She gives it a tap with her perfectly manicured hand and pushes it open. “Mr. Adamson and Ms. Garrison.”
"Thanks, Mon, honey. Did you ask if they want coffee?"
Bobby Ryan is not my favorite studio executive I’ve ever met, but he’s the only contact I had. I met him through his assistant who was a huge hockey fan and thought this was a great idea. He helped me sell Bobby but then he left for a better position at a different streaming service. “Fisher, Tenley. Good to see you both again.”
“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances,” I say as I shake his hand and then take a seat on one of the leather club chairs facing his desk while Fisher shakes his hand. “The news that our show is being shelved is pretty disheartening.”
“There’s a lot of heartbreak in this business, honey,” Bobby says, and I try not to clench my jaw at his inappropriate and ridiculous use of honey. “This isn’t the worst kind. Think of this like… the guy you match with on Tinder who doesn’t message you right away. But he likes you… he swiped right… and he may reach out one day.”
Is he really comparing my life's work to online dating? I must look as stunned as I feel because he quickly backtracks, in the worst way possible. Bobby chuckles. "What am I saying? A girl like you probably has no idea what it's like to have a guy backburner you. I mean just look at you."
“I don’t use online dating,” I reply, my voice even but edgy.
Fisher clears his throat, knowing this is going downhill fast. “We’re here to figure out what more we can do to get you and the network to reconsider.”
“Well, it really wasn’t my call. I was good to go with it after your last round of edits on the trailer you made. Adding in more on the retired players, the legends we all know and love, really helped.” He leans forward, his elbows on his desk, his expensive suit jacket crumpled, like he slept in it. “But truth? We got a new head of programming two weeks ago and she’s not into it. I tried. I promise. Hell, your dad was my hero growing up. I’m from Connecticut. Played myself and watched him from the day he was drafted.”
I nod. Bobby looks genuinely sad, but that doesn’t make me feel better.
“Does this new director not see how Drive to Survive blew up?” Fisher asks. “Who would have guessed Americans would get behind F1 over Nascar.”
“I tried and I will continue to try,” Bobby promises, but it feels hollow. Maybe it’s just because I feel hollow now.
We stand because it's clear this meeting is over for Bobby, and I honestly don't know what else I can say to him. He's made it clear that he doesn't hold the cards. "Thanks for your time."
“If anything changes, I will let you know,” Bobby says. “Sometimes we cancel a show and are desperate for a replacement.”
Yeah because that’s how I envisioned my first documentary going on air—out of desperation. But I don’t make any of the snide comments in my head. I just give him a nod with a fake smile plastered on my face and leave his office. Fisher is right behind me. He doesn’t say a word, which is proof this is as depressing as I think it is. Fisher never shuts up.
We're walking back toward the receptionist and the doors that lead to the elevator when I stop. Fisher takes a couple more long strides before he realizes I'm not with him. He turns, confused. "You need a potty break before we drive home or what?"
I grab his hand and start hauling him down the hallway in the other direction, past the bathrooms. At the very end of the hall is the Head of Progamming's office. It's a corner office with a glass wall so you can see in and I catch sight of a tall woman in an expensive pantsuit with sleek, blunt-cut black hair pacing in front of a massive plate glass window that overlooks the Verdugo mountains.
This is either going to get me banned from the studio, arrested, or it’s going to get my documentary made. And those are listed in order of probability. Still, as Fisher whispers, “Don’t!” I turn the knob and walk right into her office. The name on the plaque on the door says Patrice Brophy.
She spins to face us, phone in her hand, looking utterly horrified. I smile, like I'm the head cheerleader at a pep rally. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ms. Brophy. I'm Tenley Garrison."
She blinks. Frowns. Talks into her phone. “I’ll have to call you back, Ed.”
She hangs up the phone and glares. “Do we have a meeting?”
“No. You actually just shelved my documentary program,” I explain. “Live, Breathe, Score.”
Her frown is deep yet the skin on her late forty-something face remains smooth and wrinkle-free. It's an L.A. thing. I try not to let my own smile falter. "I just wanted to give you our sizzle reel for the show."
“I saw it. Bobby showed it to me,” she says. “And you can’t just walk in here because you’re unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy,” I reply. “If you don’t want the show, I will shop it again. It’s fine. But I want to understand what it was that turned you off. So I can fix it. For other networks.”
She walks briskly past me to her desk. It's a clear plexiglass thing with a dark blue, high back, velour chair behind it. She doesn't sit or stop frowning. Yeah, those first two options of how this will play out seem highly likely now. "You can't take it to other networks. We shelved it. We didn't release it."
Now it’s my turn to blink in confusion. Fisher leans in and whispers, “She’s right. They still have the option.”
He clears his throat while I struggle to swallow that fact. It’s like swallowing barbed wire. Fisher steps in front of me. “I think we can work with you, to give it whatever extra oomph you want. Or to trim it if you think it’s a little too robust. Honestly, as our pitch said, this could be bigger than Drive to Survive.”
I nod, bobbing my head repeatedly like one of the stupid car dash ornaments. Patrice looks unconvinced and then she folds her arms over her chest, which says we’re done here. But I can’t let this go. “My family is entrenched in hockey. It’s our family’s dynasty. There’s even a sign when you enter Silver Bay, Maine, that calls my family members Hockey Royalty. I know what I’m doing. I know this sport inside and out. The good, the bad, and the ugly and I have no problem bringing it all to life in a pivotal, poignant, engaging way. No puck bunnies. No garbage. Just the real deal.”
She sighs. “That’s my problem.”
