But there was no way they still had that on their records, right? I mean, it was five years ago and they only banned me for appearances, not because I’d done anythingthatbad. I’m sure no one remembers it. It wasn’t even on the first page of my Google results anymore.
If I acted completely normal, I’m sure it wouldn’t come up.
“Ms. Davey?” an older gentleman said as he stepped into the waiting area.
“Yes!” I sprang to my feet, making the chair jostle as I got up. Mr. Hansen eyed me and I straightened my shoulders.
Please don’t recognize me, please don’t recognize me, please don’t recognize me.
“Nice to meet you, sir. Kodi Davey.” I held out my hand, biting my tongue to keep from shaking.
He narrowed his eyes at me, brows furrowing. But whether he recognized me or not, he shook my hand with a firm grip. I did my best to match his strength.
“Yes, nice to meet you,” he muttered, staring down at our hands. He let go, shaking his head before nodding to the left. “If you’ll follow me.”
He led the way down a perfectly normal hallway, white paint, gray carpet. I had expected players' photos to line the walls, maybe even signed headshots of the bigger names. But like the front, this was just an ordinary office.
An ordinary office where I could fulfill my dreams.
“All right, have a seat there,” Mr. Hansen said as we turned into his office, gesturing to the armchair in front of his desk. We sat in our respective seats and I set my folder with my resume and work samples on the desk, sliding them towards him. It was a little old school to have my stuff printed out, but I knew my audience was an old white dude. And while I wasn’t always willing to play that game, for the Destin Dastards, I would.
“Thank you for making time for me, Mr. Hansen. I’ve got my resume and a few work samples in there. Including a couple of post ideas for the Dastards specifically. And I’d be happy to email you some more samples if you’d like.”
“Ms. Davey,” he said with a sigh, holding his hand up for me to stop. “I think I should start off by saying I’m … aware of your history with the stadium.”
I could feel the color drain from my face.
I was fucked. Absolutely fucked. There’s no way they’ll give me the job now. I could have the best resume, experience out of my ass, mock-ups that are exactly what they’re looking for, and none of it would matter.
One stupid, drunken dare I followed through on years ago had ruined everything.
“Sir, I —” I fumbled, not sure what to say to excuse my past behavior.
“I understand you were young and intoxicated, but …” Mr. Hansen rubbed his forehead, sighing. “I thought maybe your name was just a coincidence, though Kodi is an unusual spelling.”
“Yeah, my mom’s kind of a funny, hippie type,” I mumbled under my breath, shoulders sinking.
“And that incident isn’t the only thing on your … ‘record,’ so to speak, is it?”
I cringed. The incident on Marshall’s first day in Destin wasn’t my only embarrassing college story. It was just the most public one. Everything else happened at college games.
In my defense, I’d spent a lot of my childhood feeling like I needed to be more responsible than my parents. So when I got to college and wasn’t constantly worried about them, I … let loose.
A lot of times without my top.
“I promise, sir, I’ve grown up a lot since that incident. Nothing like that will happen again. And I’ll keep my face and name off our social media. I mean, if I get the job and it becomesoursocial media.” Panic bubbled up in the back of my throat.
Ireallywanted this job. Ineededthis job. It would change everything for me. And fuck it, I just wanted it because it’d be real fucking cool to work with this team I’ve followed since grade school. This job had all that sweet nostalgia and it paid well.
“I’ll admit, your work samples showed an excellent knowledge of our team and general trends. Most of the other applicants didn’t bother submitting pitches.”
“Well, to be fair, you’re kind of asking them to do free work. For all they know, you could take their ideas and give them to someone else,” I said under my breath. I wouldn’t have handed over my ideas either, if I didn’t want this job so bad.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Hansen said with a raised eyebrow.
“Nothing, sir.”
“Uh-huh,” he murmured. He leaned back in his chair, reaching out to take my folder, and flipped through the samples. “We need someone to completelyleadand manage our social media, though. And while you have excellent work, you don’t exactly have management experience. And —”
