I can’t even believe that I just landed this job. I mean, hello? The pay alone is three times what I was making at my last job, and I hated my last job.
With. A. Passion.
It was the most boring job on the face of the planet, and I literally had to force myself to get up and go in every day. I spent forty hours a week, sitting inside of my tiny little office, staring out the window, trying to crunch the numbers in my head to see if I could afford to quit.
Since of course, I couldn’t, I was forced to stay there, in cubicle city, staring at the only view that I had-which consisted of poop brown generic folding office dividers and the breakroom across the hall. The dividers were so thin, mind you, that every afternoon I could hear my creepy co-worker in the cubicle next to me, as he watched porn on his laptop.
Porn!
Gah. I avoided him like the plague, except working in such close quarters made it hard to do. And he wasn’t the only creep that worked there.
I don’t think that my boss ever actually looked me in the eyes. He was always too busy staring at my chest.
I swear, it was like it was actually a job requirement…Bachelors degree in business, check. Likes to stare at women’s chests…check. Watches porn in the afternoon and probably jerks off behind a desk…check.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
So, when I found this job posting online, I jumped at the opportunity. I couldn’t believe that I actually got called for the interview, and now?
I cannot freaking believe that the job is mine.
I’m pretty much on cloud nine right now, because not only will I be making bank here doing something that I actually love, I will not ever have to listen to nasty ass porn at 2pm.
Hallelujah.
On the outside, I’m trying to stay cool, but inside? Yeah. I’m freaking out and mentally high fiving myself.
I deserve a break, lord knows that I do. It’s long overdue for me, and I deserve this.
I mean, for real. I’m getting paid to manage social media accounts? I already manage my own, for completely free. Add into that the nice fact that I am now doing it for a professional baseball team?
Even better.
Baseball is my life. Well, at least it was growing up. With my dad being a professional baseball player turned coach and then commentator, my entire childhood revolved around the sport.
There is something to be said for the smell of the ball field, the fresh cut grass, tap beer, popcorn and hot dogs. It’s a smell that brings me right back to that feeling of being a kid, being completely carefree and feeling like you have the world at your feet.
Which ironically, is exactly the way that I feel right now.
I’m grinning like an idiot, I’m sure, as I scribble my life away, page after page, of my very lengthy contract.
“Well, Ms. Monroe, welcome aboard. Our team is very glad to have you.”
“I’m very glad to be here, sir.”
Mr. McAbey, the owner of the Carolina Rays clears his throat as I finish my first packet of papers, the boring ones of course, tax forms and such, before moving on to the next.
I glance at the first page of the contract, before my eyes fly up to his.
“Um, is this…?”
“A non-disclosure agreement, yes. It simply means that you may not speak of some of the things that you encounter with our players.”
My eyes flick back to the paper, and my head tilts slightly, because as I read it? That is not what it says at all.
The very first line of the very first page states, in all caps and bold print no less…
I, fill in the blank, AGREE TO NOT HAVE ANY TYPE OF SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH ANY MEMBER OF THE CAROLINA RAYS BASEBALL TEAM.
“Ok, but this says that I am agreeing not to have sex with your players. Is this, like, an issue?”
The look that I get in return requires no further discussion.
Alright. So, I guess, I can see where this would be a problem. I mean, let’s be honest here. These guys? They’re the stuff that wet dreams are made of.
All gorgeous, bodies fit and rock hard from hours of workouts, incredibly rich, obviously talented… I get it.
But, this is my dream job. I’ve wanted to work in this industry for as long as I can remember, but I wanted to do it on my own, and not with the help of my last name. And now that I am finally here? I would never jeopardize my career over some ball player, who I unfortunately know firsthand, are not, I repeat, are absolutely not worth a single moment of my time.
While I love baseball, I despise the men who play it. Kind of an oxymoron, right? Although it’s not just necessarily baseball players that have my disgust, it’s really just the entire population of professional athletes altogether.
I have seen first-hand just what most of these guys are like when their pictures aren’t being flashed on the screen. I know what it feels like to love them, even though loving them means ending up with a broken heart.
