The Rule Book: A Novel

Sometimes life is like a box of chocolates, and sometimes life is like a box of chocolates left out in the sun all day.

Today, it turns out, is a melty, disappointing chocolate sort of day. Not only did I step in gum while wearing my favorite shoes on my way into work, but I also fired up my email to find some wonderfully disturbing information.

“Knock knock,” I say to my boss, Nicole Hart, as I step hesitantly into her office to address said email.

Truthfully, I’m always a little hesitant to step into her office because, whew, this woman is a force to be reckoned with. There’s a reason she’s CEO of the agency. She’s kind to me (in her own way), but she’s like a tornado of confidence. You need a helmet and a safe place to take shelter when she focuses her attention on you.

Like now, she’s sitting at her desk in her immaculate gray pin-striped skirt and silk blouse—red lipstick painted perfectly on her full lips, blond hair pulled back into a sleek, perky ponytail that has a magical flip on the end. But all those surface-level attributes are nothing but a misdirection. It’s in her eyes you see the truth. The alert, bone-chilling, feline ferocity. Her keen mind is why she’s the top agent in our industry and lands enormous deals for clients like Nathan Donelson, famous quarterback for our city’s NFL team, the L.A. Sharks. The woman is all sharp edges and absolute dedication. She’s an inspiration.

“Please tell me you’re asking to come in and it’s not the beginning of a joke.”

“I could tell you that, but then I’d be lying.”

She cuts her eyes to me, and I smile. She’s worked with me long enough to know I’m not going anywhere until this is over.

“Who’s there?” she asks like she’s in the middle of a root canal.

“Needle.”

“Needle who?”

“Needle little smile to brighten your day?” I give her one as I shuffle into her office.

She looks up from her keyboard—posture ramrod straight—and her eyes bounce from my reddish-brown hair, down to my yellow sneakers, and back up to my face. Nicole misses nothing. She’s an assassin who’s just identified her target’s weak spot. God, I want to be her.

She discards my fabulous joke. “How many pairs of those shoes do you own?” She’s referring to my bright yellow sneakers.

“Four. I was wearing my red pair this morning, but I stepped in gum and had to change into these.” I raise my foot and wiggle it proudly. “Smelled delicious but left a nasty squelching trail.”

“I’m guessing Marty had something to say when he saw those. Do I need to humble him?” Her attention is on her keyboard, somehow still able to talk as her fingers fly across the keys. The thing about Nicole is she’s all bark and…an even worse bite. But she only bites those who threaten her people. And even though she likes to pretend I mean nothing to her—she’s made it clear I’m one of her people.

I wrinkle my nose at the mention of the worst man in this office. They’re all pretty unspectacular and seem to dislike me joining their boys’ club no matter how many fun-size packs of Skittles I leave in the break room, but Marty is by far the most awful. Male chauvinist number one.

I shrug a shoulder. “Only that the yellow is somehow more offensive to look at than the red and I should spend my paycheck on a professional wardrobe one of these days.”

“He’s not wrong about the color,” she says, giving me brief side-eye. “But only I’m allowed to criticize your style choices. Not a man who wouldn’t know a good-looking suit if it smacked him in the face.”

“And on that note, you’re absolutely correct,” I say cheerfully. “But that’s not why I’m here actually.”

When I first started working here as Nicole’s intern two years ago, she was very vocal about how much she disliked my playful wardrobe. But I’ve since been promoted to her associate agent over the last year, and I’ve more than proved my capability in this industry, miraculously earning her respect. Now she never tells me what to wear. Instead, she tells everyone else to piss off on my behalf since I have a tough time saying mean things to people.

Currently I’m sporting a fitted, three-quarter-length yellow-and-white herringbone blazer with a baby blue pleated skirt and a Rolling Stones T-shirt underneath to really pull it all together, and even though I know she must hate it, she keeps quiet. I sort of miss the days when she’d say something like You look like a librarian attempting to be cool. Sassy Nicole is a pleasure to study.

