“You what?” my father pressed.
Apparently, I beheaded a six-foot-two bird made of foam, polyester, and acrylic feathers that goes by the name of Sparkles and represents immortality. According to the video evidence.
But saying that wouldn’t help, so my mouth hung open for what felt like the longest five seconds in history, and… I didn’t say a single thing.
My father’s head tilted to the side. “Please, I’d love for you to explain.”
My heart pounded. But there was nothing I could say, not without prompting a conversation I wasn’t ready or equipped for. Not right now, and possibly not ever.
“It was…” I trailed off, once more hating the quality of my voice. “A forceful encounter. An accident.”
David, who had been uncharacteristically quiet the last few minutes, snorted, and my face, so often called indifferent and cool, flamed.
My father placed the iPad on his desk with a sigh. “We’re lucky David persuaded Paul not to press charges or sue us.”
Charges. A lawsuit.
I felt sick to my stomach.
“I offered him a raise, which he obviously accepted,” David added. “After all, this was such an out-of-character outburst for our very… composed Adalyn.”
The way he said the word composed, as if it was something bad, a flaw, hit me square in the chest.
“We asked for the tape of the event,” my father continued. “After you all but fled the… scene. But someone must have recorded the incident with their phone. David suspects it was one of the interns that came in with the camera crew.”
David tsked. “Impossible to know for sure, though.”
I couldn’t believe this was happening. God, I couldn’t believe what I had done.
A foreign and odd sensation pushed at the back of my eyes. It was like a prick of warmth that made my sight… misty. Was this—No. Were these— No. It couldn’t be. I couldn’t be about to cry.
“It’s just a video,” I said, but all I could think about was that I couldn’t recall the last time I’d cried. “It will blow over.” The sting in my eyes increased. “If there’s something I know about the internet it is that everything is fleeting and short-lived.” Why couldn’t I remember the last time I’d cried? “No one will care about it tomorrow.”
David’s phone pinged, and he slipped it out of his pocket. “Oh,” he said, looking at the screen. “I somehow doubt that. Seems like we’re getting more than a few press inquiries. For you.”
That was definitely concerning, but something else clicked. “Why…” I frowned, looked down at my phone. Nothing was there. “That email should come to me. Why am I not cc’d?” David shrugged and my father exhaled loudly from his post. Again. I glanced back at him, and his expression made something in me shift into action. “We can turn this around.” My voice sounded desperate. “I can turn this around. I swear. I will find a way to benefit from the wave of extra attention. Even the hashtag. We all know the team is not making headlines as it is, and we have been stuck at the bottom of the Eastern Conference for so long that…”
My father’s face hardened, his eyes turning an icy shade of blue.
Silence, heavy and thick, crystallized in the room.
And I knew then, in the way his eyelashes swept up and down, that whatever battle I’d been fighting was over. I’d said out loud the one thing that made his switch flip. The Miami Flames were in the mud. We hadn’t gotten to the playoffs in more than a decade. We were far from filling up stadiums. This was the one investment Andrew Underwood had made that hadn’t turned a profit. The one that had cost him more than just money. His pride.
“I just meant that—” I started.
But my battle was now lost. “ ‘Mascot Slaughter in Miami Flames’ Home,’ ” he read from the iPad. “How’s that for some extra attention?”
I swallowed. “I think the use of the word slaughter is a stretch.”
He gave me a curt nod before continuing, “ ‘MLS Miami Flames’ Anniversary Ends in Massacre.’ ”
“Massacre also seems like the wrong word.”
My father’s index finger rose in the air. “ ‘Miami’s Favorite Bird Was Plucked and Roasted. Whose Head Will Roll Next?’ ” That finger returned to the screen and swiped. “ ‘Sparkles Deserved to Die.’ ” Another swipe. “ ‘A Love Letter to Lady Birdinator.’ ”
Lady Birdinator. Jesus.
I scoffed, earning a glance from a smirking David. “Those media outlets are just cashing in for easy clicks. They’re not making any serious assessments that should concern us or the franchise. My team will put together a strategy. We’ll send out a press release. We—”
“ ‘Daughter of Miami Flames Owner, Andrew Underwood, and Former Runway Model, Maricela Reyes, on the Spot After Horrible Incident with Team Mascot.’ ”
That clammy sensation that had covered my skin since I’d entered this office climbed up my spine. Arms. Back of my neck.
He continued, “ ‘Adalyn Reyes Unhinged. Who Is the Heiress to the Underwood Empire?’ ” I closed my eyes. “ ‘Miami Flames FC Under Review. Is the Club Finally Crumbling Down?’ ” A drop of cold sweat trailed down my back. “ ‘Has Dull and Boring Flames’ Head of Communications Finally Found Some Fire in Her? Female Rage Explained.’ ”
Dull and boring.
Finally found some fire in her.
Female rage.
It didn’t matter how straight I held myself in that moment, it was impossible to ignore how small I felt. Inadequate. And when I shifted my weight, even my tailored pantsuit felt wrong. Loose and prickly against my skin. Like I didn’t belong in it.
“Well.” My father’s voice brought me back. I refocused on him. His face. The hardness in his eyes. “I’m going to be honest, these are a little wordy to be headlines, but I guess it doesn’t matter when they hit the nail on the head.” A pause. “Do you still think this is attention we could benefit from, Adalyn?”
I shook my head.
The man I’d looked up to and tried to impress so exhaustingly hard throughout all the years I’d worked for the club sighed. “Would you at least tell us what in the world prompted this?” he asked, and the question caught me so off guard, so unprepared, that I could only stand there, gaping at him.
“I…” I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Not with David right there. Maybe if he’d asked me yesterday, intercepted me and demanded an answer right as I was fleeing the scene, as he’d put it. Maybe I would have told him then. I clearly hadn’t been myself. But I couldn’t now.
I’d only prove that those accusations were right. That I was unprofessional. Unqualified for my job, and the job I aspired to have one day. How could I be in charge of anything when I’d lost it like that?
“Sweetheart,” David said, making me turn toward him. I couldn’t believe I’d ever allowed him to call me anything but Adalyn. But at least now, I knew why he had the courage to still do so. “You look so pale. Are you feeling okay?”