I shake the thought from my mind because I have no time for self-pity. It’s like I’m staring down a race clock again. I decide that the rest of today will be better. No more run-ins with judgmental douchebags, I hope.
Checking the time, I make a beeline for the break room to mix Oliver’s requisite shake before the meeting.
“Charlotte, is everything OK?” Shauna from HR sidles up next to me and continues walking with me toward the break room. It’s weird to be called by my legal name, but, of course, it’s on all the paperwork she had me sign: NDA, Healthcare, retirement savings, and other benefit registrations.
“Exec meeting starts in three minutes,” I tell her. “And I’ll need every second to whip up Oliver’s shake.”
Shauna is about ten years older than me, with an impeccable tan, blond highlights, a bright tropical-print pantsuit, and an even brighter smile. “Run, walk, or crawl,” she says and points at the quote on the wall leading to the company kitchen with a knowing smile.
This is the official rule for crossing the finish line at any FIRE event. While elite athletes like my dad can win his age group, many sign up just to do the thing, to finish before the race cut-off. Finishing at all is a huge accomplishment.
We both laugh, and I’m relieved by her generosity.
“Do you need a coffee?” Shauna offers. “You must be exhausted with the time change from the West Coast.”
“You’re so kind. I’ll be good,” I demur, not wanting to explain I don’t drink coffee unless it is a half-caf iced latte, so really one-eighth caf in the entire mug. I worry it sounds too high-maintenance. Although my radical shift in dietishigh-maintenance, the head of HR doesn’t need to know that on Day One.
“Let me show you what you need for Oliver’s shake,” she says. It’s strange how everyone here calls him Oliver – so formal – when to me he’s always been Uncle Ollie. I watch Shauna pull out the items needed for his protein and collagen shake, committing their location to memory.
When the blender finishes groaning, I pour the concoction into a glass with the FIRE logo etched on it – the liquid matches both the consistency and color of a murky mud pie.
I’m about to walk-run out of the break room when a woman in three-inch heels, their soles crimson, click-clacks imperiously toward the water cooler. Her flowing raven tresses fall perfectly across her shoulders. Her outfit is impeccable, her cheekbones high and sharp. She makes quite an entrance.
The woman doesn’t so much as glance at me or Shauna until the head of HR clears her throat.
Shauna starts the introductions. “Celine, this is Charlotte Ross. She’s our new executive assistant.”
I smile and timidly extend a hand. Celine assesses me, considering if she should accept. “Everyone calls me Charlie,” I add nervously, my fingers itching to grab the hair tie on my wrist and put my hair up. As a lifelong runner and then a coach, a ponytail was practically a uniform. For my first corporate job, I took time to blow-dry my hair this morning. The Florida humidity had other plans.
“Celine Charboneau,” she says, a French lilt to her words. With tight lips, she offers me a limp hand and a quick shake. “I run our public relations.”PR? More likeProject Runway.I thought I would be comically overdressed today in a navy pinstripe pencil skirt and blue button-up. Given the attire of the women with me in the break room, I now know I’m woefully underdressed.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I reply, but Celine is already breezing through the exit with her full bottle of water. There’s no time to contemplate her cold greeting.
I thank Shauna again for her help and hustle into the conference room, placing Oliver’s shake at the head of the table before I take a seat in the back corner, pen in hand, ready to learn and take notes.
A man in his mid-forties wearing an eccentric plaid button-down, a smartwatch on his wrist, and a micro laptop tucked under one arm, is the first to enter. He walks right toward me, beaming. “You must be Charlie.” He extends a hand. I stand to greet him. “I’m Ian Turner, chief technology officer and the head of network security.”
Isn’t CTO and head of network security the same thing?I want to ask. But I don’t. His title is a mouthful and sounds redundant to me, but some people like having long titles.
“Welcome aboard. I know Oliver can be busy, and I am too, but if you need anything, never hesitate to reach out,” he offers with a nod. Ian glances at his watch. “Oliver should be here momentarily. He’s still on with the Sri Lankan minister of defense.”
What in the world does the minister of defense have to talk about with the CEO of an endurance-sports company?
“Right,” I say. “Of course.” I must have misheard. Ian must have said minister for sport. I’m overwhelmed by how much there is to learn, so I don’t question it. I took so much for granted in my last job. I knew everyone; they knew me. Now I’m starting from scratch.
Ian glances at the platters of sandwiches that Ana and I laid on the back table. “I hope you won’t think me rude if I abandon you for a chicken wrap, Charlie.”
I laugh and take my seat. “Not at all. Although I’d recommend the mojo pork sandwiches – I saw them making it fresh.”
“Don’t mind if I do. Always good to have insider intel.” He strolls toward the buffet table.
Uncle Ollie strides purposefully into the room, talking to the CFO – Finn. He cuts an imposing figure. Oliver Hawkins is an endurance-sports icon. He looks like he just stepped off a cover shoot for a glossy sports mag: gray polo and green chinos, his salt-and-pepper hair buzzed.
“Charlie, you’re in the room. You’re sitting at the table,” Oliver commands without looking at me. My cheeks heat and I move from my inconspicuous corner to a chair at the middle of the table. When I sit down, I hazard a glance over at Oliver and he gives me a wink. “You’ve got this,” he mouths, and I feel a surge of confidence. He takes a sip of the shake and doesn’t immediately spit it out.Phew.
I’m taking in the view of the bay from the windows as the execs grab their sandwiches. The midday sun is dazzling on the calm water, shooting rays in different directions. I’m struck once again by the epic nature of this job, this office, this company.It’s an epic job because I can still do epic shit!I tell myself.
“Where’s Davidson?” Finn asks.