“Let me know if Marty says anything else about your wardrobe. I’ll be happy to jam those yellow shoes right up his ass.”

“And this is why I fear you as much as I adore you, my glorious workplace warrior goddess. However, I think I’d rather keep my shoes away from Marty’s nether regions. Actually, I’m here because I want to talk about the email I just got.”

Nicole finally stops typing and swivels her chair to me with a sigh of long suffering. She crosses one sleek (waxed…I know because I used to make those appointments for her when I was an intern) leg over the other and then leans her elbow on the desk. She delicately rests her chin on her fingers.

“I think it might be a mistake,” I continue, shifting on my little feet hugs (that’s what I call these dream shoes) as her gaze narrows on me.

“Stop second-guessing yourself, Mac. You’re ready for this step. You’ve worked hard to get here and deserve the promotion,” she tells me in her no-nonsense kind of way.

She’s right. I have worked hard, and not to blow my own trumpet too loudly, but I do feel that I’ve earned this promotion. In fact, I’ve been reaching for this dream ever since I was a kid and would go visit my dad for the weekend and sit with him on the couch and watch whatever sport was on TV at the time. During those few hours, he would let me into his life, and I felt close to him. My relationship with my dad didn’t last, but my dream of becoming a professional sports agent has endured through high school, college, grad school, postgrad intern positions, and lately, working as Nicole’s associate agent.

No, the promotion to full-time agent without training wheels is not the issue.

The mistake is that she’s assigning me to Derek Pender, tight end for the L.A. Sharks.

“I’m not second-guessing,” I tell Nicole. “It’s more like third- and fourth-guessing. I could be a professional guesser at this point. Are you sure Mr. Pender and I would be a good fit?”

I’m not asking what I really want to ask. But I’m not sure if I should come out with the whole truth or keep it to myself. If Nicole has taught me anything, it’s that this industry is all about playing your cards right—and the key to doing that is to not show them too early.

Nicole senses my half-truth, though, and taps her red-tipped nails on the desk. “You’re practically vibrating with nervous energy—what is the real question you’re not asking me?”

“I’m just concerned that Derek was told he was meeting with Mac and not Nora Mackenzie and might be expecting someone else entirely.” It’s the truth. Just not all of it. I tuck my cards a little closer to my chest.

“You’re wanting to make sure he’s not expecting a man?”

Not exactly. Although, that too. Everyone around the office calls me Mac because of my last name. I don’t particularly love it, but I’ve learned to tolerate it because the sad truth is, in our industry, people on the other end of email correspondences tend to say yes more often when they have the incorrect assumption I’m a dude. The most misogynistic men live in the world of sports (ahem Marty), and women work twice as hard as men to gain the same amount of respect. It’s messed up.

“I guess I was just wondering if you could tell me exactly what you told Derek—er, Mr. Pender about me. It…it just seems too good to be true that he’d be willing to sign with a brand-new agent, and I want to make sure he knows the whole story.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I used your pronouns and told him that you’re new, but that I was the one who trained you, so he can be assured you have been taught by the best”—the confidence on this one—“and that if he were smart, he’d snatch you up before you have a chance to go skyrocket someone else’s career.”

My heart quivers with delight. Did she really say all of that? Does she mean it? Nicole is not flippant with compliments, so I had no idea she thought any of that about me.

“Wow…thank you,” I say, trying not to get emotional but not entirely successful. I press my lips together and she knows why.

Her nose crinkles in distaste. “Are you about to cry?”

I keep my lips sealed and shake my head even though pools are settling over my eyeballs. Oh no, they’re clinging to my lashes. We’re going to have a runner!

She groans and turns her face back to her laptop. “No emotions in my office, you know that. I believe in you, and I’m happy to propel you toward success, Mac.” She’s typing and talking again. How does she do that? “Derek Pender has a lot of obstacles to face in the next several months. His career is completely up in the air, and you could be looking at a trade or a contract renegotiation as well as controlling any weak narratives that the media will undoubtedly try to throw at him as the season approaches. Are you up for it?”

