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Hangnail? Tommy.
Failing to see who was on a meeting invitation regarding my career? Obviously… Tommy.
“Good afternoon.” I hold my shoulders back and fake confidence I do not feel right now.
“Dr. Morgan. Come in and have a seat.” The team’s GM extends a hand, and I sit where he indicates… at the foot of the table with a view of everyone, excluded from the pack, on display for everyone to see.
Everyone takes a seat. I’m living in an uncomfortable pause between known and unknown where no one rushes to assure me that my presence here is because I was wronged and they’re here to defend me.
After a beat too long, the GM begins again. “Dr. Morgan, we’re here because of the incident on Friday night and how we want to approach it from PR and legal standpoints. The team issued a brief perfunctory statement on Saturday, as did Mr. Ranger—” He indicates Layton who studiously avoids my gaze. “Counsel has suggested we may need to make a move to prevent this from becoming a story, so we need to tackle this head-on—pardon the pun—to determine our next course of action.”
The awkward silence falls for just long enough that I realize I’m shivering. Of course, I am. Everyone else here has on three layers more than I do and except for the women, easily another ninety pounds.
A man I’ve never met before but I know from the organization chart is the team’s attorney begins introducing his team. He ends with an introduction to the league’s legal counsel for employee rights.
Employee rights are not the same thing as my rights as a woman, or a citizen of the US, or a resident of Florida. Do they think they can fire me for being assaulted? Or for dressing in a manner that doesn’t represent team values or some other crap? So far as I can remember, I don’t have a morality clause in my contract. Aside from the egregious stuff I’d guess is in every offer of employment.
Before he can begin another sentence, I ask, “Do I need legal representation for this meeting? My attorney is willing to meet, but it would need to be scheduled appropriately.”
Layton’s head whips my way, and his eyes try to communicate something that I cannot read.
I don’t even try to decipher his face, aside from the urgency and boredom I see written there. It’s too late.
Participating in this ambush is enough. What do they think… that they can protect the image of the club by eliminating me from the payroll?
“Why would you need legal counsel?” the attorney says blandly.
Layton’s eyes close. Resignation hits his features, and he turns his face to the room.
“Why is the league’s attorney here for a matter that doesn’t require contract negotiation? Isn’t it the job of league counsel to hire and fire and negotiate payer trades?” I reply sharply.
“Mr. Shapiro was in town on vacation with his family. When I got the call on Saturday morning that there had been an incident, his family and my family were having breakfast. We both believe that his presence will add a layer of protection for the team, the league, the players involved, and for you, Dr. Morgan.”
Oh. Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting. “Then thank you for your time and insight, Mr. Shapiro.”
“Dr. Morgan, our team wants you to know that we are prepared to stand with you in any legal proceedings that may arise from Friday’s incident. Your personal attorney is welcome to debrief with the team as you see fit. We want to make sure we hear what happened in your words.”
I nod, feeling like I missed all the cues when I walked into the room and more than a bit like a fool.
“We asked Mr. Ranger to be here to do the same. The others present were witnesses and not directly involved. As such, they do not require the resources you or he may need.”
“Thank you.” It’s genuine.
When all eyes turn to me, I explain what happened on Friday night at the club. I leave out my wardrobe and the pregame beverages. No matter how far we’ve come, there’s still a sizable minority who will think I bear some responsibility because of how I was dressed or that I like to dance.
The legal team follows up with a handful of questions before offering the floor to public affairs.
“Livy,” Tasha Williams begins. “I have only one question and I need your truthful response.”
“Of course.”
She floats a picture on the screen. I’ve seen it. I’ve studied it, actually. It’s me on Friday after the police arrived and the club’s house lights had been turned all the way on. My back is to Layton’s front. My arms are in front of me, a stance of self-protection. The pink wig dangles from my fingers. Layton’s hands are wrapped around my biceps. The image is a still shot, caught as he rubbed me from shoulders to forearms to keep me warm.
I miss that warmth. The same loss of adrenaline and courage mixes with the air-conditioned environment surrounding me now.
“Are you and Mr. Ranger involved?”
I hear what she doesn’t say. She doesn’t askhimif we’re involved.