The summer before my sophomore year of high school, my entire world was sent into a tailspin, all at the hands of my cheating, scandal causing MLB player father.
While I knew that my parents had issues-it was impossible to miss, since my dad’s picture was often flashed in the tabloids, and it was never the result of a good thing, still. He was my dad, and I adored him.
But his relationship with my mom was tumultuous at best. I can remember the fighting before he would leave, her begging him to not be unfaithful to her, and then the crushing reality when she would find out that in fact, he had been, yet again.
But I learned to live with that- hell. I even thought that it was normal. I mean, didn’t everyone’s mom hole themselves up in their bedroom and cry their eyes out every night?
And it wasn’t like he was unkind to me. He adored me, doted on me, and spoiled me rotten with material items and love.
But then came that summer. It was just a week or so before my birthday, and since it was going to be my sweet sixteen, I had been planning my party for months.
Mom also had been helping me plan, and the guest list was huge.
I was super pumped, obviously.
That is, until that knock came to the door.
I don’t remember all of the details after that, because, I think that I was too in shock to absorb any of it. But, I do clearly remember standing there in the doorway, looking into two sets of eyes that matched my father’s perfectly.
Leni and Lucas had stood there, staring back at me, burning holes into my skin with their glares. Their mother came up behind them, dropping two bags on the doorstep before turning and walking away without a single glance backwards.
That part was bad, really freaking bad.
But the fighting that came after ended up being the absolute worst. Because that was when my mom dropped the bomb on the both of us that would forever change my life.
Stop taking his side. She had yelled to me, when I had tried to step into the middle of the argument. He isn’t even really your father.
The words had so easily rolled out of her mouth, that I don’t think she actually thought about what she was saying. It’s not like my mom has ever been super hurtful towards me. I know that it all happened in the heat of the moment, at the peak of probably one of the most horrific moments in her life, finding out that not only had your husband been unfaithful, but he had fathered two other children and had actually known about them.
Regardless of the circumstances though, in that moment, my world had been flipped upside down.
My party was cancelled and my father moved out, along with his now out in the open two other children. I was almost immediately shipped off to a boarding school, while my mom checked herself into a psychiatric facility over her suicidal thoughts stemming from that entire disaster.
My father demanded a DNA test, which he got shortly after the blowout. I got that final blow on a cold fall day, in the form of a carbon copied email, sent to me from the clinic.
Eric Monroe, the all-star centerfielder was not my father.
Not my father. I can’t even begin to explain what seeing those words did to me. This was my dad. The man that had rocked me to sleep every night that he was home. Who let me paint his fingernails and played dress up with me. Who sat at countless tea parties with me, wearing a feather boa because I had asked him to. The one who pointed to me in the stands every time he hit a homerun.
The one who sat in the back of my kindergarten classroom when I had been too afraid to stay alone. I could go on and on…
I had sat there, clutching my phone for the longest time, reading and re-reading the email, praying that it was wrong.
But the words never changed. At that point, I was too numb to even cry, although plenty of tears were shed later.
I wanted some kind of validation from him, some kind of action letting me know that genetics didn’t mean squat to him, and that I was still his daughter.
Hell, I had been his daughter for sixteen years of my life! He was my dad, biological or not.
But, validation never came.
I spent the next year feeling totally alone. I spent all the holidays that year by myself, away at school, while all my classmates went home.
But, I no longer had a home. I mean, there was a house, but it was definitely not a home.
My mom ended up leaving the facility sometime that year, but she became so wrapped up in putting herself back together that she basically forgot that she had a completely broken teenage daughter to fix.
So, yeah. It’s a pretty shitty story, and it doesn’t have a good ending. But it’s my story, and if I’ve learned anything from it, it is this.
Baseball players equal heartbreak. No freaking way would I ever get myself involved in any of that.
So, for me? This job is perfect. Because if sleeping with the players has been an issue in the past, Mr. McAbey can rest assured.
That just isn’t happening for me.
“No worries there, Mr. McAbey. This is work for me, and I will keep it professional at all times.”
“Good.” He replies, still sizing me up. “Your last boss told me the exact same thing about you, Ms. Monroe, which is why you are so appealing to me.”
