Page 54 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
The plane finally lands at Beverly Airport, about thirty minutes north of Boston, and I jump into my car to make it home before I fall asleep at the wheel. Tomorrow’s Monday and I’ll deliver the goods to my boss in person. If he were a normal, not sleazy person, I’d be looking at a bonus. As it is, I’m hoping he doesn’t make a stink at the lack of full nudity.
Even though we can’t show full nudity on air, not even on our website, he wants to be able to show the private parts blurred out, thinks it gives us that titillating extra fans are looking for—to use his words. Did I mention he’s a creep?
* * *
It’s noon on Monday.Dressing the part of a professional in a navy suit with a striped button-down shirt, I walk into my bosses office before I go to my dressing room. I’m not due in for another hour, but I wanted the time to present my gold to the undeserving creep-boss.
Maybe you ought to adjust your attitude Chelsea. Catching flies with honey and all that.
“Come in. You’re exactly who I wanted to see. How’d it go? Show me what you got.”
So I did, the cleaned-up version.
“That’s it? That’s not what we talked about. Where’s the nudies? I’m sure it was all there available for filming from the looks of these shots. In fact it looks like you went out of your way not to get a full nude shot of him. What the hell—?”
I stop him before he works up any more of a lather.
“You’re right. We can’t show it anyway. And I don’t want any leaks to Instagram.”
“You accusing me of something?”
“Yes. We both know you’d stoop to using something like that for clickbait.”
“Damn straight. It’s good business. You do know we’re running a business, right? You’re working for me, I give you an assignment, you do your job.”
“Back off. This shoot is a gift. You didn’t assign me to do it. I got in there on my own.”
“With a little help from your friends.” He winks and my stomach roils. I want to throw up and I can feel my tension vibrating. Either I’m going to punch him or toss my cookies on him if I stay another minute, so I stand.
“I’m out of here.”
“Hey wait a minute. Leave that camera.”
“No.”
“It’s the station’s camera.”
“I’ll return it to the property room.”
“What the hell is wrong with you? Email me the clips and photos—”
“No,” I say before I think, before I change my mind.
“What?” He stands, outrage on his face and it’s a good thing I’m standing in the doorway, a good six feet away from him or I would punch him now. The nausea is gone.
“You heard me, but let me make my position perfectly clear. I. Quit.”
“What?” Now he laughs, but I don’t wait around to hear any more of his shit. I get back to my dressing room in a hurry, before he follows me, and I lock the door. Then I get busy trashing all the files—right after I send them all to my personal Dropbox. Strictly for sentimental reasons. I’m barely finished erasing the last of the files when he starts banging on the door.
As I stand, a quick frisson of fear runs through me, but I straighten to my full height. I have several inches and pounds on him, not to mention quickness and brains. Grabbing my bag and throwing my personal things into a small box, I ignore his banging and yelling, wondering if someone will call security on him if he keeps it up. Maybe I should call security, but no. I can handle this.
My stuff gathered up, I take a deep breath and, standing to the side, I fling the door open with my free hand. He stumbles inside as if he’s a cartoon character or a slapstick comedian with a poor sense of timing. Then, before he regains his balance, I’m out the door. Unhampered by my heels because I’ve been running in heels for the past two months, I beat him to the elevator. My friend from the production department, figuring out something of what’s going on, stops him, detains him for a second. I owe him for that and as I wait for the elevator door to open, I give him a nod.
Then I leave the station and know I’ll never return. I’m also well aware that I’ve burned a bridge here and hope it’s a small, insignificant bridge because I can’t regret it, wouldn’t change anything except to do it sooner. The shaking doesn’t start until I’m pulling up in front of my house.
Before I get out of the car, in spite of my shaking hands, I call Maggs and tell her what happened. The only thing I leave out is my personal stash of RO in my Dropbox. A girl’s gotta have some secrets. But then maybe that’s my problem. I have too many secrets. My nightmare Olympics pops to mind, but I push it back down like a scary jack-in-the-box clown.
“I have a month’s living expenses in the bank.” It’s the first thought I have of the practical implications of what I’ve done. Still, there’s no regret.
