“Hello,” I greet Mr. Mahler’s secretary. The older woman has her white hair pulled back into a graceful chignon that highlights her classic features that have not been dimmed by age. “I’m Elliot Reed. Mr. Mahler asked to see me.”
“Of course, dear.” Her expertly painted red lips split into a genuine smile as she motions toward a seating area filled with navy chairs and orange pillows. “Take a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thank you.” I turn to take a seat, but before I make any progress, a door swings open.
“Miss Reed!” Mr. Mahler’s gravelly voice takes me by surprise. Considering he didn’t speak to me at all during my previous—and only—encounter with him, the smile on his face and apparent eagerness to see me is a pleasant surprise. “Please come in.”
When I imagined what Mr. Mahler’s office would look like—which happens much more often than I’d care to share—I pictured tons of dark wood with lots of gold accessories. And I’m pleased to say, I hit the nail on the head.
Whereas the rest of the Mustangs facility is filled with modern touches and shades of orange and blue everywhere you look, his office is like stepping back in time. Dark wood panels line the wall. His oversized desk is very obviously missing a computer of any type. Newspapers and magazines are strewn all across the workspace. Even though Denver is a smoke-free city, a gold ashtray with a lit cigar sending swirls of smoke into the air and a glass filled with some type of amber liquid are sitting on the desk. The only clue his doorway was not a portal back to the 1950s is the wall filled with television screens showing every sports channel available. All of which happen to have Quinton Howard Junior’s name and face plastered on them.
I settle into the plush leather chair across from Mr. Mahler. Keeping my shoulders squared, I run through all of the talking points I’d been writing down this morning.
Mr. Mahler takes a seat in his wingback leather chair that is most likely older than I am and lifts his cigar to his mouth. He takes a deep pull and exhales the smoke slowly. It takes all of my self-control to ignore the billowing smoke cloud heading straight into my face.
“I’m sure you’re well aware that we are facing a little bit of a media problem.” Mr. Mahler keeps the cigar in between his fingers as he grabs one of the newspapers off the table and hands it to me. Finding newspapers nowadays is surprisingly difficult, but I managed to track down a few this morning, so the headline proclaiming that Quinton Howard Junior is an overpaid toddler doesn’t catch me off guard.
“Yes sir, I am.” I set the newspaper back on his desk, careful not to disturb the rest of the mess cluttering the surface. “We sent out a statement this morning that has gone over pretty well. It was vague, but we were waiting to hear the response from the public before releasing anything else.” I pause to see if Mr. Mahler would like to interject, but when he just takes a sip out of the crystal glass, I carry on. “We want to make sure our message doesn’t get twisted. The only thing worse than saying nothing is saying everything. We want to make sure we have a direction when we speak so that the public doesn’t feel like we are just saying what they want to hear.”
“Hmmm.” He pulls from his cigar again, his eyes, which match the amber liquid he’s sipping, narrowing as he assesses me. I hold his eye contact and refuse to cower under his gaze. “You are so young, I wasn’t sure you could handle the job. But you’re very articulate. I’m impressed.”
Well, that’s a backhanded compliment if I’ve ever heard one. But, it is still a compliment. And considering my last interaction with Mr. Mahler, it does for me what the liquor he’s sipping does for him. Warmth flows through my system and the tension I woke up with finally begins to dissipate.
“Now here is the problem as I see it.” He sets down the glass and his cigar and steeples his fingers in front of his face. “We can put out as many statements as we want. We can listen to the public and try to take a stance that keeps their anger in check, but nothing is going to change if every time we get them settled down, Quinton steps back on the field covering logos and kneeling during the anthem.”
This is the problem that’s been haunting me since I saw Quinton walk out of the tunnel yesterday. How do I support his message, but also the organization I’m paid to represent? “We can only say so much if the entire organization isn’t on the same page, and that includes Mr. Howard.”
“Exactly.” He smiles wide. His bright white teeth are on full display and instead of feeling reassured, a spiral of unease blooms in my gut. “That is why I’m assigning you to Quinton.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Until that moment I had all of my emotions in check, but there’s no masking the panic lacing my words.
“Quinton will be expecting you at HERS this afternoon. The owner, Brynn Sterling, works closely with our organization and will make sure you will both be comfortable for what may be a very uncomfortable conversation.” Suddenly, Mr. Mahler’s posture changes as he sits up and levels me with the same intense stare that haunted my dreams after my interview. “It’s imperative that you get Quinton on our side. The damage his accusations could cause not only our organization, but the League as a whole, is enormous. From this point forward, you are to work only with him and the mess he created. Understood?”
“Yes.” The word comes out weak. I close my eyes and take a deep breath and try again. “Yes, I understand.”
He nods his head. Satisfaction is written across his time-weathered face, but I speak before he can, because for some reason, I know that he’s not finished with me yet. “Just so you know, Mr. Mahler, this job means more to me than just a paycheck. My father passed away earlier this year. We spent his final months together watching the Mustangs play. My favorite memories of him are wrapped up with your organization. I want what’s best for everyone.”
His gaze softened as I spoke, but I have a sick feeling in my stomach. It was less because of what I said, and more of what he hadn’t. “I’ll hold you to that. We can’t have an entire season of bad press, and if you don’t have a handle on this by playoffs, we will have to find someone who can get it done.”
Dammit.
Sometimes I really hate being right.
Three
“Wait,” Liv’s voice booms through my car speakers. “You’re meeting who?”
“You heard me.” If the bumper-to-bumper Denver traffic wasn’t enough to make a sane person go crazy, listening to Liv’s voice rise approximately twenty decibels would be mad entertaining. “Quinton Howard Junior. The stubborn quarterback who just had to do this on his own and possibly put an end to my career before it even started.”
I figured a lunch meeting would mean avoiding rush hour. However, I forgot that with the influx of Denver residents over the last few years, every hour is rush hour. It has taken almost an hour to finally reach my exit and I’m most definitely not amused.