I was prepared for press inquiries. I had interviews set up. Press conferences for the next two weeks were scheduled. I was ready with Quinton’s mission statement and the press kit we prepared before the launch. What I wasn’t prepared for were the calls and emails from other teams’ PR managers, telling me that their owners are starting to panic and I need to figure out a way to shut Quinton’s protesting down and fast.

I wasn’t prepared to hear from the players union about staying in my lane and telling Quinton if he was so worried about this, he should’ve done more than taking a knee and throwing them underneath the bus. That they had to worry about current players and now cleaning up his mess before they can actually protect the players he’s claiming to be so worried about.

Even though I listened to Quinton as we set up the foundation, he always seemed to skate around the details of the individual charities he wanted to focus on. And he did a full-on dance routine when I tried to get him to tell me what, exactly, pension parity is and why it means so much to him.

On the surface, I get it. Equal pensions. Cool. Easy. But there’s been a piece of this puzzle that’s been missing since day one.

And figuring it out is why I’ve been ignoring my emails and why I continue to do so until my office phone begins to ring on my desk.

“This is Elliot,” I say, half distracted reading about one of my dad’s favorite players who is now struggling with ALS.

“Elliot, yes.” The voice on the other end is familiar. “I have been sending you emails for the last twenty minutes. Mr. Mahler would like to see you in his office now,” Gemma—I now recognize—says into the phone before disconnecting without a goodbye.

“Oh shit.” I open my email and see seven new emails from the man upstairs.

“You alright?” Quinton’s deep voice makes me jump in my seat.

“Fuck!” My vocabulary continues to spiral out of control when I check the clock and realize it’s three minutes before I’m scheduled to meet with Quinton and of course he’s not late, like a considerate person. “Shit.” I shake my head, trying to clear out all of the profanity that is occupying my brain right now. “I mean, I’m so sorry. Mr. Mahler needs to meet with me.”

His thick eyebrows arch to his hairline. “About what?”

“Another project I’m working on for him.” I spin back to my computer, hoping to close all of the tabs I have open fast enough that Quinton won’t see what I’ve been obsessing over. I’m sure the last thing he needs to be reminded of is a former player with ALS. “Don’t worry, this one isn’t about you.”