See, now this whole situation makes me want to nervous-cackle, because, no, I’m not up for it. But not because I don’t feel I can handle any of those things. In fact, the idea of jumping major hurdles at the start of my career fills my stomach with twinkling stars of delight. Anticipation. I love a good challenge. And since Derek Pender—the most legendary tight end in professional football of our time—is returning this season from an epic ankle injury that should have killed his career, it’s the mother of all challenges.

No, the problem is, I’m not ready to face the man himself. The man I still dream about when I absolutely shouldn’t.

I blink back my tears. “Thank you, Nicole. I’m excited for the opportunity. I owe you my undying love and friendship.” I’m embarrassed to admit just how much I wish she’d reciprocate the friendship part.

Except she says, “Save the love and friendship, please. I’m not doing you a favor; you’ve earned this all on your own. Do you know in the history of this company we’ve never had an associate close as many deals as you have? And you’re definitely my first one to ever scout and land a player on my behalf.” That one was technically an accident. I ran into a popular college basketball player at the grocery store, and I complimented him on his super cool sneakers and phenomenal game the previous week. One thing led to another and he was in Nicole’s office Monday morning signing a contract. Super nice guy. Bumped his head on the doorframe on his way out.

“But now,” Nicole continues, “we’ll really see what you’re made of because you’re on your own in the cutthroat world of athlete representation and there’s no room for screwing up.”

Ominous. Don’t love that.

“Okay, so not a favor, but you do want to be best friends. Got it,” I add with a salute, and then feel thankful that she was staring at her computer and missed that gesture because it would just annoy her even further. And the truth is, I really do want Nicole to like me. Because although I love having my mom as my BFF (she’s truly awesome), I’m starting to feel it’s time to make some friends.

Admittedly, the making friends part is easy. It’s the keeping them that’s proved tricky.

I slip out of Nicole’s office and miraculously make it down the hall and back to my office—if you can even call it that since it more resembles a broom closet with a window the size of a porthole—without being confronted by Marty or his minions. In my office, I press my back to the wall and scoot around the desk to get to my chair just like I always do.

With a determination to take this melty chocolate day and turn it into delicious hot chocolate instead, I begin reorganizing my desk, because nothing lifts my spirits more than putting things in order and sorting them by color. Once my world feels a little steadier, I crack open my inbox and reread The Email once again. I am still convinced this is a mistake. A hallucination. A nightmare.

Any moment, I, Nora Mackenzie, will wake up and my favorite red sneakers won’t be marred with Juicy Fruit and my big career break will not hinge on him.

Mac,

Exciting news. Nicole and I have been very impressed with your work as of late (especially regarding the athleisure deal you facilitated on Nicole’s behalf while she was out sick) and we feel that you are more than ready to move up into the position of full-time agent.

Derek Pender, tight end for the Sharks, who I’m sure you’re already aware is a client of ours, needs a new agent. Bill Hodge has repped Derek during his seven years in the NFL. Unfortunately, Bill is facing medical issues, the details of which we will not go into at this time, and has resigned effective immediately. We need to place Mr. Pender with a new agent ASAP. Nicole cannot currently take on any other clients but has communicated to him her faith in you as an agent, and he is willing to meet with you to see if you two would be a good fit. He’ll be here at one o’clock today. Although we are all aware of the obstacles he will be facing at the start of the season, he is still an excellent first athlete for your roster. Congrats!

—Joseph Newman, Owner and Director, Sports Representation Inc.

The email itself is lovely, affirming and everything I’ve ever dreamed of happening in my career. The problem is, I’m convinced Derek doesn’t know who he’s actually supposed to meet with later. If he did, there’s no way he would have agreed to it.

Because the last time I saw Derek, my college boyfriend, was when I was breaking up with him.