Page 14 of Mistlefoe
“Are the snowmen drunk and about to make out?” our boss asks.
Conor seems to find this funny by the way his mouth twitches, but stays suspiciously quiet.
“Yes,” I respond with fake bravado.
“Sounds like a good party. Go on.”
Conor’s grin stretches wider. Is he genuinely amused or making fun of me?
“Right.” I click on the next slide. “So the brief is calledSPORTYChristmas. We decided to hold a series of competitive events fueled by spiked eggnog and assorted alcoholic beverages, each one celebrating an organized sport but with a Christmas twist.”
I launch onto the basic idea, a circuit of different activities where people can get progressively jollier while also burning the previous station’s alcohol by playing something. We couldn’t come up with a lot of activities in the course of a day, but the gist is there. We even managed to comb together a semblance of a budget.
I finish the presentation and sit back, waiting for them to rip everything to shreds and laugh in my face.
Instead, what happens is worse. Richard says, “While I really like the direction, I’m still disappointed.”
I feel Conor stiffen next to me as well.
“I gave you four days, so I expected a crystal clear plan. This still feels very brainstormy.”
“Four days?” Conor shakes his head to snap himself out of the shock. “You gave us two. Last Wednesday and yesterday.”
“But you’re two people, so realistically I gave you four days.” Richard gyrates on the chair and leans his elbows on the table. “I’m going to be straight. I had high expectations of this event and raised them even more when I decided to put you both on it together. That’s how boss math works, FYI. If you let me down, I’ll remove the promotion from the table and will reduce your ten-thousand bonus accordingly. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” we both answer at the same time like the well trained former pro- and college-athletes we are.
“Now, like I said, I do like the idea a lot. But when you give me next week’s update, I expect an impressive amount of progress.”
“Right.”
“You got it.”
Conor and I scramble to stand up before we’re even dismissed. I hug my laptop against my chest as we walk out.
We take a few hasty steps away from Richard’s office until Conor suddenly grabs my elbow and pulls me into a storage room. The door clicks shut behind us and for a moment, there’s only dark. After some kind of scratchy noise, the light turns on and Conor turns to face me with wide eyes.
“I can’t lose a single cent of that bonus,” he says.
I nod super fast. “Me neither.”
“I think we need to pull all-nighters and weekends to make this thing a smashing success.”
“I agree.” I swallow hard.
“We have to take this as if it were the playoffs of our career.”
“I—sure. That’s one way to look at it.”
“So… truce?”
I glance down at his outstretched hand.
I must be taking so long to react that he drops it and expels a heavy sigh. “Sierra, I’m with you on this thing. Why are you acting like I’m your enemy?”
“Aren’t you?” I lift my eyes to his. “Are you really telling me you’re not just waiting for the right moment to stab me in the back and get the promotion and the glory?”
“What?”
