Chapter Four

FOUR

After a few minutes of small talk in which Ben and I each manage to converse with Eric without saying a word to each other, Eric heads off to the film room, humming a Harry Styles song off-key. Ben attempts to escape alongside him, already scrolling through his phone. "Hey, Callahan. Wait," I say.

He pivots back slowly and tears his eyes from the screen.

"Help me with these?" I point to the pennants hung high on the wall: one for each of the Eagles, Sixers, Phillies, and Flyers. He won't say no. Ben would help Darth Vader lift a heavy suitcase off a baggage claim carousel.

He eyes the stack of garbage on the filing cabinet. "I hope you're not planning to get rid of that. A lot of it is worth saving."

I open the top drawer and sweep the pile inside. "There. In case the National Archives call."

He shakes his head and reaches up to detach the Eagles pennant.

"I know what you're doing," I say.

"What I'm doing?"

"I know about the budget cuts." I lean back against the desk, crossing my arms. "The layoffs. Or layoff, singular. I get that you're worried about your job, but putting a target on my back to save your own ass isn't cool. I know you and Williams tried to convince Thomas that hiring me was a mistake. And I know you're trying to turn the managers against me before I've even met them. ‘ She doesn't deserve to be here. ' I have it on tape."

Outrage washes over his face. "Did you use your camera to spy on us? Wiretapping is a federal crime."

Deflection. What a coward. "Some would say that hair gel abuse is also a federal crime, but here we are," I say. "I had no idea you'd stoop so low, Ben. You've changed."

To his credit, he resists touching his hair. Instead, he stares, his eyes boring into me like he's trying to read my DNA. In another context, the intensity in his gaze would be sexier than—nope, not going there. Burning all evidence of that thought in my mental fireplace.

"And you haven't changed at all," he finally says. "You're the same person you were senior year."

I flinch. Oof, that's a sore spot. "I don't know what that's supposed to mean."

He can see that he hurt me, although I can't imagine he understands why. He has the decency to look chagrined. "Look, I didn't mean for it to be like this."

"It doesn't have to be," I say. "I want to keep this job. I'm sure you feel the same. We're in an awkward position, but Eric said it might not even happen. It's not definite yet."

Ben tosses the Phillies pennant onto the filing cabinet. "Eric is a great guy and his optimism is one of his best qualities, but he doesn't know what he's talking about. Do you think he's read our financial statements?"

"And you have," I say, because of course he has.

He presses his mouth into a flat line. "Things are bad. Millions of dollars bad."

"And that sucks, but it's not my fault!" I say. "Don't take it out on me."

He pulls the Flyers pennant from the wall. "I'm not trying to take it out on you. You clearly didn't know what you were getting into, but you'd be much better off looking for another job. You can't possibly understand the whole situation. You don't know this place anymore. So much has changed since you were last here."

Another poke at the bruise that never fades, and I can barely stand the condescension. But I take comfort in this: If he were confident in his job security, he wouldn't stress about me. He's afraid if we go head-to-head, I'm going to win. After all, there's a precedent for it.

He reaches for the Sixers pennant. "Leave it," I say sharply. "I like that one."

Junior year, when Maynard announced he'd recommended me for the Sixers internship, I was honestly a little surprised. It wasn't until later that I questioned his motives, revisiting the process again and again in my mind until it wrung me dry, trying to gauge whether I deserved it.

I'm pretty sure I did, but Ben deserved it too. And Ben had the kind of life where everything always worked out in his favor. Fancy prep school. The luxury of choosing a college based on where he wanted to play as a walk-on, without having to worry about getting an athletic scholarship. The ability to waltz into a student manager gig after he stopped playing sophomore year, to have Maynard immediately treat him as indispensable.

The head manager job was supposed to be all mine, but when Ben made the switch, Maynard divvied up the responsibilities between the two of us. I was uneasy, because it seemed like he assigned the most important tasks to Ben. Maynard wouldn't screw me over, I told myself. He was being considerate. I liked being a manager, but after college I didn't want to work in operations or administration. I wanted to be a videographer, and my reel would be stronger if I had more time to dedicate to that aspect of my job. He was looking out for me, or so I thought.

Ben and I made a great team. And when I got the Sixers internship, he was gracious. But the stakes are higher now. He could lose the job he's clung to for his entire adult life. He must love it, since he hasn't gone elsewhere by now. The stakes are higher for me too, because I don't have anywhere else to go.

Or maybe it has nothing to do with the internship. Maybe he heard I was recently named to Home Appliance Magazine 's 35 Under 35 list. That would leave anyone quaking in their team-issued Nikes.

Ben Fucking Callahan, my nemesis. It doesn't sound funny anymore.

