In It to Win It

Noelle

After Cin leaves, I spend the rest of my workday combing through applicants to replace Lindy, but it’s fruitless.

My brain stopped working the second I’d had my pornographic fantasy interrupted by its star actor.

And the plane crash my mood took shortly after? Just another sign I should probably start looking through Indeed when I get home.

The irony isn’t lost on me that half my staff thinks I’m PMSing, meanwhile the cause for my shit disposition in the first place is Cincinnati Barker himself.

If all I felt for Cin was lust, I could probably get over the sexual frustration. But with every passing year, my sad dating life is just one more reminder that I’m holding out for a miracle-laced unicorn.

And to be an accomplished, self-respecting businesswoman? I’m all too aware of just how pathetic that sounds.

My mid-twenties are supposed to be my prime—too young to be jaded and old enough for financial stability—but I can’t seem to clear the six-foot-three hurdle that stands between me and inner peace.

It doesn’t matter that I tell myself daily that girls like me aren’t the exception, but the rule. Nor does it compute that the longer I sit in the friendzone, the less likely it is I’ll ever make it out.

Because I’m not infatuated with Cin. I love him. Unconditionally and selflessly. I always have.

But with every half-wit but gorgeous fling I compare myself to, every Sunday brunch I’ve come to dread, I’m fast approaching one immutable conclusion—I can’t continue like this.

Being alone doesn’t scare me. I work with men every day and have yet to be tempted.

But I refuse to hold conference calls in my office while I pretend to ignore the torn condom wrappers on the nightstand or the faint sounds of a shower running in the background for the remainder of my youth.

I have at least a modicum of dignity and it’s in those moments she shakes her head at me, begging me to get a life.

I push open the door to the condo I share with my roommate Charlie and toss my keys onto the end table before sifting through my mail.

I’m halfway through the coupons on a Zaxby’s advert when my phone rings.

Cin. Again.

“Go away,” I groan, tossing my junk mail, appetite ruined. I exhale when the annoying sound of SWV’s Right Here shuts off.

Just a few months ago, I’d found his obsession with nineties R&B girl groups charming. Now I want to throw the thing against the wall every time I hear it.

God, I really need to get laid.

I distract myself with baseball highlights while I wait for Charlie to get home from class so I can start dinner.

Despite my insistence at avoiding anything related to my best friend, I’m actually a huge baseball fan with a fantasy team and everything.

I pull up the current statistics on my players and answer a few work emails but only an hour passes before my phone rings again.

I answer it this time. “Hello?”

“Yes, may I speak with Miss Pratt, please?”

“This is she,” I say, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder as I shift my laptop off my legs.

“This is Knox Greenwell from BNN. Do you have a few minutes?”

I frown. “Look, Mr. Greenwell. I don’t know how you got this number, but my answer is ‘no comment.’”

The deep voice on the other line booms with laughter. “Okay, fair enough. But I’m not calling for Cin, I was actually hoping to talk about you.”

That’s new.

Every once in a while, I get calls from reporters of the scandalous variety whenever they get bored of chasing some Real Housewife or other. Past the fishing expedition, the stalkerazzi are rarely interested in me.

“About?”

“Well, a job, actually.”

I nearly drop my phone. “I’m sorry?”

The Baseball News Network is one of the largest sports news platforms in the south. Despite its name, their reporters cover everything from boxing to the WNBA.

And based right here in Atlanta where the network was founded.

I might have been joking about hunting for a new job, but only an idiot would refuse to hear this out.

I once heard from a former classmate that they get thousands of applicants from all over the country just to accept one per year.

Mr. Greenwell chuckles. “We’ve actually been following you for quite a while, Miss Pratt.

“Summa Cum Laude in Bachelor of Science in Business Management and Masters of Business Administration from Spelman. Four years’ experience as Director of Operations for Barker Facilities.

“You probably boast the most qualified resume of half our staff and you’re younger than a quarter of our interns.”

“Let me guess, you’ve yet to meet your quota for diversity hires for the year?” I tease. “I’m not a biscuit, Greenwell. What’s the position?”

That gets me another laugh. “I’m not buttering you up, I swear. I just want you to know this is a serious offer. We find ourselves in need of a COO and your name made it to the top of the shortlist.

“I’ll admit, it’s unusual for us to consider a candidate this young, but what you’ve been able to accomplish with B-FAC in such a short amount of time is pretty remarkable.

“No pressure, but we’d like you to come in for a visit. Think of it as an informal interview of sorts.”

I’m going to need a crane to pick my jaw off the floor because what the ever-loving hell? Chief Operating Officer? For a sports broadcasting network?

Holy shit.

“Wow. Thank you,” I tell him. “Jokes aside, I’m surprised but honored. What day were you thinking?” I ask, already pulling up my schedule.

My teeth worry my lip. I’m already feeling like a terrible person for even considering this, but who in their right mind wouldn’t?

This job could open doors for me. Maybe even widen my non-existent social circle. At the very least, it can’t hurt to scope the place out.

“Any time next week. I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got another call on hold. Have your assistant get in contact with me and we’ll set up a time.”

“Yes, of course. My assistant will be in touch.” As soon as I hire one.

“Great. I look forward to talking with you in person and introducing you to the rest of our execs, Miss Pratt.”

Knox Greenwell ends the call and I sit, dumbfounded, wondering if that really just happened.

I don’t know how long it is before I return to Earth, but when I do, I hate that the first person I want to tell is the only one I can’t.

Maybe it really is time to move on.