1
free agent
HISTORY OF MAN BY MAISIE PETERS
What is it about waiting rooms that, no matter where they are, they feel like hospitals? Like even if you’re there for a good thing, they’re sterile and cold. The seats are either too stiff or too soft, and the coffee table in the center looks like it was designed to be just slightly too far away for convenience.
Even the magazines on the table are stale—most of them are at least three months old. I’m sitting here heading into October staring at a stack of magazines that all have the same covers to let me know the best colors for spring. Each one has the same aggressively cheerful actress on the cover in a pastel pink sundress, laughing like she’s never paid rent a day in her life.
I cross and uncross my legs over and over. I can’t get comfortable. I smooth down the sleeves of my blazer, checking for wrinkles, and adjust the cream silk blouse tucked into my tailored pants. My black pumps pinch slightly at the toes, but they’re the kind of shoes that say I mean business. My hair’s curled, but pulled back into a ponytail, and my lipstick is the exact red I always wear when I need to feel like I’m in control—whether or not I actually am.
I’m early and now I’ve got nothing to do but sit here and spiral.
“M’am? Are you watching this?”
“No,” I mutter quietly, shaking my head. The man next to me is somewhere in his forties, wearing a gray suit that’s just a little too big in the shoulders, hair thinning but slicked back with the effort of someone who still cares.
“Do you mind if I change the channel?” He gestures toward the television bolted high on the wall. Four women sit around a table on-screen, all talking at once, their voices overlapping into a shrill chorus. It sounds like four birds with fake eyelashes squawking in a cage.
Yeah, please change that.The last thing I need is to walk into this interview already annoyed.
“Not at all.” I smile faintly as I nod. “Go ahead.” He grabs the remote from the end table between us. I glance back at my phone, where I’m making the worst possible post-breakup decision: doom scrolling through other people’s perfect, curated lives. Beaches. Babies. Dogs in sweaters. Fuck my fucking life.
“And with the addition of Ohtani this year, I just don’t see anyone topping the Dodgers.”
Fuck.
I freeze, my thumb hovers over the screen.
I know that voice without even looking up. My piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend, Matt Whitlock. The bane of my existence. The worst type of person imaginable—the wolf in sheep's clothing.
He’s the entire reason I’m even sitting in this waiting room right now trying not to throw up. I quit my last job just to get away from him. We both worked for the same broadcasting company, Peabody Productions, specifically for their sports network,GameDay. I worked in the community relations department and he was an up-and-coming journalist.
Eventually, one of the high profile featured reporter jobs opened up, and Matt wanted it desperately. It would include travel and time on television—a dream for a narcissist like him. If Carly Simon could rewrite “You’re So Vain,” it would be about Matt. He got the job, of course, because Matt gets everything Matt wants, through any means necessary.
But I quit. I couldn’t bring myself to work for the company that rewarded him, that couldn’t see him for who he truly was. They couldn’t see the rot underneath his perfect smile.
And now here he is, rubbing my nose in his success while I beg for another job.
I drag my eyes to the screen and there he is. Perfect hair—blonde, combed back with effortless volume that actually takes a ridiculous amount of time and expensive products. His suit is sharp, tailored within an inch of its life. And his eyes lock to the camera, like he’s speaking directly to you. It’s calculated intimacy—one of the biggest tricks in his bag.
“Stick with me folks, this is going to be a fun run toward the finish line and into the postseason. This is Matt Whitlock, and I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
He disingenuously smiles into the camera before signing off. It’s incredible how quickly I’ve gone from loving him to wishing I could hit him with my car and get away with it. More than anything, I hate how successful he is. I hate how no one sees him for who he truly is. I wish I could tell the world the truth about him, but let’s be honest, who are they going to believe? He’s a man. An attractive, successful, clean-cut man, with a dazzling smile your mom would love. And thenyou have me—angry and bitter. And what does the world think an angry woman is? Crazy.
Calm down, Addison.
I feel the rage burning inside me. I try to lower it back down to a simmer, but it’s hard. He took everything from me and suffered no consequences. I need to get my emotions in check. They’re going to call me into the back at any moment and Ineedthis job.
“Addison Scott?”
I quickly look up, brightening my eyes to look happy and eager.
“Mr. Price will see you now.”
I grab my leather portfolio from the seat next to me and follow the woman through the winding back hallways of the office. She introduces herself as Jennifer Fields, Dan Price’s administrative assistant. I can’t even believe I got a call back from Burke Communications. If you work in public relations, Burke Communications is a top-tier dream role—the crème de la crème of the public relations world. Most people never even get in the door for an interview. Hell, I’d have considered it a win if they’d only let me use the bathroom.
The entire building is sleek—filled with clean lines and city views. She leads me to a large corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows and knocks once before opening the door. Mr. Price, in his sharp navy suit and salt-and-pepper hair, looks like he stepped out of a luxury watch ad. He strides forward with an outstretched hand.
