And that terrifies me more than any disciplinary hearing ever could.
I should cite team policy. Should cut off this conversation and get home. Take a cold shower. Pretend last night never happened. Draft a professional apology email and pray Linda in HR never finds out. Sure, the no-nonsense director of Human Resources and I have always gotten along. And, yeah, she credits me with helping her overcome her three-a-day Diet Coke habit. But goodwill only goes so far.
My phone buzzes again.Serious question though… Are you okay?
The concern makes my chest tight. When was the last time someone asked if I was okay and actually seemed to want an answer? Certainly not my ex, who was always too busy curating his personal brand to notice when I was having a rough day.
I’m fine. Just wine and poor judgment. Deadly combination.
We’ve all been there. Though, usually my poor judgment involves agreeing to do an interview when I should just keep my mouth shut.
A surprised laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Of course, he’d find a way to make this about something equally, if not more, embarrassing. It’s annoyingly charming.
I rise and start down the trail. Following this thread can lead to no good. It’s not a conversation about lean mass gain or macronutrient targets, and no matter what happened, he’s still a player and I’m still team staff.
But I can’t help it. I click the button to voice type. Not a voice memo… I learned my lesson there.At least, your poor judgment doesn’t violate the employee handbook.
A minute later.Pretty sure the interview where I called Rodriguez ‘halfway decent’ in goal violated at least five PR guidelines.
He’s trying to make me feel better about my spectacular mistake. And succeeding. At least, a little. My pulse does a little fluttery thing every time my watch buzzes, even though this is professional courtesy. Nothing more.
And there it goes again.You were being human. Honestly, it’s refreshing.
I pull up short. Refreshing? What does that mean? Refreshing compared to what? Compared to my normal state? Is he saying he likes seeing me so…uninhibited? That’s…not good. That’s the opposite of good.
Stop it, McKenna, I chastise myself.The man is just being kind, trying to make me feel better. Don’t read more into it.
He’s still texting.Speaking of nutrition crises, any chance you’re available for a consultation?
I squint at the screen. A consultation? Where’s he going with this? He knows I’m off today. He is, too. The whole team has a recovery day after the road trip.
I’ll be at work tomorrow.
What about tonight?
My pulse jumps. Tonight? A nutrition consultation? That’s not a professional question. It’s an invitation wrapped in the thinnest veneer of work talk. I consider my response for a minute.
Tell me more about this nutrition crisis.
I’m trying to match his tone—light, teasing, but still technically work-related.
It’s a pizza emergency
Oh no. My mouth goes dry, and it has nothing to do with the Phoenix heat. I rub the scar on my chin, considering my response.
A pizza emergency?
I’m stalling. I know I am. But I need to understand what we’re talking about here. Colleague dinner? Friendly gesture? Or something that will get me fired faster than you can say “conflict of interest”?
The kind where I order three different kinds of pizza because I can’t decide. A completely condiment-safe environment, I promise.
I bark out a laugh, startling a lizard that scurries under a nearby Palo Verde. How is it possible Emmitt Buckley can make a condiment-safe environment sound charming and funny, and somehow also…intimate?
Maybe, he just wants to clear the air, so things won’t be weird at work from now on. Even so, a tiny slice of my frontal lobe whistles like a referee in overtime. There’s team policy to consider, professional boundaries to remember, and career suicide to avoid.
But God, the chance to apologize properly in person someplace besides the office? To explain I’m not actually an unstable person who regularly drunk-dials coworkers is tempting.
I’d appreciate a chance to set the record straight about last night.
