Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Little pussy.
Management didn’t find it nearly as funny as we did. Whole thing escalated, and I ended up in an office signing a statement confirming it was a joke—not harassment, not bullying, not a lawsuit waiting to happen.
This has been the extent of my relationship with corporate.
Until today.
I push through the glass door and hesitate, unsure what to do. I’m not usually in this part of the building unless my agent is accompanying me—and usually there’s a catered lunch.
“Hi.” The guy gives me a quick smile, fingers clicking away at the keyboard. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah. I need to speak to someone in charge.”
He nods.
Click, click click…
“And you are?”
I stare at him.
There are framed team photos on the wall. A life-size cardboard cutout of me in the lobby downstairs. My face has been on the side of a bus.
“Aaron Bishop.” I feel my nostrils flare.
His fingers touch the headset on his head. “And you’re with…?”
“With the team.”
“Right,” he says. “Of course. And what can we help you with today, Mr. Bishop?”
I shift my weight, already regretting every life choice that brought me here.
“I need to speak with the director of HR.”
His well-manicured eyebrows lift. “Is this regarding a workplace incident?”
“Yes.”
“What type of incident?”
“The kind I’d prefer to discuss privately,” I reply.
His lips press together. He glances down at his screen again. “We typically like to have some context before scheduling a meeting.”
“The context is none of your business.”
He swivels slightly, holding down a button on the side of his headset, speaking into the mouthpiece. “Yes, I have Mr. Aaron Bishop here at the desk requesting a meeting…” I hear him murmur. “Yes, ma’am. That Bishop.”
A beat later he straightens. “She can see you shortly. Please have a seat.” Pause. “Can I get you anything while you wait? A water or coffee?”
“No thanks.”
I lower my large body into an oversized leather chair and stare at the abstract painting across from me. It’s a large watercolor of ice. The men painted on it are faceless and distorted, their skates blurs in motion.
I rest my forearms on my thighs and clasp my hands together, thumbs rubbing absently until my left knee starts bouncing.
I clamp a hand over it.
This is humiliating.
Necessary, but humiliating.
Yesterday, I was in the locker room with Storm, half convinced I could fix this with a speech, possibly some expensive gifts, and some well-timed self-loathing during a pleading monologue.
Now, I’m in a corporate fishbowl waiting to confess that I fell for the right woman for the wrong reason and, if possible, could they give her a fucking break about it if anyone were to find out.
If she speaks to me after today.
“Mr. Bishop?” a young woman appears from around a doorway, navy suit, professional smile in place. “Tara is ready for you.”
Great.
I stand, rolling my shoulders back the same way I do when I’m about to step onto the ice, instead of into an office that smells of lemon furniture spray and clean carpet.
Framed diplomas line the far wall. A photo of the HR director with the team owner. Several bamboo plants. A long walnut table with eight chairs. Zero personality.
Tara McMillion sits at the head.
Mid-forties, maybe. Hair pulled back into something sleek and severe. The kind of woman who probably irons her bedsheets and files complaints alphabetically. She hadn’t thought I was funny the last time I was in her office.
To be fair, no one thinks I’m funny.
“Mr. Bishop.” She gestures to the chair across from her desk. “Please.”
Her assistant slides into a nearby seat with a tablet poised, ready to take notes. That feels excessive. Like I’m about to confess to tax evasion and it needs to be on file.
I sit.
Tara folds her hands neatly on her desk. Pastes a pleasant smile on her face. “How can we assist you today?”
I clear my throat. “I’m here to disclose a relationship.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
The assistant’s fingers hover above the screen, waiting for details.
“Go on,” Tara says evenly.
“With an employee.” I exhale through my nose. “She works on this floor.”
“Name?”
“Juliette Kennedy.”
The assistant’s fingers begin moving.
Tara nods once, glancing at her. “And how long has this relationship been ongoing?”
I scrub a hand down my unshaved jaw. “It’s new. Very new.”
Tara barely blinks. “Define new.”
“I don’t know. One week. Two?” Who’s keeping time? I do the mental math and still come up blank.
The assistant’s fingers move with quiet efficiency. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound feels louder than it should.
“And when did the relationship begin?” Tara asks. “Prior to or after the most recent update to the fraternization policy?”
I almost laugh.
Of course there would have been a recent update. That would be my fucking luck.
“Before,” I say. “I think.”
Tara folds her hands on the table. “Has Ms. Kennedy expressed any concern regarding this relationship in the workplace?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
That earns me another fractional shift of attention.