I was late. So late. Like I was going to be fired if I didn't hurry my ass up and get to the office ten minutes ago kind of late. It wasn’t my fault though. And I had been texting my boss regularly this morning with updates letting him know where I was, since subway service into Grand Central Station had come to a grinding halt. All thanks to some random dickhead who decided jumping onto the tracks to retrieve their cellphone was a brilliant idea.

Could you believe that shit?

What kind of moron do you have to be to think that's a good idea?

I bet if you lined up one thousand random New Yorkers, they would all tell you that as much as it sucked, they would leave the cellphone and get a replacement one instead. But there is always that special someone isn't there? Luckily, this very, very special person didn't get hurt, but still. Their decision to play Russian roulette with their life because of a cellphone caused service to come to a grinding halt for the past hour and a half. And has caused me to be late to the important meeting my boss texted me about last night.

As if he could read my mind, I received yet another warning text from my boss:

Five minutes and counting.

I started to sprint what was left of the one and a half city blocks down Forty-Second Street, dodging all the natives, pretzel peddlers, and obviously clueless tourists until I finally reached my building. Paulie Number One, half of the security guard duo that manned the front desk, was already propping open the gate for me. While Paulie Number Two, the other half of the security guard duo was yelling the play by play as I raced for the elevator.

“And he turns the corner. He's rumbling and tumbling trying to make the finish line. Will he do it? Will Max Allen go all the way?”

Everyone in the lobby, including me, were smiling or laughing at Paulie's colorful commentary. Sure, I had been late a time or two...or maybe at least once a week, but whatever. I stayed late and made up the difference every single time it happened. Plus, my job made me stay up until dawn some days. So waking up at six o'clock in the morning just wasn't in the cards for me.

The familiar ding of the elevator signaled its arrival and Paulie Number One and Two started applauding, as did most of the people waiting along with me. I would have appreciated it a little more were it not for the fact that my five minutes were nearly up.

I was standing in the corner of the elevator silently counting all the other late arrivals that were now boarding it like a fucking clown car. Great, I'll never make it now, I thought to myself. But then I glanced up and was relieved to see that most of these people were actually getting off at my floor: the fourteenth to be exact. Which was weird because I had never seen these people before in my life. But that just goes to show you how crazy busy and never-a-dull-moment the floor I worked on was.

Within seconds, we zoomed up and arrived at the fourteenth floor. The doors opened and the majority of us marched out one by one and scattered like mice to wherever we were supposed to go.

And that's when I heard it. Technically, that's when I heard him. My boss, Oliver Tanner Giles the Third, the Program Director for WBIX, channel fourteen in New York City and the tristate area. An expat from Australia who sounded more and more like an angry Crocodile Dundee the louder he got...or drunker he got, whichever you had the pleasure of being around. Me, I’ve been witness to both, and the drunk version was way more fun. He loved three things in this life and was quick to remind you of those things at any given moment: Australia, tanning beds, and last but not least, puppies.

Oliver was a sucker for dogs, sure, who wasn’t? But if you mentioned the word puppies around him, he turned into a big softie and could easily launch into an hour-long conversation about how puppies were the answer to the ills of the world. He’d probably end up telling you that if our world leaders were ever trapped in a room full of puppies, there would never be another war or skirmish again.

“Max Allen,” he bellowed from across the bullpen of cubicles, “if you're not in my office in five seconds, kiss your sweet arse goodbye.”

I stopped by the cubicle that I shared with Adam, my cameraman and co-segment producer on my show, threw my messenger bag at him without missing a beat and sprinted to Oliver's office.

“Good luck and Godspeed, my man,” Adam said to my back.

Barreling into my boss’ office as he was loudly counting down to number one, I had to stop and rest my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

“Well, well, well,” Oliver said, “the prodigal son returns.”

“Give...me…a…minute.”

“Sure, take your time. I’m in no rush whatsoever and more concerned about you.”

“Thanks,” I answered in between more panting. “I really appreciate that, boss.”

“Of course, of course.” He motioned towards his empty couch. “Max, you look knackered, mate. Would you like to have a seat and put your feet up?”

“That would be great, thanks.” Ever so slowly, I dragged myself over to the couch in the one corner of his office. It afforded the person laying in it the most amazing views of Midtown Manhattan on a clear day like today. Stretching out as much as possible, I had to put my feet up on the opposite arm to make myself fit. “I’m so tired. I didn’t get home until super late from the club and probably didn’t fall asleep for another hour after that and then I—”

“I don’t give a shit!” He yelled suddenly, and I just about fell off the couch. “Do you know why I don’t give a shit?”

