The door clicks shut, and a wave of dizziness tilts the room just enough to make me sit back down hard.
God.
I rub my temples, take a few deep breaths, and push it all aside because there’s zero time for personal melodrama today.
Tomorrow is game day. Not literally, but close enough. The press conference is going to be broadcast, clipped, and dissected by sports media and fans alike. There’s no room for error.
The rest of the day passes in a caffeine-fueled blur.
I lead the strategy, pulling apart every possible narrative and structuring the interview flow like a war plan. Key talking points? Nailed. Alignment with the team’s messaging? Absolutely. I practically memorize Blake’s responses, making sure they hit confidently but don’t come off robotic.
Tarquin and Suzanna hover beside me, fine-tuning the wording until everything sounds polished but still human. Their ability to translate PR speak into actual sentences is borderline witchcraft.
Riley spends an hour coaching Blake on delivery. She makes him run his opening twice, desperately tries to correct his tone, and shift his body language. I hear her say, “You don’t need to act like you’re saving the world, just talk like you give a damn.”
Michael and Torro comb over everything, branding, phrasing, the visual layout for the live stream setup, signing off only when it all feels bulletproof.
Meanwhile, I’m fielding group messages, answering emails at light speed, and coordinating with Musa, Gretchen, and Holly, who are prepping video content to support Blake’s announcement. There’ll be legacy footage, player testimonials, and a closing highlight reel, perfect for fan engagement and media replay.
We even script potential press questions, ranging from softball to hostile. I decided to walk Blake through how to pivot when a reporter goes off track, how to keep the focus where it should be, and how not to panic if something goes sideways.
Every detail, every possible slip-up, we cover it.
And by the time it’s all said and done, I’m standing alone in the dim hallway of the Media and Comms wing, holding my totebag in one hand and my laptop case in the other. The building is silent, everyone else gone. The only sound is the low hum of the vending machine.
Then the nausea hits.
One second, I’m fine, the next I’m swallowing hard and making a sprint for the staff restroom.
I shove the door open, bolt into the nearest cubicle, and barely get the lid up before I’m vomiting like I’ve just completed a tequila triathlon. Cold sweat runs down my spine, my knees hit the floor, and my hands are braced against porcelain.
I breathe. Then it hits again. This time it’s worse. Violent and hot and unstoppable.
When it finally stops, I flush, stand, and stagger out of the cubicle like I’ve just survived a war zone.
I grip the edge of the sink, splash water on my face, and look up into the mirror.
I look pale. Not, ‘Oops, I forgot blusher,’ pale, terrified pale.
What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe it’s stress. Or food poisoning. Or too much coffee. Or—
My stomach sinks in a way that has nothing to do with nausea.
How late am I?
I blink at myself in the mirror.
No.
No, no, no. I can’t be… be… Shit.
It doesn’t matter how fast I wash my face, how cold the water is, or how much I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. The thought has burrowed in like a tick.
I grab my bag, my laptop case, and walk out like I didn’t just vomit my soul into a toilet. The overhead lights buzz softly, and I feel like a fraud as I walk past every framed photo of our media team’s proudest moments.
By the time I hit the parking lot, it’s already dark. Vegas-night dark, where the sky is black but everything else glows like it'son steroids. I fumble in my tote for my keys, my fingers shaky and not cooperating. The fob finally clicks, my car flashes its welcome, and I climb in.
The bag and laptop go on the passenger seat. Engine on. AC blasting. I pull out of the lot, waving half-heartedly at Darren, the night-shift security guy, as I roll past the booth.
