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But maybe I’m going about this all wrong.
“Look, I understand,” I tell her.
She looks up hopefully. “You do?”
“Sure. Imposter Syndrome happens to the best of us,” I say. “I mean, look at me: I’m trying to start a business after years as a ball player. I still take meetings with the guys who think I’m nothing but a dumb athlete, and I stand there and say ‘fiduciary’ as if I could spell it on the first try.”
This makes her smile, at least. “It’s not imposter syndrome—” she starts, but I don’t let her finish.
“I don’t care what it says about you on paper,” I swear. “Qualifications don’t mean shit, at the end of the day. This is all about what I’ve seen in the time we’ve spent together. Please,” I continue, my hand pressed to my chest. “Look, it’s not very dignified, but I’ll get down on my knees if that’s what it’ll take.”
Her eyebrow goes up again.
“Fuck,” I groan, “Not like that, just, you know, to beg…”
“Austin…” She’s still smiling, but she looks torn.
“We’d make a good team,” I insist. “You know we would. So, what do you say?”
I watch her pretty mouth as she purses her lips. Sighs. And, finally, quietly, says, “Okay. I’ll take the job.”
