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Why is it that when grown men behave with the
maturity of toddlers, it’s always expected that someone else will come clean up their messes? In my experience, the more fame and money a man has, the more likely he is to have situations that need a little elbow grease—a patch job almost always contracted out to the nearest woman.
The worst part about today isn’t that it’s a Monday, although that’s almost enough to ruin any good morning. It’s not that I overslept my six o’clock alarm and wasn’t able to finish blow-drying my hair. It’s not even that I’d somehow forgotten to put coffee on my weekly grocery list and had to make do with a packet of instant. My morning coffee tasted like burnt hair mixed with the white coating on sour candies.
No. The reason for my bad mood is that once again a grown man with more money than he can manage did something incredibly stupid, and it’s going to be my job to fix it.
Again.
I’ve worked for the Quarry Creek Arctic hockey team for three years and I’ve been in this conference room more than once. Usually, I’m here for the standard marketing meetings, the holiday gift exchange, or anytime someone brings donuts by the office. Technically, I’m not senior enough to be in this meeting. I want to be. I’d love to be the VP of Marketing. Maybe in five years. Or when the boys’ club finally stops locking all the entrances, leaving only the tiniest crack in a basement window for me to force my way through.
“Remind me of your role again, miss?” Bob Seever, owner and CEO of the team, looks at me from under caterpillar eyebrows. All the other men in this room are wearing the same black suit with ties in different shades of blue, but Bob’s suit is double-breasted with big brass button and wide pinstripes. It’s hard not to find him eccentric and charming even though I want to point out that he, or rather, my boss, specifically asked me to come to this meeting. The email arrived only thirty minutes ago, I might add.
“Mr. Seever.” My direct boss Chris steps in front of me and offers his hand to the man who signs our checks. “This is Ms. Grant. She’s our media and content manager.”
That’s a title I’ve never heard before. I don’t manage anyone because there isn’t an actual social media team, just me. A twenty-seven-year-old BU graduate trying to guide over-large athletes into proper social media usage. It’s pretty standard stuff. No genitalia on public, or private, forums—I’m looking at you, Spaeglin—no obscenities in any captions, and nothing political or divisive. Not on their public player accounts. I’d love for them to use proper spelling and grammar too, but beggars can’t be choosers. And, to be fair, close to thirty percent of our players speak English as a second language.
Mr. Seever holds his hand out to me and I shake it, making sure my grip is firm but not crushing. His skin is soft under my fingers, his palms a little sweaty.
“Please call me Tristan,” I keep my work smile pasted firmly in place. It’s the smile my second-oldest baby sibling made me practice in the mirror after I bombed my first post-college interview. Although I maintain that had nothing to do with my smile. Or lack thereof.
“And forgive me.” Bob’s eyes crinkle in the corners. “What exactly is it you do?”
Do my best to keep us relevant.
Attempt to keep your players’ internet personas family-friendly.
Draw new crowds into The Stand for our home games and to their televisions and devices to watch the away match ups.
“Social media,” I say instead and drop my hand down under the lacquered top of the table to wipe down the side of my black skirt. “Photos, videos, and the internet. That kind of thing.”
“Ah yes,” he beams at me, eyebrows almost vibrating along his forehead. “I’ve heard reports we’re doing very well on the inter webs. Have a lot of…” he trails off, snapping the fingers of his left hand as though the word will materialize in his palm.
I give him a moment to come up with it, but he doesn’t.
“Our following has been growing exponentially in the last year.” We have close to 350 thousand users subscribed to our channels and that number only increases every time I check it.
“I must confess I don’t understand most of those sites, no matter how many times my grandkids try to show me. Although, with a professional like you on board, I guess I don’t have to. I don’t have an account myself.”
He does. For the team.
I run it for him.
“Job security.” I shrug and he laughs, a wheeze of sound that makes me want to fetch him a glass of water.
Bob turns back to Chris, clearing his throat a few times. “If you don’t mind me asking, why is our Media and Content manager in this particular meeting? Surely our PR and legal teams won’t want this to hit the media.”
They’ll want us—me—to control the narrative.
I think the words as loudly as I can, but my ESP appears to be malfunctioning. Not that I know what this meeting is about just yet, but I can guess the important things. I’m the only woman in the room. My job literally involves the team’s community image. I’m about to be put to work. I can feel it. The knowledge tingles in my brain like a sneeze I know is coming.
“She’s going to be our secret weapon,” Chris says as my brain works overtime to figure out exactly what could have happened in the early hours of the morning. It was definitely something overnight if management called an emergency meeting before nine, but I haven’t seen any damning news reports yet. And I have google alerts set up to ping for every guy on the team.
Probably a bar fight or a drunk and disorderly. Maybe an old gambling habit or an incriminating photo. Something that requires an image rehab. I can deal with that.
“I’m here to help,” I say. It’s what they pay me to do. I’ll have to figure out something.
“I sure hope so.” Bob nods, which in hindsight is concerning.
