and I decided not to broadcast that moment to the world.

Which is entirely the opposite of what I should’ve been doing as the team’s social media manager.

Like Dave implied just now, that moment wasn’t about me and how I was the defenseless damsel in distress. It was about how outstanding Logan Kim looked.

“Rosalina.” Oh no, Tom’s voice has turned serious. “I checked out your development plan right before the meeting. You want your next career step to be in the broadcasting team with Julien, right?”

“Yes.” I give a stronger nod than I feel.

“You need those journalistic instincts to take over even your amygdala,” he says all calm and collected. “No freeze, fight, or flight. Only inform, inform, and inform.”

Damn it.

He’s right. He’s one hundred percent right. I didn’t fail when it came to posting about Hope and Cade, but I did fail this time.

No, wait! I can fix this.

“Actually… what if I say I do have footage?”

“Oh?” both men say in unison.

“I’d have to parse through it and edit it really well because that moment was kind of a mess, but I think I did capture something.” Now I’m the one leaning forward. “We can still ride the wave of the SPORTY video and make ours go viral.”

“You do?” Dave shouts in obvious excitement.

“Shut up, man,” the voice of a man on his end of the line says. “Some of us are trying to rest here.”

“Some of us?” Dave snorts. “We’re the only ones in this room, dude.”

Tom clears his throat. “Okay, this sounds promising. But the edit has to be even more enticing than the original SPORTY post. How do you plan to accomplish that?”

My brain whirs so hard, there’s no doubt that Tom can picture the math signs popping around my head like I’m an in-person meme.

And then—ding! I remember my fave pastime: romance books.

“I could edit it to look romantic. Point of view: you’re rescued by the hot baseball player.” I spread a hand in an arch across the air. “We have a majority female audience so they’ll lap it up.”

Tom snaps his fingers. “Bam! That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Okay great, I can die in peace now.” Dave sighs in an exaggerated manner.

“No one’s freaking dying here, we just have hernias,” the other patient says from the other side.

Tom and I exchange a glance. We unanimously decide to pretend like that part of the conversation never happened.

“Anyway, I strongly suggest you prioritize this project over other posts,” Tom says with a nod.

“Roger that.”

“Rogers?” a new female voice enters the chat with perfect timing. “I’m here to pick you up for your surgery.”

“Gotta go, guys,” Dave says. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” his boss and I chorus.

Dave disconnects from the line and I jump to my feet. “Well, I best get started.”

“Don’t forget to show me the final product before posting,” Tom reminds me.

“Ha. Yes, of course.” I chuckle my way out of his office and then do a bit of a power walk to my cubicle, cracking my knuckles to brace myself because I’m about to turn Logan Kim into a damn romance novel hero.