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HOT MESS EXPRESS - SARA
Marathon race day officials and volunteers crowd around the finish line, chatting and laughing. They are wearing the same bright orange-and-teal-colored shirt as me. Earlier in the day, the clash of geometric patterns and colors didn’t faze me, but as my anxiety levels rise, the garish hues begin to give me a headache.
During the race, a runner needed my assistance to reach the first aid station. Now I’m late for a meeting with my first ever client, Brax Phillips, a former defenseman for the Chicago Flames.
Rushing back to the volunteer station, my hands shake as I text Brax that I’ll be a few minutes late. Is that unprofessional? Should I call? I don’t want him to hear the waver in my voice or how out of breath I am as I hurry.
Brax approached Reid with an idea for setting up a charity to help single dads who need financial and emotional support. Reid thinks it’s great and gave the go ahead for the Action Institute to fund the project as well as manage it. And he made me the executive in charge.
I haven’t even officially started my role as the newest projects accounts manager for the charitable works division of Action Institute, but I’m determined to succeed. My brother-in-law, Reid Griffin, owns the company. He took a chance on me, and I don’t want to let him down.
I drop the clipboard with race notes as I try to hand it to the volunteer seated at one of the tables. "I'm done for today." The volunteer smiles as he waves me off.
I sprint to the recreation center, while rehearsing a couple of icebreakers to get my mind in the zone.
What do you do with all your money and spare time these days?
Do you live in a mansion? Is there a helipad?
No? None of these questions are appropriate? Okay, how about we stick to the safe zone…. There are other ways to connect with him and help refine what the Action Institute can do to serve him.
What do you love most about hockey? Do you miss playing?
Your nickname Sweet Talker. Can you talk more about that?
Brax was at the peak of his career when he retired unexpectedly. There’s been nothing new about him online since he retired, and I don’t know if he even looks the same. The images I found showed a clean-shaven man with bright blue eyes, a strong jaw, and dimples, but people’s appearances change. I could be looking for an entirely different man.
When I arrive at the front of the building, I realize that I’m in the wrong place. I race like a madwoman in search of the right room in the right building. Perspiration makes my skin clammy, and my lips are parched.
Finally, I locate the meeting room but it’s empty. My stomach sinks. I messed up. Reid won’t be happy with me. He offered me the assignment as a soft introduction to the job, and I’ve already let him down.
I check to see if Brax responded to my text, but the message failed to send. The recreation center is built like a concrete bunker, and there’s no cell reception inside.
The chance to prove myself with the interview had my anxiety simmering. Showing up late brought it to a boil. But missing the interview completely, knowing I let my brother-in-law down…tears threaten.
I leave the empty meeting room and slink down the hall, pausing beside the elevator. So long as I hide out here while I compose myself, no one will see me in my anxiety-ridden state.
With my back against the wall, I try taking a deep breath, but a band of tension is wrapped around my chest. My veins tingle as adrenaline courses through me. I gulp a few sips of air as self-critical thoughts fill my head.
Maybe I took on too much too soon. As usual, my ambition outweighed my talent. I’ve never worked a corporate job and had only just graduated from university with a business degree when I was in a car accident.
The wreck left me temporarily paralyzed. Surgery and physical therapy helped me walk again, but I haven’t spent much time around people or in crowds since before the accident.
The anxiety crippling me tells me there’s plenty more recovery to tackle. It’s a side effect of experiencing trauma, but I wish I had more control over my feelings. As the unforgiving voice sneers loud and clear inside my head, I groan.
Everyone says you’re a fighter, but that’s bullshit. You can’t fight your way out of a paper bag.
I hate that voice. It isn’t the real me. I’m sunshine and unicorns and rainbows.
Clutching the lanyard with my race credentials close to my chest, my fingers wrap around the thick plastic card like it’s an amulet, protecting me from the chaos inside.
An office door slams closed, and a man with a deep, booming voice begins yelling at someone. His deep rumbly voice sends a shiver down my spine as the harsh sound bounces off the walls, echoing down the hall toward me.
Heavy boots clomp against the polished concrete floor, and it sounds as though he’s heading to the elevator. If he yells at me, I will shatter.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I tuck my shaky hands into my armpits and pull the baseball cap visor low. I lean against the wall, trying to act as though I’m supposed to be here. Yeah right, like I’m holding up the wall or something.
