Page 106 of Unwritten Rules
“Nothing?” he says.
“I mean, our job is promoting the team. If a member of the team didn’t want that promoted, then we wouldn’t. If, however, someone else made that decision for that player—through a leak to the media, for example—we would work to make sure that was resolved as painlessly as possible. For the player.”
“Oh,” Zach says.
“There’s a template nondisclosure agreement I can forward you.” Maritza taps on her laptop. “Just in case you need to pass it along to someone.”
“No, um, that’s okay.”
On screen, Stephanie’s eyebrows are lost in her bangs, which are purple. “As your publicist, I can mostly say ditto. And add that it takes a shitty fucking person to out someone, so if that’s happening to you or someone on the team, we should know about it.”
“It’s not,” Zach says. “I’m really all right. I was just wondering.”
“Broadly speaking, the issue does come up with players sometimes,” Stephanie says. “Maybe not frequently, but more than you might think.”
“Thanks for that, um, information,” he says. “I guess we can talk about the article now if you want.”
Maritza closes her laptop and gets up. “Apologies. I need to step out for a second. Stephanie, if you want to get started.”
And he doesn’t think she’ll go and alert the rest of the PR team, but maybe he’s misread her and she’s about to shout it from the stadium’s upper decks.
She seems to sense his apprehension. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee from the clubhouse.” And the clubhouse is a good ten-minute walk from the conference room they’re sitting in, with a state-of-the-art coffeemaker that confuses everyone but Brito. Unlike the coffeemaker sitting on a little table by the window, next to a stack of single-serving pods. “Let me know if you want anything.”
“Zach,” Stephanie says, when Maritza has left.
“Bad timing?” He has a paper coffee cup in front of him, a half an inch of now-cold coffee left in it, and he unrolls the rim.
“The job of a publicist, generally, is to—” Stephanie says, before interrupting herself. “You know what, no bullshit. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Actually, I’m good. Better than I have been in a long time.”
“I was gonna say, you looked like you were enjoying yourself in New York. Given all the pictures you’ve been in with...Oh.”
“Yeah, um, about that.”
“It’s not my business,” she says. “Literally, as Morales is not my client. But like this article, whatever narrative you decide you want, that’s what we’ll go with.”
“Thanks. I really mean that.”
“Someday, I’ll tell you the story of how I got together with my girlfriend. That said, don’t tell the Union anything you don’t want the world to know. Maritza’s good, but the rest of the place leaks like a fucking sieve.”
“Including my teammates?”
“That’s your call, but you might want to start with someone you trust. Not some big announcement.”
“Yeah, there’s a counselor who’s been helping me, and he said the same thing.”
“Even if it’s in their best corporate interest not to out you, it doesn’t mean they won’t do something to get publicity, if they feel like it’ll outweigh keeping anything confidential. Just don’t confuse a good outcome with a good process, is what I’m saying.”
Maritza shut the door on her way out. He glances at it, wondering if it’s locked, if their conversation is audible in the hallway. “I’ve been thinking, if things aren’t good here, um, I have an opt out.”
“Let me know what you decide before you tell anyone here. Including Maritza. Between us, I was going to see if she wanted to come work with me.”
“Did she say something?” He tries to remember if he’s seen other players being assholes or handsy or blowing her off.
“No, just trying to save her the headaches I went through. Places like that can be unkind.”
Because he remembers her in Oakland, wary that players were going to disappoint her, which some inevitably did. “When did you know that it was the right moment to just say fuck ’em and leave?”
