Man of the Year
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The two men agreed, and Samantha moved on to her office. She smiled, thinking about Stuart and Lane. As a creative team, they worked together beautifully, though she sometimes thought that they shared the same mind. Often you’d ask a question of one, and the other would answer. Or one would finish the sentence that the other had started. Nice guys, but odd—perfect for advertising and her company.
As she went through the door to her office, Samantha noticed a short, blond spike of hair peeking over the top of her blue swivel chair. Those pale spikes could only belong to Brenda Miller, Samantha’s right-hand woman. Brenda kept Samantha’s world organized. She followed the progress of current projects, passed on the information she thought needed to be heard, and filed the rest for future use. Samantha was certain Brenda could do at least seven things at once. Besides all that, Brenda was Samantha’s closest friend.
“Hey, what is this? Some sort of coup?” Samantha teased. “I’m gone for two hours, and you’ve already taken over.”
“Samantha!” Brenda spun around in her boss’s chair, ignoring her teasing. “How did everything go? Did you meet the team?”
The question was laced with more excitement and zest than Brenda usually mustered for business. She and her husband, Craig, a lawyer, were dedicated Rainiers fans. She had made Samantha promise that she would get autographs of any new players for Brenda’s collection.
“It was fine.” Samantha dropped her briefcase to the floor and perched on the edge of the desk, flipping through the mail piled on it.
“Come on, Samantha,” Brenda begged. “Fine cannot describe a trip to a locker room full of half-naked, gorgeous hunks of male flesh.”
Samantha laughed. “Why do you think they were half-naked?”
“Wishful thinking.”
Samantha chuckled at Brenda’s wistful look. “Well, I might have noticed one or two that were wearing less than the regulation uniform.” An image of Jarrett Corliss wrapped in a damp towel popped into her mind, as if it were a jack-in-the-box that had wound itself up, springing into her head unannounced. Samantha blinked, pushed the image back into the box and slammed the lid tight.
“What do you mean? Or should I say who do you mean?”
“No one,” Samantha denied firmly.
“Bull. You met someone.”
Samantha shook her head. “I’ll tell you later. What’s happened here at the factory?”
Brenda allowed the subject change without comment. “Running wild and crazy as usual. If there are any problems, everyone seems to be handling them on their own and not sharing them with me.” She levered herself out of Samantha’s chair with some effort. “Boy, that gets harder to do every day.”
Samantha reached out and helped her friend to her feet, steadied her, then patted the protruding stomach. Six months pregnant, Brenda had started to waddle a bit. “Junior giving you problems today?”
“Only when he does a tap dance on my bladder.” She sighed. “Now, the urgent mail is on the left, the not-so-urgent is on the right, the important messages are here, I fielded the rest. You want a cup of coffee?”
“I can get one myself. I thought the smell made you nauseous.” Samantha sat and looked over the piles Brenda had indicated.
“Not anymore,” Brenda said with a grimace. “Now cat food, that makes me green.” Both women laughed at that.
“Then, yes, thank you. I’d love a cup. And if you’ve got time, I’d like to go over the material I picked up at the Rainiers today. I think I have a campaign just about figured out.”
“Jeez, you’re quick. Stuart and Lane will be disappointed. They want to come up with all the brilliant ideas.”
Samantha wiggled her eyebrows and did a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “I had a lot of inspiration while I was there.”
Brenda groaned. “Okay, I’ll get my notepad and the coffee and be right back.”
Samantha pulled a thick file from her briefcase. She took an envelope of photographs from the file and went to the large worktable just outside her office door. Around her, activity buzzed. Stuart and Lane took turns shooting a foam basketball through a hoop over the windows. Samantha didn’t ask what that had to do with auto parts. A printer hummed, spitting out paper. Carol hunched over a computer, composing a layout. Somewhere in the back Pam argued on the phone.
Samantha spread the photographs out before her on the table. Eight-by-ten headshots mingled with the “action” poses that she had always found corny. She pulled out the headshots and lined them across the table. Players were identified by name across the bottom of each photo. Other personal data, vital statistics and averages were listed on the back. None of the official information said much about the individuals. Samantha recalled her conversations with the players: their jokes, their quirks, their stories all came back to her.
“So this is the new team.” Brenda peeked over Samantha’s shoulder. “Here’s your coffee.”
“Thanks.”
“Not bad.” Brenda picked up a photo. “Hey, this is Jos'e Alvendia. He used to play for Houston. Craig and I wondered what had happened to him. He used to be really good.”
“Let’s hope he’s still really good.” Samantha eyed the photo. “Between you and me, Elliott told me that this is the last chance he’s giving the team. If they don’t turn things around, he’s going to sell it.”
“What? I thought the city had a contract with him for two years.”
“No, only one year is guaranteed. The second year depends on this season’s revenues.”
“You think they can do it? Pull the club out of the toilet, I mean?” Brenda knew as much or more about the team as anyone, and the skepticism was evident in her tone.
“I don’t know. Elliott’s put some money into getting players. About half of these guys are new this year.” Samantha waved at the spread of photos with her coffee cup. “But your guess is as good as anyone’s whether they can pull it off.”