I did my homework. Richter Sports is up and coming, and Jared Foster is one of their hungriest agents. Seeing his name on the interview list only ratcheted my nervousness.
I match the number on my interview guide to the one on the door. Today is a sports market job fair of sorts, and everyone who is anyone in the business is here looking for fresh, cheap talent. That’s me. I’ll work for nearly nothing. Just give me a chance, and I’ll make the most of it.
I knock, tensing while I wait for a response.
“Come in,” a deep voice calls beyond the door.
Inside, a broad-shouldered man, maybe in his early thirties, sits behind the too-clean desk taking up so much of the borrowed space. Something about his shock of blond hair and his ruggedly handsome face tug at my memory, but I can’t place him. I can’t think where we would have met.
“Hey.” His eyes slowly slide over me from top to toes, masculine appreciation quickly replaced with professional indifference. “On-air talent is up the hall, I believe.” He returns his attention to the papers in front of him, offering me a dismissive nod. “Close the door on your way out if you don’t mind.”
Gritting my teeth, I tighten my fingers around the folder holding my resumé. “I’m . . .” I clear my throat and start again. “I’m not here to audition for television. I’m here about the sports marketing internship.”
He lifts his head, assessing me with new eyes, and I hope seeing past the things on which men always seem to place a premium.
“Is that right?” The seat creaks when he tips it back. “My apologies. I’m Jared Foster, resident chauvinist douchebag.”
An involuntary smile quirks my lips at his roundabout apology for the presumption.
“And you are?” he asks, his firm lips yielding to a smile of his own.
“Iris DuPree.”
“Well, Iris DuPree.” He nods to the straight-backed chair across from him. “Let’s get started and see what you got.”
With every minute that passes and each question he poses, my nerves dissolve into the calm that comes with competence—with knowing you are fully capable of meeting the challenge ahead. I haven’t wasted the last four years. When I wasn’t working at the bookstore, I was studying the industry, working for free when need be, to learn the ropes and practice what the sports market experts preached. His demeanor goes from indulgent but skeptical, to shrewd and speculative. And finally, to impressed.
“So, Iris,” he says, meeting my eyes with more respect than when he assumed I was only good for a close-up, “I always end my interviews with this question. What’s a moment in sports that inspired you?”
I don’t even have to think about it. I’ve had to familiarize myself with most sports, but basketball is my first love.
“Ninety-seven NBA Finals,” I answer, relaxing my shoulders and unknotting my fingers. “Utah Jazz and Chicago Bulls.”
“Game five,” we say together, sharing a smile because he knows exactly where I’m going.
“Jordan was sick as a dog,” I say, “but somehow, he dug deep into reserves that most people don’t even have and willed that game into the win column. It was Herculean.”
“Good one.” Jared nods approvingly. “And what did that say to you?”