“Just come clean. Who did you pay for this article? This feminist trash? How’d you do it?” Oscar demands, in a way that makes me want to kick him straight in the dick, if we’re being honest.
Dylan scoffs. “You are a real piece of work and I mean that as disrespectfully as possible. We didn’t pay anyone. The magazine reached out to Blair’s manager. I told you that.”
“This is such bullshit. Why are you leaning into this? She’s nothing other than a washed-up collegiate athlete, a dime a dozen.” Oscar yells over Dylan, then slams his hand on something, probably the desk. “Benny wants a trade. If you’re going to keep entertaining this, he’s going to walk. Choosebetween your future hall of fame kicker or your PR stunt that’s dragged for long enough.”
And before I can stop him, Tyson is walking into Dylan’s office.
“You’ve got some balls coming in here, talking like that, don’t you?” He gets chest to chest with Oscar. “Why don’t you keep going?”
Dylan immediately gets between them. Turning to Tyson, he says, “I need you to go to practice, don’t give this idiot the time of day. Believe me.”
Oscar jumps in. “I heard that!”
Dylan turns to him. “Good. You were meant to.”
This whole thing is ridiculous. Someone who I’ve met one time is threatened enough to come into my place of work and complain about me being here. He’s trying to make me feel small, like I don’t fit.
When Dylan uses the intercom to call security, Oscar looks at me, head to toe, and snarls, “You’re not even close to being worth it.”
It doesn’t sting in the sense of what he’s saying; right now, it’s the fact that he thinks he has the right to say anything. Just because he’s someone’s agent? Or manager? Where do these men find the audacity?
“I’d rather talk to a wall than give you another ounce of my energy, Oswald.”
“It’s Oscar.”
“Don’t care,” I laugh, thinking about how he called me the wrong name when we first met.
There are more things I want to say, actually kind of want to scream, but Dylan stands in front of me.
My coach sighs. “Tyson, Blair, go. Get to the weight room or something. I’ll find you.”
I pull at Tyson’s arm and we leave. We’re only a few steps away from the door when we pass security. People pop their heads out of their office to see what’s going on as Oscar shows he has no dignity and continues to spew his bullshit when he’s being walked out. My name is still fresh on his lips.
We walk down the hallway and my head tips down, watching the floor in front of me. A pit opens in the pit of my stomach and a wave of nausea washes over me. I hate that I heard him; that I had to tell Tyson this wasn’t the first time I’ve had an interaction like this. Hate that Dylan had to call security for a grown-ass adult. And hate that it feels like I’m doing a walk of shame in the place where I was so excited to come to today.
Sure, I’ve had one interaction with this man, where I barely put up with his shit, but he was awful. Acting like he didn’t know my name, doing things I’ve dealt with my whole life. People trying to make you feel like you don’t fit or you’re not here to take up space? Those who question your ability because of what you look like? Keeping opportunities from you because you don’t fit the mold? It’s fucking exhausting.
I’ve dealt with guys like Oscar my whole life. On the field. In the gym. At the damn grocery store. The kind of men who puff up the second they feel small next to a woman, or anyone, with a bit of talent or confidence. Apparently, the thought of me being part of this, around his client, was too much.
Tyson’s quiet beside me, but his fists are balled, his jaw working. I know he’s biting back words. Not because he’s afraid to say them—Tyson is never afraid—but because of me. Because he’s trying to respect the fact that I hate a scene.
“Blair,” he starts when we’re finally alone, standing in front of the weight room door, “you know none of that shit was true, right?”
Leaning against the wall, I cross my arms, trying to keep my voice steady. “Doesn’t matter if it was real. It still happened. Still made everyone stop and stare.”
He reaches out, grabbing my shoulder. “They weren’t staring because they believed him. They were staring because you were handling it. They were watching a woman who wasn’t afraid to take up space. Also, becausehe’s the fucking worst. I’ve heard enough and seen enough—there’s no way the front office staff will let him back in the building.”
I look away, blinking fast. I know he means it. I do. But I also know what it looked like—the way I shrank, the way I couldn’t even meet anyone’s eyes in the hallway.
“I hate that he made me feel like I don’t belong here. That he makes me question if it’s a PR stunt or if it’s real. Feels like I keep having to prove I belong here. Like it doesn’t matter how many reps I hit, or plays I run, or hours I put in. There’s always someone waiting to tell me I don’t measure up.”
Tyson’s hand slides up to hold my cheek, gentle and full of care. “Then they better get used to the sight of you measuring past them.” I lean into it, even though we shouldn’t be doing this here. He pulls his hand away, realizing the risk. “Don’t think about one loser in Coach’s office. Think about the entire team who cheered you on after the article. The stadiums are full of fans cheering you on, even when they’re wearing another team’s jersey. All the little girls you’re inspiring.”
I feel something crack open in my chest, the realization that no matter what, people like Oscar will exist. They’ll try to take others down simply because they think they can. It’s barely about me and mostly about them.
Doesn’t mean it still doesn’t sting.
Tyson stands and offers me his hand. “C’mon. Let’s lift something heavy until the world makes sense again.” The man comes in when he knows I need an out from this situation. He knows me.