Sitting up straight, I shook my head in response, feeling like a little kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Because I pay you to be here on time, do your job, and never complain, mate!”

“Right, right, sorry, boss.” Dammit, I’m such an idiot because I should have known something was up. Oliver was never that nice to me…or anyone else for that matter. He was always only ever interested in the ratings. Which, yeah, my show was doing well. But it could be a little better by now.

“Okay then, let’s start over, shall we?” he asked sarcastically and motioned towards the empty chair in front of his sprawling glass desk.

I knew better than to say jackshit at this point. Instead, I hauled ass to the empty seat and planted myself in it.

“Would you like some coffee or water, Max?”

Even though I would have murdered someone for a steaming hot cup of black coffee, I couldn’t tell if Oliver was messing with me again or not, so I took the safe way out and told him no thanks to either.

“Very well,” he said and then turned his attention to his keyboard. After a few clicks, and without looking at me, he asked, “Max, do you follow any of the station’s social media accounts?”

The fact that he was so calm about it set off alarm bells in my head. I had no idea where he was going with this line of questioning or what it had to do with his text from last night about the opportunity of a lifetime, but I was starting to get nervous.

“Yeah, sure I do.”

Oliver’s leathery skin stretched to a sneer the likes of which The Grinch himself would be jealous of. I thought it would be a good idea to expand on my answer before he jumped all over it looking for an opening to crucify me again.

“So then you do read some of the comments, right?”

“For the most part, yeah I read them. But I don’t sit around and read all the feedback, boss. I don’t have that kind of time,” I said.

Truth be told, some viewers really didn’t like me. I mean, more like they seriously made it their life’s work to hate on me. But the more I read those types of comments, the more it made me second-guess myself. And I couldn’t afford that since I was the star of the show. Plus, for every person who didn’t like me, there were a lot more who adored me. That had to count for something, right?

Right.

“Of course, mate. Of course,” Oliver said. “Then you know what some of the male viewers have been saying, yes?”

I was blessed with the looks of a fucking Adonis, so yeah, men usually hated me anyway. I paid their bullshit complaints little to no attention at all. Let me put it this way, if I had a nickel for every single time some guy was jealous of me, I’d be rich.

Oh, wait! I am a rich. So, fuck them.

Shrugging my shoulders, I replied with ease, “A few haters never killed anyone.”

“Let’s see, shall we?” With another click or two on his keyboard, Oliver then announced, “Here’s one tweet that says, ‘Max Allen needs to get hit by a bus. #pleasebabyjesus.’”

“That’s not so bad,” I said through a chuckle. “I’ve heard a lot worse. Hell, I think my big brothers can come up with better ones.”

Oliver ignored me and kept right on reciting more tweets. “Here’s another one, ‘It looks like his face caught on fire and someone tried to put it out with a fork.’ And another, ‘I wish Max Allen’s mom would have swallowed instead.’”

He was starting to cackle like a hyena. “All right, I get it, boss. Men don’t—”

“Wait, wait,” Oliver managed to say between his laughing fit. “One more, ‘Max Allen has more dick in his personality than he does in his pants. #dickless.’”

“Boss, I—”

“‘Max Allen looks like two pounds of shit in a one pound bag.’” Oliver was laughing so loudly he had to stop for a second to gain his composure. “Oh, and this one! This is my favorite, mate, ‘If Max Allen could suck his own dick, then he would finally suck at everything. #eatadick #buteatyoursbro #suckyourdick #maxsucksdick #dickdickdick.’”

Oliver was having the time of his life reading off these awful tweets about me, super loud, too. So loud that his assistant and the assistant to his assistant, or intern, or whatever the fuck they were to him, were cracking up. One of them yelled out, “Dude, you have to go to the Twitter feed right now!”

And then, like a wave of dominoes falling over, one by one, the rest of the office was reading the same tweets and laughing their butts off. Thank God I had thick skin, or I would take it personally.

“All right,” Oliver wheezed while he wiped the tears from his eyes. “Oh my God, those are priceless.”

“Yeah, right. Priceless.”

The office pool’s laughter was starting to die down just outside of Oliver’s door. But just as my boss cleared his throat to finally discuss whatever the hell he thought was so important, a random, “Hashtag dickless” was shouted from the office bullpen.

Oliver, who I could tell was at least trying not to overtly laugh out loud at that one, stood and went over to his office door to slam it shut.

“Sorry, Max,” he said when he made his way back to his desk. “But part of the reason I wanted to talk to you has to do with the…the,” he chuckled one last time and then cleared his throat, “the complaints from the male viewers.”

