Naomi rolls her eyes so hard she nearly loses her balance. He didn’t even glance at her. She could stop walking right now, pull off her blouse, and reveal her ample tits decked out in a pair of bedazzled nipple tassels, and he’d still act like she didn’t exist.
Never mind that she’s been working with Richard for two years, hustling harder than half the senior team, and picking up the slack when he disappears to golf outings disguised as meetings with clients that magically leave him unavailable for hours.
It doesn’t help that she looks young. Freckles sprinkled across her button nose. Reddish auburn hair that refuses to look sleek no matter how many serums she applies. Shorter than most people’s eye level, which is super fun when she’s trying to project confidence and authority.
Richard saves his attention for Mila—if you can call constant nitpicking and haughty disdain “attention.”
He glances sideways at her, mouth curled like he’s smelled something offensive.
“Your briefing packet was thin,” he says, voice sharp. “We can’t afford to look unprepared in front of Glen.”
Ah, yes. Feedback with the warmth of a meat locker.
They’re meeting with Glen Polworthy, the Whalers’ head of communications, to walk through everything Hollis Group has already rolled out from their Toronto office and to nail down the last details for tomorrow’s event at the children’s hospital. It’s a packed agenda, and, for Naomi, it's her first time meeting Glen in person. This is their chance to press the flesh, show the team how hard they’ve been working behind the scenes.
“You didn’t include comparisons from last year's first quarter to show our success. That should’ve been in here.”
Mila smiles, but it’s thin. She’s learned to weaponize her composure—a skill Naomi hopes to replicate one day. “The packet had everything Glen asked for. If you need more data, it’s in the shared drive.”
Naomi glances at each of them. The air between Richard and Mila practically crackles, and not in the fun, competitive way, more like in the “HR would shit a brick if they knew how much these two hate each other's guts” way.
A receptionist leads them to a tired-looking conference room where Glen is waiting. He’s somewhere in his fifties, with a balding crown and a build that likely used to be fit but has gone a little soft around the middle.
His whole face lights up when he sees them.
The Whalers hired them to handle marketing and events this season—a full-service package covering everything from game-day promotions to digital strategy. With a tiny in-house crew made up of Glen and a handful of overworked new grads, they’re counting on Naomi, Mila, and the Hollis crew to transform the Whalers from Hartford’s forgotten son, the team that hasn’t seen a playoff berth in seven years, into the city’s favorite legacy.
“Mila! Naomi! Richard.” Glen’s gaze lands on each in turn, warm for Mila, brief for Naomi, brisk for Richard.
They get settled, and soon the table is scattered with glossymock-ups, sponsorship decks, and Naomi’s color-coded agenda. Glen doesn’t waste time.
“Numbers are fantastic,” he says, tapping the reports Naomi had spent the last week perfecting. “Email open rates are the highest we’ve had in three years. And ticket sales for next weekend are already spiking. Clearly, the campaign your team created is off to a strong start.”
Naomi feels a gush of pleasure at Glen’s praise. She can’t stop the tiny curl of a smile. This is her copy. Her fingerprints. For once, she isn’t the lackey shuffling papers behind the star.
Richard, predictably, clears his throat. “Let’s not pat ourselves on the back prematurely. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
Naomi clenches her pen so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t snap. Of course he’d dismiss it. That’s his whole thing—to piss on the parade before anyone else can enjoy it.
Mila nods smoothly, pressing on as if Richard had not commented. “So. Tomorrow’s event. We’ve confirmed the pediatric wing is ready for the player visit. Logistics are locked. The players will arrive at ten, visit with kids, hand out mini sticks and foam pucks. We’ve invited photographers from all the local papers. Then, we hold a press briefing and announce the Whalers Wish Box initiative.”
The Whalers Wish Box is Mila’s brainchild. Every week, the team will host kids from the hospital in a private suite, complete with jerseys, snacks, player meet-and-greets, and on-site nurses funded by the team to ensure that every child who needs medical support can enjoy the full experience safely and without limitation.
Mila leans forward, voice warm. “It’s a beautiful program. We’ll make sure the launch gets the attention it deserves.”
The meeting wraps with the usual shuffle of papers and polite handshakes. Glen shows them to the reception area and bids them farewell, and Mila makes a beeline for the exit.
Richard’s voice follows, a half-step behind.
“You should’ve taken more control,” he says, not evenbothering with a preamble. “Letting Glen open like that set a disorganized tone.”
Naomi watches Mila’s spine go rigid. The only sign she’s seething is the slight flare of her nostrils.
“Actually, Richard,” Mila says over her shoulder, “can you summarize your feedback in an email? Naomi and I are already late for that other thing.”
“Naomi,” Mila says quickly, looping her arm through hers. “We’re due downstairs.”
Richard opens his mouth, likely to bless them with more tart criticisms, but Mila’s already moving—pace brisk enough to yank Naomi into motion.
