Did he say he wants me to be the Lions’ social media manager?
Yup. I most definitely need to have my ears checked.
“Is that a problem?” he prods.
Shoving my hair over one shoulder, I admit, “I guess I’m a little lost. You want to hire me as a social media manager?”
“Yes.”
I shake my head. “Why?”
“You’re talented. Experienced. You have a way of attracting people. And we both know the Lions could use some good publicity after all the messes with Thorne and Taylor.”
The man has a point.
The Lions could definitely use some good publicity after all the chaos surrounding Colt and Theodore. For some reason I still don’t fully understand, their names have been splashed in the media left and right. And as the articles are published, each one slowly shifts from good publicity to…not-so-good publicity. Especially after the shitshow last night when Colt was alleged to be an abusive cheater, and Theo was accused of serving alcohol to someone who’s underage and happens to be his fiancée.
Yikes.
When I’ve stayed silent for too long, Buchanan continues. “Your salary will start at one hundred thousand dollars a year with benefits and all expenses paid during travel.”
“A hundred thousand a year?” I nearly choke out. “Are you kidding me?”
“Are you saying it isn’t enough?”
“I’m saying I don’t like handouts,” I remind him for the hundredth time, “and it’s a lot of money. I have no experience, I––”
“You have over three million followers across your personal social media platforms and have taken zero contracts from companies who would happily compensate you for your time. Instead, you choose to pay for everything you review out of your own pocket, which has garnered more trust from your followers than the majority of influencers on any platform. Your videos and posts have a seventy percent interaction rate, and––”
“You’ve done your research,” I note. “Still doesn’t mean I like handouts.”
“This is not a handout.”
“It’s definitely a handout, and we both know it. I don’t need your help.”
“I appreciate your grit, Mia,” he murmurs. “I do. It’s rare to find these days. While I appreciate your determination, I won’t sugarcoat the corner you have backed yourself into. If you plan to stay in Lockwood Heights, you do need my help. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with taking it.”
“There’s everything wrong with it,” I argue.
“What is so wrong with needing my help, Mia?”
“Because I don’t want it,” I blurt out. “Whatever…obligation you feel toward me isn’t necessary. Being a former friend of Troy’s doesn’t mean you’re required to clean up his mess. And to be honest, we both know who my father was, and the likelihood of me following in his footsteps and being a fuck-up like him isn’t exactly a stretch, so just…stop.”
I suck in a deep breath, surprised by the word vomit I’ve spewed all over this conversation. But what’s worse? The quiet following it.
I should be used to it by now.
Anytime someone finds out about my dad’s death, an awkward silence woven with pity falls over the conversation, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I shouldn’t be surprised Buchanan’s acting the same way. After all, we’ve been tiptoeing around our tangled pasts and how they’ve been snarled together into some fucked-up knot for years. But it would be nice if we could have an actual conversation about it. Instead, we’re going to keep pretending the only reason he’s helping me is because I’m qualified for the job when I have no real experience. At all.
Hello, Land of Delusion.
Chewing on my thumbnail, I play devil’s advocate and consider the idea.
Okay, yes. I’m good at social media. And, yes. I have a lot of followers. It’s an escape. A way for me to disconnect from the real world and focus on random shit I enjoy without worrying about repercussions or opinions from the people around me. But it doesn’t mean I’m qualified to do it for an actual corporation or anything.
He’s crazy.
He has to be.
As if he can feel me actually losing my marbles and considering his offer, Buchanan orders, “Take the job, Mia.”
“No.”
“Take the job,” he repeats.
“Not unless you admit you’re only offering it to me because you feel guilty for my dad’s death.”
I don’t know why I need to hear it. Why I need to have my nose rubbed in the fact I can’t do this on my own. Maybe it’s my own warped self-deprecation taking the wheel, but I can’t help it. I wanna know. I wanna know the truth in all its dirty glory.
“Fine,” Buchanan growls. “I feel guilty. I should have seen the signs with Troy. He was my best friend. I should have seen him spiraling. Should have recognized how far gone he was. He was dating my little sister at the time. He could have hurt her the same way he hurt your father. He fucked up your mom’s life and yours. So, yeah. I feel guilty. But I’m also a selfish man, Mia. A selfish businessman. Have you seen the articles posted after last night regarding Colt and Theo? The publicity is making the Lions look like a train wreck, and I need your help to rectify it. To put the team in a better light. If I didn’t think you could handle the position, I wouldn’t offer it. I watched your work. Studied your posts. You have a way of making people…feel. Of making people want to root for you. I need people to root for the Lions, and I think you can make them.”
Well, damn.
I have a feeling a compliment from Henry Buchanan is a rare treat, and he just gifted me with one.
Biting my thumbnail again, I consider his offer, letting it marinate for a few long seconds.
Dropping my hand back to my lap, I ask, “And I can still work at SeaBird?”
“You can do whatever the fuck you want, Mia. You always have. Why do you think this would be any different?”
My mouth flickers with amusement, but I hold it back. “The salary’s too much.”
I swear I can hear the mirth in his voice as he says, “I’m not going to cut your salary simply because you’re too stubborn to see your own worth.”
He thinks I’m worth 100k per year?
I’d laugh if I wasn’t so desperate for financial freedom. And I am desperate. Despite my pride and my need to handle everything on my own, the prospect of a new apartment and a job allowing me to travel and excellent pay is almost more than I can bear. And this time, I won’t let my aversion to money ruin my future like it did the last time. This time, I’ll be smart. I’ll save. I’ll still give to charity, but I won’t do it to my detriment. I’ll actually think things through instead of being impulsive.
I will.
Don’t be stupid, Mia. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your future.
“Do we have a deal?” Buchanan prods.
“Fine,” I concede, even though it kills me.
“Good. As I mentioned, I expect you to travel with the team. Be present at the press conferences and games. You will shadow the players inside the locker room and outside of it and compile photos, videos, and every other thing you need to convince people to care about the Lions. To root for the team. To purchase tickets.”