When I FaceTimed with Lotus last night, showing her my outfit options for this interview, we agreed this pencil skirt was perfect. Now it feels too tight, like it’s highlighting all the assets on my body and overshadowing the ones on my resumé. And did this blouse cling to my breasts like this before? Did they grow overnight? I check the pins securing my hair into a knot at my neck. A light dusting of powder and a few touches of color are my only concessions to makeup. Anxiety knots the muscles of my stomach.

“You’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath. My GPA is high. Armed with several semesters’ worth of training and experience, plus letters of recommendation from all my professors, I should feel confident. This is the one, though. The opportunity on my list that I want more than all the rest.

I did my homework. Richter Sports is up and coming, and Jared Foster is one of their hungriest agents. Seeing his name on the interview list only ratcheted my nervousness.

I match the number on my interview guide to the one on the door. Today is a sports market job fair of sorts, and everyone who is anyone in the business is here looking for fresh, cheap talent. That’s me. I’ll work for nearly nothing. Just give me a chance, and I’ll make the most of it.

I knock, tensing while I wait for a response.

“Come in,” a deep voice calls beyond the door.

Inside, a broad-shouldered man, maybe in his early thirties, sits behind the too-clean desk taking up so much of the borrowed space. Something about his shock of blond hair and his ruggedly handsome face tug at my memory, but I can’t place him. I can’t think where we would have met.

“Hey.” His eyes slowly slide over me from top to toes, masculine appreciation quickly replaced with professional indifference. “On-air talent is up the hall, I believe.” He returns his attention to the papers in front of him, offering me a dismissive nod. “Close the door on your way out if you don’t mind.”

Gritting my teeth, I tighten my fingers around the folder holding my resumé. “I’m . . .” I clear my throat and start again. “I’m not here to audition for television. I’m here about the sports marketing internship.”

He lifts his head, assessing me with new eyes, and I hope seeing past the things on which men always seem to place a premium.

“Is that right?” The seat creaks when he tips it back. “My apologies. I’m Jared Foster, resident chauvinist douchebag.”

An involuntary smile quirks my lips at his roundabout apology for the presumption.

“And you are?” he asks, his firm lips yielding to a smile of his own.

“Iris DuPree.”

“Well, Iris DuPree.” He nods to the straight-backed chair across from him. “Let’s get started and see what you got.”

With every minute that passes and each question he poses, my nerves dissolve into the calm that comes with competence—with knowing you are fully capable of meeting the challenge ahead. I haven’t wasted the last four years. When I wasn’t working at the bookstore, I was studying the industry, working for free when need be, to learn the ropes and practice what the sports market experts preached. His demeanor goes from indulgent but skeptical, to shrewd and speculative. And finally, to impressed.

“So, Iris,” he says, meeting my eyes with more respect than when he assumed I was only good for a close-up, “I always end my interviews with this question. What’s a moment in sports that inspired you?”

I don’t even have to think about it. I’ve had to familiarize myself with most sports, but basketball is my first love.

“Ninety-seven NBA Finals,” I answer, relaxing my shoulders and unknotting my fingers. “Utah Jazz and Chicago Bulls.”

“Game five,” we say together, sharing a smile because he knows exactly where I’m going.

“Jordan was sick as a dog,” I say, “but somehow, he dug deep into reserves that most people don’t even have and willed that game into the win column. It was Herculean.”

“Good one.” Jared nods approvingly. “And what did that say to you?”

“Let nothing hold you back or keep you down.” Conviction rings in my voice because those are lessons I had to learn growing up, a child of the Ninth Ward. A Katrina refugee from a city that had to reincarnate itself more than once. “Even when you think you’re defeated, dig deeper. Go harder. Press, because there is something worth it on the other side.”

“Good lesson.” Jared glances down at my resumé, lifting his eyebrows and nodding. “You’ve been busy. This all looks good.”

“Thank you.” I fight back a premature smile.

“If offered the opportunity,” Jared continues, “you realize it pays next to nothing, will take over your entire life, and requires you to relocate to Chicago.”

The money, or lack of, doesn’t matter. I’ve learned to live with less than most. Hard work has never scared me.

Caleb’s face flashes through my mind, creased with disappointment if I make a decision before we know where he’ll be drafted. And for some reason, August’s face follows soon after. And his words, cautioning me not to lose myself in the world he and Caleb will enter soon. It’s been two weeks since the championship, but I’ve thought of him more than once, and his advice in my head is exactly what I need to hear.

“I’m willing to do what it takes for this chance.” I infuse the words with confidence and meet his eyes without hesitation.

“Good.” He stands and walks around the desk, prompting me to stand, too. “We have a few more of these job fairs to do, and we won’t make selections for the next couple of months, but you definitely impressed me, Iris. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you.” I force myself to breathe evenly, but my heart is sprinting. A job like this is exactly the kind of opportunity I need to launch my career in the business of sports.

Jared grabs my hand for a firm shake. “And, hey. I’m sorry again for starting on the wrong foot. Assuming you were on-air talent—”

“Nothing wrong with on-air talent,” I interject with a forgiving smile. “Some of the smartest people I know sit in front of the camera. I just don’t happen to be one of them.”

He releases my hand and walks over to the door. I’m following him when my stomach roils like an angry ocean. Nausea washes over me, so strong it takes my breath, makes my mouth water and dots perspiration across my skin. My eyes stretch when I feel my breakfast reversing, making its way up my throat. I part my lips, prepared to give a quick goodbye and make a hasty departure, but it’s too late. It’s sudden and inevitable. Everything in my stomach ejects from my mouth in a putrid stream.

And splatters all over Jared Foster.