Page 50 of Rules for Second Chances

“Oh. Uh… oh.” I can’t remember my next line. I’ve only practiced with people who gave me a “yes, and.” One “ha, ha, no” from Craig was all it took to drop-kick my pitch down a bottomless crevasse. My precious three hundred seconds slip away, grain by grain.

“Actually.” Jingjing from innovation leans forward. “I like it.” This is the woman who ate charcoal ice cream on a first date. She called it a mistake, but they’re engaged.

“I agree. Can you elaborate on the deliverables?” Bethany from accounting gives me a big wink, showing off the courage she got from surviving a UFO.

It takes a second for my brain to translate Bethany’s corporate speak into “yes, and.” Craig’s not playing by improv rules, but Jingjing and Bethany are.

“Craig’s correct—it would be revenue-neutral. But seventy-seven percent of online reviews mention guides. Negative reviews most often mention trips without enough experienced guides. Our guide turnover rate is twenty-five percent per year.”

I click to a picture of Grey Tusk’s newest neighborhood. “We’re losing guides to year-round work like construction. We could disrupt the tour marketandother companies by attracting their best guides while keeping our own. Earnings would go up, turnover would go down, and less experienced hikers could complete challenging routes with expert support. Tourists want to connect with the mountains. To love them without feeling excluded from places that seem like they’re for insiders only. West by North wants a niche in a market crowded with big, established players like Keller. We can stand out by building a one-of-a-kind reputation.”

Jingjing nods. “Highly original pitch, Liz.”

“Agreed,” Bethany chimes in. “I appreciate Liz’s unique perspective on tourists seeking a sense of belonging.”

They’re doing that thing women invented to prevent men from taking credit for their work, where they say my name and reinforce my idea. Yes, and, corporate style.

Craig looks around, gauging the nods. “Interesting. Could work. What if we took it one step further and launched a luxury pickup service? Put guides together with dog teams and wagons. Rent satellite phones, so hikers could call us from anywhere. People could give their all to reaching the hot springs, and West by North will go to Hell to pick them up. With champagne and appetizers. Now,thatwould be disruptive. And much more profitable.”

Everyone stares at Craig, then at me. The panelists are supposed to give feedback so we can refine our pitches before the final competition. Surely someone will point out Craig’s proposed a logistical and legal nightmare. Encouraging hikers to get themselves into trouble so we can get them out of it—the search and rescue folks will have opinions about that.

The head of legal jots a note on an otherwise untouched yellow pad, catching my eyes like he’s waiting for me to do what I do in meetings, which is shoot Craig down.

But I’m supposed to be positive and supportive. And this is the closest to a “yes, and” I’ve ever gotten from Craig. Is this why he nixes all my ideas—because I nix his first? Am I the sucker who does the dirty work of disagreeing, while everyone else keeps their hands clean?

“I’ll definitely look into it. I’m excited to incorporate your feedback into my final pitch.”

Craig smiles; I exult in the thrill of unlocking a secret level of his game. “If there are no further comments…? Great pitch, Liz. Your eye for ideas is coming along well.”

The head of legal escorts me out. “Nice job,” he says, then mutters, “By the way, I recommend you drop the rescue bit. We could never get insured.”

I whisper back, “Great point. I think that message should come from the legal department.” He gives me a dirty look, but I’m done taking all the “no” around here.

Outside, McHuge waits in the large boardroom, his suit not doing much to make him look tamed. He must be my final opponent. Well, good for him. I’m so pumped, I doubt there’s any competitor who could shake the certainty that I’ve locked down a spot in the top three.

“McHuge! I didn’t know you were pitching today. Good luck, my dude.”

His eyes fly from half-mast to wide open. “Liz?! What the—” He looks left at me, then swivels his head all the way to the right.

A tall form unfolds like a sleight-of-hand illusion from behind McHuge’s broad shoulders. Slim suit, no tie, top button undone.

I know that body, its movements as familiar as my own. I know what comes next: he’ll rebutton his jacket, straighten his collar, shoot his cuffs. If there’s something he knows how to do, it’s look perfect.

My eyes lock with Tobin’s like I’m iron and he’s a magnet. Our jaws drop in twin expressions of shock.

You.

Chapter Fourteen

Instead of dragging your partner(s) where you want them to go, invite them to go with you. Honesty and sincerity draw audiences to improv players, and they will draw your partner(s) to you, too.

—The Second Chances Handbook

Amber sighs as we pull up at the community center, way early for improv. “Are you sure you can’t skip tonight?”

“I can’t miss class now. There’s only four weeks until the pitch competition.”

The first time I read this afternoon’s pitch competition email, all I could do was scan for my name. When I saw it, I punched my wrist rest, overflowing with so much emotion I had to run outside to scream, “ME!,” like Elle Woods.

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