Page 2 of Mr. Charming

At least he’s being polite. Gill’s campaign is god-awful and certainly wouldn’t make me want to find out more about the team or watch or attend any games.

“Who do we have there?” he asks.

“Gill Gregory.”

He looks at Calvin.

“He was an editor or something for the website, if I remember correctly,” my boss says.

“He was a copy editor but looking to venture out,” I say.

“I think we can all agree that he might be a better editor than promoter.” Mr. Herington leans back in his chair, and his gaze falls to the papers in front of me. “What are you all discussing this morning?”

“It’s funny you ask. We were going over some of the campaigns,” I say.

He rolls his chair closer to the table, his elbows landing on top, and waves his hands toward him. “Great, let me see what Gill Gregory is doing over there in Chicago.”

My stomach sinks. I do not want him to think I was sleeping on the job. As if I wasn’t already about to address the situation with Gill and the Falcons.

“Okay.” I push the folder to Calvin, who passes it to Mr. Herington. “We were just talking, and I think we should send Jasmine to Chicago. Give Gill some tips on how to make the campaign more of what we’re looking for.”

Mr. Herington doesn’t look up at me, and Calvin has little beads of sweat lining his hairline. His anxiety only raises my own.

“Jasmine?” Mr. Herington looks up then around the table.

Jasmine lifts her hand, sucking the last of her smoothie from the straw and making the sound echo through the room.

“Hmm,” he says, his long, thin fingers riffling through the images. “Bud does have a point. I think my granddaughter could do better.” He shuts the file and passes it to Calvin. “Did you know that the Falcons are favored to win this year?”

“Technically, they were last year too,” I say.

Calvin coughs or chokes on his saliva, I’m not sure. Either way, I probably shouldn’t have said that.

Mr. Herington laughs. “Very true, but I heard the chemistry is good over there. That Tweetie Sorenson has stepped up as a real leader.”

I school my nonverbal reactions since they usually have a mind of their own when it comes to the topic of Tweetie.

“Bud and I were in the same frat way back in college, and he did me a few favors back in the day. I owe him one. And since the Falcons are the team to watch this year, they need the best person on their campaign.”

His gaze lingers on Jasmine.

She’s young, but that’s who has an eye nowadays. The only thing I worry about with her is whether she’d be too intimidated by the players to ask them to do certain things.

She sips her smoothie—out of nervousness, I think—and the air coming through the empty straw makes that terrible sound again.

“I think it’s all gone, Jasmine,” Mr. Herington says.

Jasmine flushes.

“This is your ship to steer, Tedi, so I think you should go to Chicago. This whole experiment is new, and we need to really know if it can get the results we want.”

The way he reminds me that this is an experiment is no accident, I’m sure. If it doesn’t pan out, all my people and I are out. I didn’t come this far to not make a name for myself in the hockey realm. But at the same time, the angry, heartbroken girl inside me is screaming that she doesn’t want to go to Chicago.

“Me?”

Calvin’s head whips around, and he widens his eyes at me. “Save the sinking ship, Tedi.” His voice is cool and on the edge of demanding.

“It’s why we hired you to run the program. Go up there and make us proud. Show your team what needs to be done and how to do it. Plus, with the right campaign and them winning the Cup, we’ll easily turn people into die-hard hockey fans. Chicagoans alone will think to themselves, who are the Grizzlies?” Mr. Herington stands and straightens his suit jacket. “I’ll call Bud and let him know you’re coming. Have a good day.” He nods to the rest of us and walks out of the room. “Calvin?”

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