“There is, actually.” I pull open the document I have filled with Glenn Chandler quotes and links to the videos or articles where he’s being quoted and slide the iPad across the table. “I’m aware that this isn’t an event under the Mustangs organization; however, as you’re the owner, it will be touted as one no matter what. I understand that you’re friendly with Mr. Chandler, but I’m not sure you’re aware of some of the deeply problematic things he has said recently.”

Mr. Mahler slips on his glasses as he takes the iPad from my hand. He starts reading the list, clicking on a few links as he does.

“I’m sure you understand that I’m just trying to protect your organization from the potential fallout that could come from you hosting a fundraiser while he’s spouting some things that are, quite frankly, racist.”

Take that, Quinton! I see racism and I call it out when I do!

Mr. Mahler takes off his glasses, tossing them on the table as he hands me back the iPad. “Racist? Come on. People are just too politically correct these days.” The smug smile does a terrible job at masking the irritation in his voice. “That’s what I love about Glenn. He says what people are too afraid to say, he shakes things up.”

“I’m sorry”—not fucking sorry—“but alluding that minorities are criminals and attacking immigrants is not just being politically incorrect. I can tell you, as a person of color, it is offensive.”

“Oh lord.” He huffs, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t tell me you’re pulling the race card.”

“Excuse me?” I must’ve heard him wrong. There’s no way he said what I thought he said. Right?

“You know what I mean, I thought you were different. Don’t go getting all offended and pulling the race card on me now.”

Wrong.

Heat blooms from deep within, my blood starting to boil with the rage that has been lingering beneath the surface for the last couple of weeks, as the final thread holding me together snaps.

First, I get Quinton accusing me of excusing racism. Then, when I do point out something that is glaringly racist, I get accused of using the race card. Whatever the fuck that is.

But more than the anger and shock of having him say those words to me, there’s pain. Excruciating pain that comes with the realization that no matter what I do, no matter who I am, no matter how old I am, there are people who will never see deeper than the color of my skin.

Hurt causes my voice to shake. “If anything, I give more passes than most people and you should listen to me because that is not a term I throw around lightly.”

“Sure it is,” he scoffs. “Only when things aren’t going your way, right?”