Page 2 of Fair Trade
one
Six months ago
I should go home.
The day has been long enough as it is. But I can’t seem to peel myself off my barstool while aimlessly stirring my untouched dirty martini.
I thought a stiff cocktail would make me feel as though I was just a normal New Yorker having an overpriced drink at a fancy hotel bar instead of someone who’d left her boss’s wake.
God, I can’t believe he’s dead.
Arthur Stonehaven, owner of the New York Monarchs and the man who single-handedly changed my life by offering me a dream job as general manager of a New York major league baseball team, passed away in his home in the UK. His granddaughter, Daisy, asked that his friends stateside come together to memorialize him today.
It feels odd to grieve for a person I’d barely known. Even weirder when it was made quite evident that Daisy herself hardly knew the man she was honoring. It wasn’t the ideal way tofinally meet her in person, seeing her standing in front of a small crowd, alone, attempting to come up with nice words for her estranged grandfather.
I don’t know why I thought jumping in would be a good idea. Not like I had much more to add to the already awkward welcome speech turned eulogy. But my less than graceful ramblings got the attention off her, and the grateful look in Daisy’s eyes was well worth it.
After, she mentioned she might be able to get me a meeting with the new team owner on Monday, and I’d take any chance I could get to make a good first impression on my new boss.
But tonight, it’s not about work. Tonight is about treating myself. I’ve spent my whole life aspiring to be half as successful as I am now, and I need a second to myself before my life becomes unrecognizable.
The fact that I’m even allowed the luxury to mope over a thirty-dollar cocktail is an achievement in itself. Waltzing into the glitzy hotel I only ever dared to look at from the street corner while growing up in the city was never part of the plan tonight. But walking straight up to the hotel lounge, picking a stool in the center of the bar, and ordering a drink without even looking at the price made it feel like I was finally living in the New York City that only blond, white women on TV and movies experience.
Not Dominican girls from Harlem.
Though, if I’m honest, the overall vibe so far has been a bit lacking. The soft jazz playing on a loop is putting me to sleep more easily than my melatonin can. The actual bar is smaller than I anticipated for a hotel so grand. And the company in this place is nothing like the neighborhood spots I’ve always frequented.
I won’t run into anyone I know here. Which is a bit alluring on my last night of living a somewhat normal life. But it is weird that there will be no sudden appearance of a random cousin,blood related or otherwise, or any of the ladies who blow dry my hair on 125th Street, and I certainly won’t be bumping into any of the usual guys I date.
The guys Idated, because I’ve just signed a million-dollar deal to become the first female general manager in the MLB, and my new schedule, which includes traveling with the team, will assure that there will be zero time for dating.
Not like my love life was thrivingbeforeArthur made me an offer no one in their right mind would turn down, one that ensures I’m about to be thrust into the spotlight.
Our season is about to start, and there is no chance I’ll allow anything to stand in the way of my focus.
Unfortunately, that memo has yet to be sent to the men at this bar. I try to look completely enthralled by the three olives in my drink while expertly avoiding the eye contact of the man a few stools to my right who’s been trying to get my attention all night. I’m surprised he’s still trying after I turned two of his friends away.
He moves in my periphery, but one can hope that he’s making his way to the exit.
“Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt—”
Ugh, bachelor number three is up to bat, I guess.
“—but I wanted to ask if I could buy you a drink.” He slips into the space between me and the next barstool over as he leans a forearm on the bar and offers an overly cocky grin that I’m sure has served him well in the past.
One day I’m the coach for the women’s softball team at the local community college, and the next I’m wondering if myHannah Montanacover has already been blown.
Did he read my GM announcement in the paper last week? Or see theSports Illustratedcover I posed for in a hot pink pantsuit? Is he a Monarchs fan? Or perhaps a plain run-of-the-mill finance bro?
I don’t know why I even bother asking myself these questions. Even if he were the man of my dreams, handwritten by the creators of my favorite rom-com movies, it still wouldn’t matter.
Because as soon as I signed my seven-figure contract, I became married to my job, and happily so.
Although I’ll have to figure out what I’m going to do about sex.
Because I’ll be damned if I accidentally force myself into a vow of celibacy before my thirtieth birthday.
Because I love sex.
