Page 9 of The Revenge Game
Every time my colleagues try to set me up, it feels like I’m adding another layer to my mask between who I am and who they think I am.
“Yeah, if y’all think I’m going to let you guys play matchmaker for me, you’ve got another think coming,” I say.
“Come on, mate, what’s the worst that could happen?” Dave collapses into his chair and then rolls over to me, nearly taking out the remnants of their golf course. “Your dating game is like the England cricket team—all defense, no swing. Sometimes, you’ve got to risk getting bowled out to score some runs.”
Luckily, our boss emerges from his office like a sitcom character with perfect timing, saving me from what I’m sure would have been a series of declining-in-quality sports metaphors about my love life.
“Here he is, my main man.” Roger slaps me on the back as Dave wheels back to his desk. Roger seems to think that the way to manage me is to parody an American football coach from the movies.
Sometimes, I’d kill for that British restraint I heard about before I came here.
“Morning, Roger,” I say.
He rocks back and forth on his heels like an overexcited golden retriever.
“The procurement officer from Maximum Sports called this morning to sing your praises. Said you’re the first sales rep who’s actually listened to what they wanted instead of trying to convince them they want something else.”
“Just doing my job,” I say.
“Well, hopefully, you can continue to do your job with the Striker presentation next week. I really need someone who can read the room. Think you can handle it, sport?”
My pulse rate kicks up. I know Striker Sports is one of the biggest accounts.
“I can definitely handle it,” I say.
“Great. I’ll send you through the details.”
Roger retreats to his office, but not before he stoops to pick up Pete’s discarded stress ball, takes aim at the recycling bin, and sends the ball sailing straight into Sarah from Accounting’s cup of tea.
She doesn’t look impressed as brown liquid splashes across her pristine white blouse.
Sometimes, DTL Enterprises’ sports department reminds me of my frat boy days, only with digestive biscuit dunking competitions instead of beer pong.
I begin my morning tasks of checking email and organizing my client follow-up calls into what Pete calls my “stalker schedule.” But it’s a system that’s earned me top sales rep three quarters running.
It’s not just gaining kudos that’s important. A big part of my salary package comes from sales bonuses. It’s expensive to live in London, and I try to send as much money as possible home to my mom. Despite a lifetime of hard work, she was left almost destitute a few years ago and is still trying to rebuild her life.
The warm glow from Roger’s praise stays with me as I work through my calling schedule.
Dave comes over to linger by my desk ten minutes later. “Do you want to grab a cup of tea?”
“Sure,” I say.
I quickly learned that getting a cup of tea is a sacred ritual in DTL Enterprises. I accompany Dave down the hall to the small kitchen, where the countertop is decorated with a series of passive-aggressive notes about cleaning up after yourself, each written in increasingly desperate handwriting.
We’ve only just arrived when the door swings open behind us and two people enter.
Cheryl from HR is instantly recognizable with her flaming red hair in a stiff ponytail, but I don’t recognize the guy next to her.
He stops so abruptly when he sees us that Cheryl nearly crashes into him.
“Cheryl!” Dave practically pounces on her. “How did you go over the weekend? Did you predict that upset in the Surrey match?”
Because Cheryl isn’t just an HR guru. She also wins the cricket betting pool every year, leaving all the cricket-mad guys in the sales department tearing their hair out.
“I got it right down to the exact number of overs,” Cheryl says smugly.
As Cheryl and Dave talk about a controversial leg-before-wicket decision, the guy I don’t recognize edges over to the kitchen counter. Something about the way he moves makes me think he’s trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
