Joe nodded at the chair across from his desk without looking at me. “So. You just graduated from a state school on Long Island. You must know your way around.”
“Sort of.” I cleared my throat, shifting on the leather cushion, and focused on a point beyond Joe’s shoulder. Maybe if I didn’t look him directly in the eyes, this awful anxious feeling would go away. “I mean, I grew up in Queens. I mostly just know how to take the Long Island Railroad to my school, but I’m good with directions and I have my license if that’s necessary . . .”
I didn’t mention my lack of an actual car, and stole a glance at the golden god to my left. He’d stopped playing with his phone to stare. His eyes were even more brilliant when drilling into the side of my face. Despite the warm color, everything, from his expression to his slow once-over, was cold. He definitely was not pleased with my presence. But even so, he didn’t make my stomach sink the way men like Joe and Gallagher did. There was something reassuring about the realness of outright hostility.
Joe held a tablet and flicked through pages of a document while wearing a phenomenally unimpressed expression. “You have a bachelor of science in social work. Any reason why you’re here and not off somewhere working socially?”
I’d prepared for this question—well, a less sarcastic version of it—for days, and still my answer evaded me. The truth was that my initial position at one of the largest youth centers in the city had ended with a dramatic splash, and I barely had any references.
“I’m still trying to find a position suited to my long-term goals.”
“And what are those?”
“I’d like to be a caseworker, move up to administration, and eventually direct my own program. However, many of the open positions at centers around the city are for unpaid internships, admin work, or for teaching.” Lie, lie, and lie again. There had been positions open at Project SafeZone, but I’d burned that bridge with twenty-foot flames. “I plan to keep interning until something comes up. This position,” I said as I glanced at the brooding man again, “is perfect, because it’s temporary. In the next six months, I hope to find something on my preferred career track.”
Joe ran his thumb over his lower lip, staring at me without blinking. My old director had done that, and in the past I’d found it distractingly sexy. A sweat broke out on my forehead. I looked at the blond dude again, and wished he’d speak. Anything to keep me from having to look at Joe.
“This is a big city. I’m surprised you’re having so much trouble in that line of work.”
What kind of ungodly person called an interviewee out on their lies? Decent folks just ignored them and burned the résumé later.
“I want to work at a specific type of center.”
Joe waved his hand encouragingly. “Which is . . .”
The blond was still silently grilling me. Why was no one introducing him? He was definitely an athlete, but I couldn’t place his name or the sport. Maybe UFC? Hockey? Was I supposed to ask? I had no idea, but he was an ideal candidate for society’s irritating version of masculinity, and probably dudebro enough to just love my response to this irritating line of questioning. Just the thought of outing myself to these two made me want to vomit.
My fingers closed around the portfolio I’d never opened. It held another copy of my résumé and a sad-looking reference sheet. There were only two people on it, and neither of them had been upper management since I’d fucked the SafeZone director before blowing the whistle on him for misconduct with at-risk teens.
“I want to specifically work at an LGBT center.”
Joe didn’t respond for several seconds then all he said was, “Huh.”
That was all it took for me to understand that the interview was over. It was honestly what I’d expected from someone like him, but I didn’t just see him. I saw the long line of shitheads who’d smirked at me as if thinking a gay man who wanted to work with at-risk teens had to be a pervert. And I saw Jamie Gallagher—who’d fit that goddamn mold.
I saw all my bad decisions from the past couple of years, and all the times I’d been cowed by men more powerful or educated than me.
The give-no-fucks chip activated, and I swiveled my head to pin the athlete. “Who are you?”
Blond eyebrows rose, but his expression didn’t change. “Are you kidding?” His voice was deep and slightly husky. It belonged in a bedroom, not a job interview.
“No, I’m not kidding.” I turned back to Joe. “I assume he’s someone important?”
At this point, Joe looked impatient enough to boot me from the office. “Mr. Monroe, do you live under a rock?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw the blond hunch forward with his forearms propped on his knees. He was watching me as though I was a rare breed of human he couldn’t identify. Maybe he didn’t mean to make me feel small, but between him and Joe, I did.
I was vulnerable under the scrutiny. Like an insect. Something small and puny that was inspected beneath a microscope by larger-than-life individuals who would deem me unworthy. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt that way, but this was the first time I didn’t have to put up with it. There were other jobs.
“If it’s a problem that I’m unaware—”
“My name is Gavin Brawley.”
The name rang a distant bell.
“I’m the starting tight end for the New York Barons.”
Okay, now things were clicking. The Barons had recently been all over the news. Something about a player being involved in a legal scandal and an assault. The details were vague, but judging by the bulky bracelet on Gavin’s ankle, he was likely the guy at the center of it all. Too bad I couldn’t remember more. The only players from the Barons I knew by name were Simeon Boudreaux and Marcus Hendricks—because they both had a million endorsements and their handsome faces often stared back from cereal boxes or video game commercials.
“Oh,” I said blankly. “Yeah, I recognize you now.”
Joe frowned. “You don’t watch football?”
“I watch the Super Bowl commercials on YouTube after the game.” I shrugged. “I know the Barons were founded when I was in high school, so they’re newish in the NFL? That’s about it.”
“So you do indeed live under a rock,” Joe said. “Gavin Brawley broke the NFL record for receiving yards and touchdowns scored by a tight end last year.”
Was that good? I had no idea. “Cool.”
On the couch, Gavin scoffed.
“He’s one of the most famous names in sports,” Joe said. “How are you unaware of this?”
“I’m not big into sports. I didn’t realize being a football fan was a requirement. My friend’s boss told her about this position.” Likely after she’d bemoaned her childhood friend’s financial woes and asked if I could get a filing job at the firm before I ran out of my miniscule savings.
“Who’s your friend’s boss?”
“An attorney. Cora Durrant.”
Joe and Gavin exchanged looks. “Cora Durrant is married to Gavin’s coach.”