He pulls the notebook back. “Yeah.” His eyebrows furrow as he tries to figure out what has me so confused. “Why? Am I missing someone?”
“Why isn’t your dad going to be on the board?” When I didn’t see him on the list of potential members, I assumed it was just because he was a shoo-in, not that he wasn’t being considered at all. “The optics of having you both work together, generations of players fighting for equality and the fair treatment of players who have been forgotten, is really important. Not having your dad involved is going to cause problems. Somebody will twist that into him not supporting you.”
I don’t know what part of what I said has pissed him off, but the guy I thought was just starting to warm up to having me around has reverted back to the asshole I first met at HERS.
“Then I guess they’re going to talk because he’s not going to be on the board.” He glares at me and makes no effort to hide his distaste.
But you know what? Fucking same! I’m not here because I need a new friend. I’m here to do my job. And I’m not going to let him sabotage all of the work we’ve done together. And keeping up with his mood swings is giving me whiplash.
As much as I want to say I can’t stand him, spending time with him has softened my resolve. He’s intense in a way that I respect and admire, like he’s the kind of friend who will push you out of your comfort zone because he sees your true potential. I hate to admit it, but that’s something I’m missing in my life. I love my friends, but after all they’ve seen me go through, they ache to see me comfortable. Quinton is forcing me to be better. And I thought I was doing the same for him.
“I’m not even going to pretend to know the ins and outs of the Howard family. But if this is because you want to separate your name from his”—even though they literally share a name, so that seems like a dumb hill to die on—“this is not the time. One mistake can take this from a success to a failure. You’re going to need to put on your big boy panties and go ask your dad to help you out. If you don’t, I will.”
Okay. So after it leaves my mouth, I want to shovel it back in. Telling him to put on his big boy panties is definitely not the way to get what I want. Unless I wanted him to look at me like I was the actual scum of the earth, because that’s what I’m getting right now.
“My dad will not be involved in this. Do you understand me?” His voice has dropped to a whisper, but the anger is still coming through loud and clear. “I don’t want him anywhere near this project. If I find out you tried to go behind my back to change that, I will take a knee on the sideline and not throw a single pass for the rest of the season. We’ll see how Mahler feels about that, but I don’t think he’d be very happy with you. Do you?”
Now, to be fair, I never told him about my meeting with Mr. Mahler and my possible termination if things don’t go well. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that I’m not spending all my free time with the rude, moody man in front of me for fun. So his threat hits his intended mark. But that’s not the part that has my sinuses burning and my eyes threatening to flood.
I would give anything . . . ANYTHING! . . . to spend time with my dad. Even when I’m not actively thinking about him, I know he’s only a scent, an image, a word away. And Quinton has the chance to not only spend time with his dad, but to create an actual legacy with him, and he’s spitting on it.
What an asshole!
The inside of my cheeks begin to hurt from how hard I’m biting them. I unclench my jaw and throw my hands in the air at the same time. “Fine.” I shrug my shoulders, shifting my focus back to the computer screen. “This is your foundation. Do whatever you want.”
I expect some kind of response, but thankfully, I’m met with silence.
Unfortunately, though, that silence only lasts a couple of minutes.
“You know,” he says, interrupting my daydreams of him sustaining a minor—but season-ending—injury so I don’t have to deal with him anymore, “I was wondering something.”
When he doesn’t continue, I look up to see him staring at me, waiting for me to say something.
“What, Quinton?” I can’t scrounge up the effort to hide my eye roll or mask the irritation in my tone when I answer. “Please, tell me. What were you wondering?”
“I mean, you seem smart.” He starts in the worst possible way ever. “I’ve just been trying to figure out how you let Mahler trick you into being the token Black girl. Why would you let him use you like this?”
Out of everything that I thought would come out of his mouth, that was worse than anything I could’ve possibly imagined. I’m stunned speechless.
“Did he convince you that you’re a meaningful part of his organization? Did he say something that convinced you he didn’t put you on me clearly for the optics of hiring a Black woman and supporting diversity?” He tilts his head to the side as if I’m some puzzle for him to solve and not a person he just insulted. “What even is your role in this?”
I try to take some deep cleansing breaths, to remember the coping skills that I had to use almost every day at my old job. The techniques I vowed I would never have to use again because of somebody making me feel small at work.
Yet here I am again.
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” I keep my words calm and measured as I slowly close my computer, afraid that all of the anger sizzling through my veins will cause a Hulk-like blowup. “I’m going to leave and try to forget that you ever said that. Tomorrow, you will meet me in my office when you get out of practice and we will only meet there unless we have to go to the venue for the launch. We will only speak when we need to speak or when you decide that you’re ready to apologize for insinuating that not only am I not qualified for my job, but that I only got it because of my skin color.”
“You really don’t think that he’s using you? So that when the press comes sniffing around, he can parade you in front of them and say that I’m misguided in calling out the racism in his organization because look at you. You’re Black and a woman.” He leans back in his chair, a sadistic smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth. “You can’t be that naive.”
My dad raised me with the mentality to be color-blind. I try to live my life like that. I don’t know what Quinton has experienced. I see the struggles Black men in this country face and I’m not so “naive” to think racism isn’t a huge problem. But I’m not okay with him projecting his problems onto me. I’ve had enough people question my validity as a biracial woman—and where they think I belong in this world—that I can’t bite my tongue any longer.
“What’s your problem? Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. I’ve been working with you for two weeks. In that time, name one moment where you’ve felt I’m not qualified to be here. You can’t. Because I’m damn good at my job.” I shove my computer in my bag and start walking to the door before I spin back around. “No! I’m not done here. You’ve made your stance clear. You have a problem with racism and mistreatment in the League. Everyone should! But did you ever consider that by implying I got my job solely because of my skin color, and not because I’ve worked my entire life for it, you’re creating problems too? Yes, I’m Black. And I’m white. I was raised by my white dad. I have white friends. And they’ve never insinuated anything like what just came out of your mouth. So maybe before you go throwing around insults like that, you should check your own bias first.”