Page 3 of Mistlefoe
“That’s the only way we can make this a success in a town as boring as Mapleton,” I continue saying directly out of my ass. “Think about it. We have colleagues who come from allwalks of life—blue collar, white collar, locals, expats, former athletes, fans. We all have one thing in common.”
“What’s that?” Richard asks when I leave them hanging for a second.
“We’re all inSPORTYbecause it’s exciting. So, whatever we do, it has to be something that stokes that need to belong and more importantly, to compete.” I lean back on my chair, pretty damn smug that all throughout, Conor hasn’t been able to get a single word edged in. I may or may not be smirking a little at him.
But he isn’t cowed. He lifts his fist to hold his chin and says, “That sounds intriguing, but I don’t hear a concrete idea.”
I wouldn’t say I hate Conor Mahoney but it’s very close. The list of reasons why this man irritates me is long.
It started on his literal first day at the company. He was late and that’s not really what triggered the avalanche, it’s what happened before he arrived. Namely, our boss losing his ever loving mind about welcoming a recently-retired elite hockey athlete into our team. I didn’t mind the fanboying, but when Richard decided right there and then that the best way to welcome the new teammate was to give him a cool project… and literally ripped one offmycatalogue to give it to him… the seed of dislike was firmly planted in my mind.
I’m not a shitty person, though. I didn’t assign the blame on the new guy who wasn’t even around for Richard’s great lightbulb moment. Except that was just the beginning of a near two-year saga that continues.
“I don’t hear you offering one, either,” I counter and fold my arms tight to keep my hands from making a strangling motion.
“Thank you for giving me the floor.” His lips curve and he shifts his attention to our boss. “I have a simpler, sure-fire way of making this party succeed—guaranteed. And it won’t cost us a pretty penny.”
Richard’s eyebrows take off like airplanes. “Color me intrigued.”
“The first principle of marketing is knowing your customer, right?” Conor shrugs those big shoulders of his. “Well,SPORTYis a company for and by athletes. What we need is a sports event.”
“Wow, that issospecific. We only have to narrow it down to one of the hundreds of organized sports that exist on this planet.” The deadpan in my voice is perhaps a notch too obvious to be professional, but I can’t help it. The stakes are really freaking high for me.
If you poll everyone in this office—or heck, in this room alone—about what Christmas is to them, you won’t get the same answer twice. Some might say giving or receiving presents. Or the food that evokes memories from childhood and home. Also the drinks that make people forget precisely those things. Or the parties they attend to forge new memories. The music that brings a spark of joy to a year that feels old and tired, and reminds us of the promise that the new one brings.
For me, it’s family.
That’s the center of my life, even though it’s a pretty small one. It’s just my mom and dad, and everyone else is either back in my parents’ home country, Venezuela, or all over the world. Being so spread out has made it so that I basically just have phone-cousins, phone-Aunts, and phone-Uncles.
Except for one person who is special. My grammie.
Grammie is Mom’s mother and she also lives back in Venezuela. We’ve only been together in person once when I was a kiddy, but Grammie has always been there for me. She’s the sole reason I learned actual Spanish growing up. My parents tried to make my life easier by only speaking English but then Grammie didn’t understand me, so I studied hard to be able to converse with her. She kept me company in the afternoons while Mom and Dad were at work and I was out ofschool, thanks to Whatsapp. I did my homework while she cooked or sewed or cleaned. Basically, she brought me up from afar.
And she’s getting older.A lotolder.
“I got it.” Lewis traces an arch in the air like he’s painting a billboard. “Beyoncé singing while teaching a cycling class. Then the lights go dark and it’s Post Malone singing while teaching a boxing class—and so on.”
I scratch my head with the clicker end of my pen, wondering if he’s serious. Except, pride beams out of his smile like he genuinely thinks this is the greatest idea since whoever came up with toasters.
“Well.” Richard brings us back to what matters—his opinion. “I think both of these ideas sound promising. Unfortunately, they’re equally half-baked.”
Lewis glances around. “What about my idea?”
“Honey,” Rachel says with a tone of voice that makes her sound sixty-years-old instead of late-twenties. “You had your chance to book Beyoncé last year and you took us to Aspen instead. It’s Sierra or Conor’s turn now.”
I notice how she mentions me first. That’s a good friend right there.
“Dude.” Stephen leans over the table to look at his buddy. “Beyoncé’s not even your favorite artist. What gives?”
But it’s Kaylee’s. I keep my mouth zipped, though.
“Well, uh…”
“We could do like a sort of Olympics-inspired event,” Conor says, nodding to me. “It would definitely be the immersive experience Sierra suggested, while catering to our very unique target audience.”
Mierda. Why didn’t that occur to me? I basically served the whole idea to him on a silver platter.
I rack my brain trying to come up with an alternative that is at least just as fun, but Richard drops a bomb.