Shocker. He was probably just trying to keep me from outing him on all the creepiness that went on there, but…whatever.
“How quickly can you get started?”
“I mean, I have some things to get in order,” For example, moving myself across the country. “So, I could officially start next week?”
“Good. That’s very good. Now once you get the paperwork filled out, I will have Cynthia here show you where your new office will be located. After that, I will bring you down to meet the guys. They should be wrapping up their practice in about an hour and will be happy to meet you.”
I’m too busy high fiving myself in my head for scoring such a kick ass job, that I totally miss the way his assistant Cynthia’s eyes widen as he finishes his statement.
I’m damn near skipping down the hall after Cynthia, a middle-aged woman who wears a stern look on her face seemingly all the time. Ok, so maybe that’s just her face or maybe she is just having a bad day, but whatever.
She could at least attempt to smile. It’s not like her face would crack.
She leads me down a long narrow hallway, voices echoing out from behind the closed doors of the other rooms.
We stop at the last door on the right, and she motions to it with her thumb.
“This will be you.” Her gaze turns towards me, and she all but rolls her eyes as my grin widens.
“I have an office.” I’m grinning like a fool, staring at the door. It’s an actual door. I am seriously on cloud nine here. I mentally imagine myself opening and shutting my door, strutting inside of my very own office.
It’s going to be so awesome.
I glance at the door, and nearly collapse.
I even have a plaque on the door, listing my title.
Of course, it’s just an abbreviation of my title, which is Manager of Media. The bold capital letters M.O.M shine against the gold banner.
For a fleeting moment, I debate asking Cynthia to take a picture of me standing in front of my door. This is a moment that I want to savor, for freaking ever. And of course, I totally want to send it to my best friend…and upload it to Facebook…Twitter…Snapchat…Instagram, send it in a mass text…
I’m just about to ask her when she cuts her eyes at me again, so I force my mouth shut, deciding against it.
I’ll just have to take a selfie later, once she is far out of my sight.
“Well, I’ll just leave you here then, to do…” she glances down her nose at me one last time, “Whatever it is that you are doing.”
Her voice is full of disdain, but honestly? I couldn’t care less.
All that matters to me in this moment, is that I have made it. This is my dream job, and no one is going to knock me off my cloud right now. Especially not snotty old Cynthia.
“Thanks!” I shout after her, as she stalks off back down the hallway. Good riddance, crotchety old lady.
My hand pauses on the doorknob, and I take a deep breath, trying to savor this moment, right before I open the door.
The sound of sniffling hits me first, and for a moment, I stare at the woman inside of the office and panic.
“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry…I must be in the wrong office.”
A set of empty eyes swing my way, as the brown-haired woman shakes her head.
“No, probably not. I’m so sorry, my stuff was already supposed to be out of here. I’m just about done.”
“Umm…” I have no words.
It’s the most uncomfortable feeling, ever. Her eyes are red from crying and she is sniffling like crazy, all while shoving things into a box that sits on top of the desk.
“I really can just go.” I take a step backwards, when she waves her hand.
“No need. Seriously, I’m almost done. I’ll be out of here in no time.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s obvious that this is the right office. I mean, Cynthia walked me directly here, plus my job title is clearly listed on the door. But its awkward as hell, knowing that I am most likely replacing this crying woman.
“So, you must be the new mommy.” Her eyes don’t even meet mine, as her empty voice washes over me.
“I’m sorry? New mommy? I’m the manager of…”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Manager of media. Right. You’re the new mommy.” She rolls her eyes before finishing off her statement with a grunt.
“You’re too pretty.”
“Um, thank you?”
“They’re going to eat you alive.”
I blink several times, before jumping to my feet.
“Who is going to eat me alive? I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
She tosses the last of her belongings into her box before picking it up. As her eyes swing my way, she simply shakes her head and makes a beeline for the door.
“My name isn’t important. I didn’t even make it long enough to get my name plaque made. I doubt you’ll make it that long either.”
Without another word, she exits through the door, the door that five minutes ago I was over the moon about having.
I stand for the longest time, just staring at the closed door, wondering what in the hell I have gotten myself into.