“In what way?”

“Well here’s the thing. Those tweets I just read off to you are but a tiny taste of the blowback the station has been receiving about you.” I was starting to panic a bit now because where the fuck was this going? Was he going to fire me? “Relax, Max, I’m not going to fire you.”

“Oookay,” I said, mildly relieved but still not having a clue as to what any of this meant.

Oliver leaned back in his chair far enough so that he could kick his feet up. After planting them with authority onto the corner of his desk, he looked me in the eye and said, “Mate, you’ve been cursed with good looks. That mug of yours is the problem. That and the fact that you come off as a wanker sometimes, but that’s kind of the appeal, too, isn’t it?”

And the hits just kept on coming.

“Um, I guess?”

“Trust me, Max, it works to your advantage,” he said dismissively. “I’ve been thinking about a way to make you— and the show of course, more appealing to the eighteen to twenty-four-year-old male demographic.”

I perked up a bit in my seat because I did have a few ideas of how to expand the audience. For one, I had been toying with the thought of doing a segment once a month where the viewers would send in their suggestions of what spots in the city I should hit up next. I said as much to Oliver and then added, “We can maybe even have the viewer make an appearance on the episode. Kind of like how Guy Fieri does sometimes on Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.”

My boss barely cracked a grin. I was on the verge of thinking of ways I could incorporate puppies into the show when Oliver interrupted my thoughts. “I’ve got the answer to our problems, Max. And it’s the opportunity of the lifetime if we play our cards right.”

“Really? You do? Then why didn’t you say so in the first place, boss?”

The way he started to type away blindly at his keyboard made him look like a mad scientist. He stopped for a second, peeked up at his screen, and froze at whatever was staring back at him. A small smile was starting to make its way onto his face at whatever had his attention. And then, after a few more rapid clicks of his mouse, he turned his focus at me and asked, “Have you ever seen this?”

Even before Oliver turned the monitor around, I already knew what he was going to show me thanks to that familiar voice coming from his speakers and the talking over the footage. That voice, which made me want to jump off a cliff sometimes, belonged to the one and only Daphne Rodriguez. The same Daphne Rodriguez who I couldn’t stand and, as of last night, vowed I would never worry about again.

Apparently, Oliver had other plans. And whatever the fuck those plans were, I wanted no part of them. I was already bracing myself to not let my hate bleed through and show on my face. But when I saw Daphne on the screen in front of me, smiling and laughing and having a grand fucking time, I couldn’t help it. It must have been pretty bad too, because Oliver honed in on my reaction immediately.

“Mate, what’s with the long face? She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Just look at her!”

“Yeah, sure, she’s okay to look at,” I said. Obviously, she was more than okay, but damn if I was going to admit it. “But what the hell does she have to do with what we were talking about?”

Oliver pressed the pause button on the playback of Daphne’s YouTube channel. It froze as she was in the middle of talking to the camera. And by camera, I meant her phone camera, since she wasn’t a professional like me. That made me grin a bit because I would always have that to hold over her head even if she was a little thief. A sexy as fuck little thief, but a thief just the same.

“Say hello to your new co-host, Max.”

“You’re joking?!”

“I never joke about ratings, mate.” Oliver was still staring in awe at Daphne on the monitor, frozen in mid-sentence. “She’s bloody gorgeous, Max. And the amount of followers she has makes Moses look like a loner.”

“That’s great. Good for her. But there is no way in hell that I will ever allow Daphne Rodriguez to be my co-host!” I took a breath because I was so close to losing it. Technically, I had lost it, once already when Oliver forced me to watch her YouTube clip. But I was trying hard not to have a full-on breakdown in my boss’s office. Failing miserably at it, but still trying.

“Are you telling me you don’t want to work with Daphne?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” I answered slightly relieved. “That woman is the devil incarnate. And I refuse to work with her.”

“Is that your final answer?”

I nodded in response.

Oliver wrapped his knuckles against his glass desk. I could only sit and stare in silence as he continued to do this over and over for a few long and painful seconds. Then all at once, his spacious corner office started to feel like it was caving in on me. The look on my boss’s face wasn’t helping my anxiety either. He seemed as if he was mulling a million and one ways to kill me…vividly, I might add.

“Max,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “You know I like you, right?”

Reassured, I sat up a little straighter in my seat. “Of course I do.”

“Good. That’s good to hear, mate. So you won’t take it personal when I tell that if you don’t get that woman to be your co-host,” he pointed to the monitor on his desk with a huge smile. “You’re fired.”