The next morning, I reread the email I sent Ben before he insulted me on camera, before I confronted him about it. Ugh, I was so polite, and he never responded. He can't ice me out. We have jobs to do, and those jobs will involve interacting with each other. But it takes him over twenty-four hours to produce this:

Tuesday, 3:50 p.m.

From: Ben

To: Annie

Stats are on the website

He can't even spare me a period to go along with his assumption that I didn't look in the most obvious place first. This is someone who's supposed to know me.

Tuesday, 3:57 p.m.

From: Annie

To: Ben

Thanks, I did check the website before I emailed you since I like to think I'm not totally incompetent, but it actually didn't have everything I needed. The list I sent you yesterday (reattached here) is everything I couldn't find on the website and need you to send me.

Let me know if you have any questions.

Then nothing. I finish the parts of the video I can complete without his information and use my notes from Monday's meeting to fill in my calendar while I wait. And wait.

Wednesday, 4:07 p.m.

From: Annie

To: Ben

Hi Ben, just a reminder that as I mentioned in my prior emails, I need those stats (list attached here again) by the end of the day today. Thanks.

My deadline floats by. I write and rewrite my next email. I'd like to talk to him in person, but he's always hurrying in the opposite direction or hiding in his office with the door closed. I try knocking, but he doesn't answer. Once I manage to corner him in the kitchen, but his dark, stony gaze barely settles on me for a millisecond before he says, "Email me," and slips away as I call after him, "I did."

I make a great effort to restrain myself. It's only week one.

Thursday, 9:02 a.m.

From: Annie

To: Ben

Ben—Please forward me the stats I requested ASAP, no later than 5 pm today. The reason I asked for them by yesterday afternoon was that the video needs to be finalized by tonight. Everything is now ready to go except the stats. It's going to be a great video.

I'm sure you are super busy doing many important things, but this video is scheduled to go up by tomorrow morning, so please let me know if there is anything I can do to help get this done.

I'm relieved when his name pops up, until I read the email.

Thursday, 4:55 p.m.

From: Ben

To: Annie

Annie, I've been in meetings all day on some more urgent matters. What specifically are you looking for? Your last email didn't have an attachment.

I drag my hands down my face. It's pretty brazen of him to feign the inability to search his inbox.

Thursday, 4:57 p.m.

From: Annie

To: Ben

Attaching the list again here. Thanks!

Two minutes. Maybe responding so fast makes me look like I have nothing better to do, but I don't care. Personal vendettas aside, I need to finish this video tonight.

But he leaves the office without my noticing. He must've walked the other way down the hall on purpose so I wouldn't stop him, even though it takes twice as long to get to the stairs. This is sabotage, right? He's setting me up to fail.

Time for a different strategy. I pull out the directory so I can figure out Blue Monogrammed Vest's real name.

The next morning:

Friday, 9:04 a.m.

From: Ben

To: Annie

Had to leave early yesterday. Working on this now.

I'm triumphant as I write back.

Friday, 9:42 a.m.

From: Annie

To: Ben

No need, I spoke to Verona last night and he got me everything pretty quickly so I was able to get it done in time. The video is up on our social channels now if you want to see it. Thanks!

Ha. I've thwarted whatever blend of distraction and nonchalance he's using to make my life difficult. I'm not expecting another response from him, but I get one.

Friday, 2:54 p.m.

From: Ben

To: Annie

In the future please make sure any requests go through me rather than going to Verona. I see a few errors in the video. It looks like he pulled from the wrong file.

I have to do some deep-breathing exercises and take a quick lap around the building before I write my final email. I write it and then read it and then highlight the first four words, Per my previous emails, and change them to all caps— PER MY PREVIOUS EMAILS —turning them red and bold and increasing the font size to 24. I add the words EAT SHIT after EMAILS , then delete them and change the font back to normal.

Friday, 3:18 p.m.

From: Annie

To: Ben

Per my previous emails, I needed the info by Wednesday afternoon. I gave you an extra 24 hours, which required me to do some scrambling. I had no problem doing this, but it would have been helpful if you could have informed me of your inability to meet the deadline in advance. I had to come up with something by last night and Verona was still in the office, so I asked him.

Please send me the right numbers so I can figure out whether to delete and repost a corrected version.

A stress headache has my head pounding. I can already imagine Coach Thomas breaking the news to me at the end of the season: It was a tough decision. I'm sure you understand. And I would understand. Ben is an evil data genius with an eight-year-experience advantage. Our work is so different it can't be compared directly. If I don't excel, if I don't make myself undeniably valuable, they'll choose him by default. Easily.

Mom, Kat, Eric, and Cassie will pity me for getting punched in the gut by this team again. My inbox will sit empty as I send job application after job application out into the void. The remains of my dignity will wither and die, and I'll move back to Mom's house in New Jersey to live the sad little life of a former wunderkind who never amounted to anything.

Oh, god, my life is going to be a Bruce Springsteen song. I need to try harder.