Marek
“Everyone’s ready for you, Marek,” Vivian says, peering through the open door to my office. I look up from my notes and give her a nod.
“Thanks, Vivian.” I grab my suit jacket off the back of my chair and slip my arms through the sleeves. It’s unlikely I’ll keep it on the entire conference because it gets hot as fuck up there under the lights and cameras. But I’ve always thought making a professional first impression is important for my reputation.
Some of my counterparts, team presidents and GMs and such, dress more casually in front of the press. That’s them; this is me and what I’m most comfortable wearing. When I first joined the Seattle team, I was teased frequently for my formal dress style. The Pacific Northwesterners are notorious for their laidback clothing choices. You can’t walk a block in this town without seeing a flash of plaid.
Wearing a suit helps steel me with confidence when faced with a firing squad of interrogators.
I follow Vivian down the hallway and long corridor of the arena, past our offices in the back side of the building, and up a few floors. We take the elevator down and reach the press room where everyone awaits. Vivian hands me a bottled water as I step in to find Coach Leo Green already seated at the long table, with his coaching staff in the first row. Glen stands in front of the table where I’ll be sitting next to him and Leo during the conference.
Glen greets the audience. “Good afternoon, members of the press. Thank you for joining the Puget Sound Pilots’ GM and President, Marek Talbert, and Head Coach Leonard Green for this pre-draft press conference. We will limit the questions to two per reporter. One of my staff members will provide you with a microphone when you are called on to clearly and succinctly state your questions. And let me remind you, this is about the Pilots’ organization. No personal questions are allowed.”
Glen glances over at me as I settle in, scanning the audience of nearly forty reporters, their phones and cameras in hand, waiting to jump at their chance.
My gaze wanders the room and I’m not surprised when it immediately lands on the wide-eyed expression of Harper Conrad in the second row behind the coaching staff. She practically buzzes with anticipation. Her green eyes are ablaze with a palpable excitement, and I can’t help but want to smile at her eagerness. I quickly avert my gaze and put on my poker face.
“Without further ado, we will now open up the floor for questions.”
Glen stands at the end of the long table, where he determines and selects the order in which the reporters are called upon. I watch as Harper’s hand shoots high in the air. I bet she was like this in school, too. Always first in everything because of her competitive spirit.
I admit, although she ambushed me and threw me off my game with her approach yesterday, I do admire her initiative. I didn’t get ahead without taking calculated risks in my career. I could’ve remained a player for a good ten more years until I retired with a ton of cash, but I chose a different path. I didn’t follow the rules set out for me.
So, should I expect it to be different for Harper?
Glen peers over the crowd and starts with his favorite, Bob Carter from Seattle Sports and News radio. He and Bobby go way back and are golfing buddies. While I don’t believe Glen crosses any line by choosing Bobby first, something in my chest clenches for Harper. She may be bold in her approach to her job, but I can still see a naiveté and greenness written in her features.
And the woman has no poker face whatsoever.
I notice a hint of disappointment in her eyes the moment Glen passes over her in favor of Bobby. Rejection hurts. Trust me, I know.
It also gives me a small thrill to make her wait. To take her down a peg to see how she responds. The whole reason I invited her to attend today’s conference is to see how well she performs under pressure. Will she crumble and fold? Or will she rise to the occasion and prove me wrong?
I’m not yet sure which I’d prefer right now. Given the news about Jasmine, I need a win. I need to know there’s good in the world and that not everyone is out for themselves or eager to push their own agenda. Which way will Harper go?
Bobby asks his question, which I find boring and not very inventive or new.
“Marek, you’ve been GM for two seasons now and while your team made progress last year, it also suffered quite a loss right when it mattered most. Zeke was sidelined and you lost your position in the finals.”
I lean into the mic and testily interrupt. “Is there a question coming, Bobby?”
The audience snickers and Bobby laughs with them. “Right, yeah. I’m just curious if you see the draft as a chance to rebuild.”
Well, duh.
Doesn’t every GM look at the draft as a way to restructure and rebuild their team? To energize the players and find the right fit for the team?
Managing an operation like this requires not only having financial stability, but finding the players that will provide the balance the organization needs. That prospect isn’t as easy as it sounds because it’s a marriage of sorts. A team is a give and take. The responsibility to win games doesn’t rest solely on one player’s shoulders.
Apparently, I’m better at building a winning team than I am at winning in marriage.
I loosen my tie, pretending to put a lot of thought into his question. I place my mouth in front of the mic and say, “Yes. That’s the plan.”
Then I catch Glen’s attention with a nod of my chin, covering the mic with my palm. He steps in closer, bending down so I can whisper in his ear.
“See that journalist behind the coaches? The one in the green silk blouse? That’s Harper Conrad. Call on her next.”
Glen doesn’t question me. He just nods and returns to his post where he says, “Next question.”