Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I close my eyes briefly. “How many double charges?”
“Too many. And it’s spreading. People are tagging sponsors. Saying we don’t care about fans.”
Just fucking great. “We care very much,” I say flatly.
“Perception says otherwise.”
I stare out the window as we inch through Midtown. “Issue refunds immediately.”
Jimmy sighs heavily, and I can imagine him rubbing his temple to stave off a headache. “We are, but the backlog is huge and the statement we posted isn’t calming anyone down.”
“This is what I pay you for, Jimmy,” I say, my frustration growing. “What do you suggest?”
Silence crackles through the speaker as I patiently await his solution. That’s part of managing and leading… having the right people in place to handle such things, and I’m expecting Jimmy to have the right answer. “I don’t know,” he admits. “We can’t answer everyone individually. That would be inefficient.”
From the front seat, I hear the driver make a sound—sharp and involuntary, a scoff that slips out before manners can catch it.
I glance up and her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, wide and shocked. I tilt my head. “I’m sorry… did you want to add to the conversation?”
Her eyes grow rounder, and from the back seat, I can see her profile as her cheeks turn bright red. “I am so sorry,” she says, looking over her shoulder at me with apology written all over her face. “I’m just… I didn’t mean to do that.”
Christ… now that I’m getting a good look at her, even under what is a ridiculously large driver’s cap on her head, she’s beautiful. Bright blue eyes framed by dark lashes, a dusting of freckles over a delicate nose and sculpted cheekbones. Her lips are full, tinted with a hint of pink gloss.
And why am I so charmed by her clear, albeit muted, disgust over my conversation with Jimmy? “No, I insist. You clearly have an opinion on the matter. I’d like to hear it.”
“Sir… I’m—”
“I really do insist you tell me your thoughts,” I say, very aware that Jimmy is still listening on speakerphone. “It sounds like you have a solution?”
Her eyes flick back and forth between the road and the mirror, but it’s when I see her spine straighten that I know she’s going to give it up.
“If people are ignored,” she says slowly, “the volume gets louder. It’s a basic precept that in customer service, if you can’t fix the problem immediately, you must at least acknowledge first.” Her eyes come back to mine in the reflection for just a quick second. “Quickly. Personally. If you assign a small team to respond in real time—not copy-paste statements, but actual replies—with a clear step-by-step solution, it changes the tone. People want to know someone’s listening. Refund timelines. A direct email. A name attached to the message.”
On the phone, Jimmy issues a slight cough, maybe to remind me he’s still there.
“Anything else?” I ask the driver.
She nods. “Issue a small credit toward future games—anything tangible—which now reframes it from inconvenience to goodwill. It costs less than losing trust. Once you lose trust, it’s nearly impossible to regain it. I’d imagine sports fans are as ruthless as any customer base.”
Acknowledge first. Respond personally. Attach a name. Offer a concrete response. It isn’t corporate spin and it’s the right answer.
“I agree with that, Julian,” Jimmy says hurriedly.
I stare at the woman who is now staring resolutely at the traffic before her.
“I’ll call you back, Jimmy,” I say.
“Julian—” he says but I’m already disconnecting the call.
“I apologize, sir,” the driver says, her voice controlled but uncertain. “That wasn’t my place.”
I don’t respond because I’m thinking about how many executives sat in a room this morning trying to solve a reputational problem with spreadsheets—and the most practical solution came from the woman behind the wheel.
It wasn’t flashy but seemingly grounded in experience. And it might just save us millions.
The silence stretches, thickened by the low hum of the engine and the distant chorus of Manhattan traffic pressing in from every direction. In the front seat, I see the subtle shift in her posture—the way her shoulders square a little tighter, how her hands adjust on the steering wheel as though she can physically steer herself back into neutrality.
“That was some pretty savvy advice,” I say finally.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says again, more subdued now. “Again, that wasn’t my place.”
Before I can answer, I hear the soft mechanical glide of the partition beginning to rise, the tinted glass sliding upward between us in a smooth, practiced motion designed to restore distance—employer and employee, back seat and front.
She’s retreating, trying to shut me out, but I still have so much more to discuss with her.
I press the control on my side without hesitation to stop the glass from rising. “How do you know so much about customer service?” I ask, removing my hand from the button and leaning slightly forward.