Page 24 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“There aren’t exactly a lot of women around here, you know?” she adds.
I let out a nervous laugh. “Right! Girl power and all that!” I say, pumping my fist in mock enthusiasm.
I promise I’m not some mean girl or anything. I’m just…weird.
And what I’ve learned in my short time on this earth—and my long stints in random people’s homes—is that weird isn’t exactly widely accepted. People like fun but not too quirky, smart but not too intimidating, different but only in the ways they can easily explain to their friends.
So I don’t let a lot of people get close.
Not close enough to see the weird.
She slides a sleek black leather folder across the desk—emblazoned with the Atlanta Strikers logo and my name.
“This has all your electronic key cards for the building, gym, and cafeteria. You get five hundred dollars a month for meals on campus, plus a fifty-percent discount if you spend your own money.”
“Love it.”
She beams proudly. “That was one of the perks I fought for when I came on board. I also pushed to add daycare for employees.”
“Nice! Do you have little ones at home?” I ask, noticing a framed photo on her desk but unable to see the picture.
She waves a hand. “Oh, goodness no. But just because I don’t have kids doesn’t mean I can’t support those who do.”
I shake my head, impressed. “How am I seriously impressed and we only just met?”
“Oh, you know,” she says with a playful wink. “Girl power and stuff!” I laugh, loving her callback.
She stands from her desk, and I can't help but smile at how cute and petite she is in this bright pink suit. “Let’s get you a full tour of the facility.”
“Good thing I wore my sneakers!” I say, proudly pointing down to the fresh pair of red and black AF-1’s I just picked up to match the team colors. I also want to find anything else to stare…look at…other than herreally pinkoutfit.
“Nice kicks!” Marlow flashes a somewhat nervous smile. “If only I would’ve gone with the dressed-down look today.”
I laugh a little too quickly, already praying she doesn’t askthequestion. “You’re the boss! I’m sure a suit is expected.”Please don’t ask me how you look. Please don’t ask me how you look.
She narrows her eyes, tilting her head like she can see me dodging in real time. “Eslin Saunders. If you’re going to work here—and if we’re gonna be friends—you have to be honest with me.”
I freeze, blinking. Calling us friends already is a bit presumptuous. “Okay?” I say, wondering where she’s going with this.
“I look like a bottle of Pepto Bismol, don’t I?”
I nod furiously, finally exhaling. “Girl! Like a pack of pink bubble gum!”
“Wasn’t what I envisioned but I’m rolling with it”, she quips back. We both crack up, full-on belly laughing.
“Okay, see? That’s better! Ice officially broken. Now, come on, I’ll show you around.”
We step out of her office and into a sleek, modern hallway lined with framed jerseys and team photos. The pride of the Atlanta Strikers is practically built into the walls, even though it’s still a relatively new soccer club.
First stop: the team offices. She leads me into a wing bustling with energy—PR, marketing, operations, coaching staff.Open-concept, glass-walled conference rooms, bright workspaces filled with the kind of people wholooklike they belong in a high-profile sports organization. Young, sharp, a littletoogood-looking.
“This is where most of the day-to-day magic happens,” Marlow says. “If you ever need anything—team schedules, travel plans, media stuff—someone in here can make it happen.”
I nod, taking mental notes.
“But I keep one of those open door policies so feel free to stop by my office with any questions too.”
Next, we head down a wide staircase that opens up to the heart of the facility—the players’ floor.
