Page 22 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Humble Pie & Pepto
Marlow
We’re in one of the conference rooms this morning, and once again, I’m in the hot seat. This time it’s for training.
Karmen, our head of publicity, is across from me, walking me through another round of media training. Basically, it’s a crash course in how to handle yourself when the cameras are rolling and the mics are still on. How to sound polished without sounding fake. How to sidestep questions you don’t want to answer, and how to pivot the conversation to whatyouwant to highlight.
It’s like learning a new sport—only instead of goals and assists, you’re scoring points with soundbites and saving yourself from a PR disaster with a well-timed smile.
Karmen makes it fun, though. She’s sharp, quick with examples, and has me laughing between takes. Still, it’s a lot to remember.
She leans forward, her tone warm but firm. “If the question feels too pointed or dips into anything legal; deflect. Pivot to something safe—team progress, community involvement, player development. You’re not obligated to give them anything they can twist into a headline.”
I nod, taking it in. “Smile, answer what I can, and don’t get trapped.”
“Exactly.” She grins. “And if you get stuck, just say you’ll have to consult your team and follow up later and buy yourself some time.”
Since I started my training as one of the owners of the Strikers a few months ago, it’s been brutal. There’s no sugarcoating it. There’s so much to learn—league policies, team operations, financial structures, sponsorship deals. Endless rules, both written and unspoken, and a web of politics so tangled you need a map just to navigate a single conversation.
Every day there’s something new, something I didn’t know I needed to know. And the stakes are high. One misstep and you’re not just risking a bad headline—you’re risking the trust of an entire organization.
But despite how hard it is, it’s everything I’ve always wanted. Everything I’ve been working toward, whether I admitted it to myself or not. The truth is, my dad groomed me for this. Not intentionally, not out loud. But from the time I was old enough to sit at the kitchen table and listen to him talk business, this world started taking shape inmy mind.
He prayed I’d never want it—prayed I’d choose something simpler, something safer, something that didn’t weigh so heavy. But that was never in the cards. Especially after losing my mom. Dad didn’t know how to raise a daughter any other way than to raise her like him. And now here I am. Drowning some days. Thriving on others. And loving it all, even when it terrifies me.
I wrap my session with Karmen, and as I gather my things, I shift the conversation. “How are we looking on those partnerships? Specifically with groups focused on getting more women and girls involved in the sport?”
Karmen’s eyes light up. “Really strong momentum. The new marketing director you hired has been planning some amazing activities that are giving me so much to work with from a publicity standpoint. The camps, the after-school programs, the back-to-school drives—it’s all been getting a great response. And it’s exactly what we need.”
She’s right. I’ve said it from day one: if you want to grow a team in this city, you’ve got to get the moms on board. They control the households; the husbands, the carpool schedules, the weekend plans. When we engage with them, we engage the community.
Karmen continues, “We’ve also lined up some fantastic holiday events with organizations across the state, starting with Thanksgiving.”
“Wow! So early? It’s barely August.”
Karmen snorts. “Um, this is actually late! But since you pulled the trigger on so many other things, we had to give it a shot. It’ll boost our image and give us a lot of positive visibility.”
“Perfect. Keep me in the loop if you need my support on anything.”
I glance down at my watch and feel a small jolt. Almost time.
“I need to head down to reception,” I say, standing. “It’s Eslin’s first official day. I want to be there to greet her.”
Karmen snickers. “Right and, sorry I couldn’t do anything about the outfit!”
I flip her a middle finger on my way out of her office.
I groan inwardly.
I’m the type of person who planseverything. It’s in my DNA. I hate surprises, and I really hate when things don’t go the way I pictured or planned. So I prep. I build in backup plans for my backup plans.
Which means, naturally, I had this whole day mapped out—every detail, right down to what I was going to wear.
I ordered a gorgeous suit from one of those chic online boutiques. It looked stunning in the photos—sleek, off-white, modern but not stuffy. Perfect.
But this morning when I got it back from the dry cleaners and put it on, it took all of three seconds to realize something was off.
It wasn’t off-white. It was pink.
