The bathroom lights hum, grating on my last nerve. I lean over the sink and watch sweat bead along my hairline. I’m flushed and my glands are tight and swollen. I’ve had to buy more turtlenecks to keep them hidden. The scent suppressant spray itches as if it’s burrowing under my skin. I splash cold water on my face. It’s not enough.
Nothing’s enough lately.
I pop another pill, slurp some water, and chase the bitter taste off my tongue, just to make sure I’m covered for the meeting.
Doug’s laugh cuts through the hallway. Normally I’d tune it out, but today even small things make me want to put my fist through the mirror.
He’s hyping up the Bear execs we’re meeting with for an update on the documentary so far, letting them know how thefirst week of content has gone, so they can make sure we’re staying in line with their brand.
The voice of our boss Richard carries the kind of tone he saves for execs who waste time. I can tell he doesn’t want to be at this meeting.
Neither do I.
I dry off with a paper towel from the dispenser and tug down my sleeves. I walk to the conference room and offer a smile to everyone as they glance at me. I’m not late, but I’m the last one to come in.
The room reeks of burnt egg bites and stale coffee. An open bag of sunflower seeds spills across Doug’s half of the table.
The seat next to Doug is still open. My laptop I set up from earlier when I came in to check sound levels is still in front of it. They were reviewing the rough edit of the opener thus far. I drop into the chair, click it awake, so if I need to take notes I can, and try to ignore how warm my skin feels under my sleeves.
Doug leans back in his Bears jacket. His khakis are pressed, probably ironed this morning by his wife, and his shirt looks fresh. He tried for this meeting. He’s got a travel mug balanced on one knee and grins at me as I sit.
Across from us, Richard sits at the far end of the table, with short-cropped silver hair and pale blue eyes. He’s in a full business suit despite the casual dress around him.
Two Bears execs and a League liaison fill the seats beside him. Mr. Callahan, an old Alpha, sits to the left with thinning blond hair. His polo clings across the chest, snug enough to suggest he used to play or still wants people to think he does. A sleek silver watch clings to his wrist; the only thing about him that actually says ‘executive.’
Mrs. Lennox, a Beta, sits in the center, angled-features with black hair pulled into a sleek, tight braid. Her dark eyes arerimmed in liner, cheekbones so pointed they could cut glass. She hasn’t smiled once since I met her a few weeks ago.
Mr. Nguyen, also a Beta and the League liaison, looks like he just graduated. His tie and button-down are too starched. His eyes flick from person to person.
Mr. Callahan glances at us and then turns his gaze to the silver band of his watch.“We want something raw, real. The rough edits are fine, so far, but it’s not holding that punch that we want it to.”
His fingers tap the table. He continues to refuse to make eye contact. “Morning routines, chirping… locker-room razzing, bench banter, that kind of thing. Post-game come-downs. Let the fans feel like they’re in the house.”
Mr. Nguyen shifts forward. “We’ve arranged alternate lodging for the upcoming away games, large enough to accommodate the team and media. You and your cam-op will stay with them for most of the away games.”
Mrs. Lennox angles toward the screen. She’s already moving on to the next point.“We need footage we can use across platforms. Make fans connect with them on a personal level.”
Doug shoots me a glance.
I adjust the brightness on my laptop to give myself something to focus on. Then their words sink in. I look up. “So we’ll be living with the team during this time?”
Mr. Callahan nods.“You’ll have your own room. Full access to team dynamics without needing to schedule every interaction. The idea came from your last pitch, actually.”
He means the notes I submitted two months ago. Back when I still thought we’d be filming from the edges, locker rooms, practice rinks, maybe a few bus ride interviews. I pitched more personality, not a reality show.
I shift forward, elbows on the edge of the table. “I didn’t agree to overnight proximity.”
Mrs. Lennox shrugs.“If you want intimacy on film, you need to be close enough to catch it.”
I keep my voice even, not wanting to lose my job for being difficult.“Just to confirm, this isn’t optional?”
No one answers.They don’t need to. To them, I’m a Beta. Proximity doesn’t register as a risk.
But it is for me
My skin buzzes, the suppressant spray irritating the shit out of me. For now, the suppressant I just took is holding, but barely. I picture the guys’ voices outside my door, their sweat in the air, the scent of clove sticking to my clothes. It won’t take much to push me into a haze at this point.
It’s been nearly a week since that one night, and my body hasn’t reset.My glands are still sore. Now they want me back in close quarters, full-day coverage. Same air, rooms side by side, nowhere to disappear to when things slip. There’s been a few days of a break since we already got interviews and practice footage.
