Page 4 of Geeky Pucking Orc

Sometimes you just didn’t get what you wanted. My childhood should have taught me that lesson.

“Abby?”

I snapped back to the conference room. Graham was watching me.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was thinking of the sponsorship acquisition plan.”

The CEO leaned back in his chair. “Here’s my concern. You’re very good at what you do. No one disputes that. But you’re asking us to take a risk on an account with high volatility and questionable upside based largely on your confidence that you can shape a group of unpredictable orcs into media darlings.”

Ted frowned. “It sounds like an unwise direction for this firm.”

“It sounds like an interesting opportunity to diversify,” Mike said.

“And it sounds fun,” Jerome unexpectedly added.

I kept my eyes on Graham. “This will be a success, and that’s based not just on my confidence, but on my record with the company.”

In three years at Charm City Marketing and Promotions, I had rehabbed a luxury skincare line after a false contamination rumor, repositioned a failing restaurant group as a local-beloved comeback story, and turned an extremely public nonprofit board dispute into a narrative about renewed institutional transparency. I had done all of this while meeting impossible deadlines. My record was excellent. My results were measurable. And I had no intention of waiting five more years to be handed a flagship client when I could create one myself.

Graham tapped one finger on the table. “If this goes badly, it would go badly in public.”

I took a breath, then slowly nodded. “Yes, it would.”

“And you would be the lead.”

“Yes.”

“You would own the outcome.”

That wasn’t a question, it was a statement. I’d won. And the realization made me giddy with excitement.

“Yes. The risks are on me.” It was my reputation at stake here. The company would throw me under the bus if it failed, and I knew it.

So that meant I could not fail.

Then Graham exhaled through his nose and glanced around the table, taking the room’s temperature. “Fine,” he said at last. “But six months is too long to wait for measurable results.”

My heart stuttered

“Ninety days,” he continued. “You’ll lead a team of two. Limited budget until performance justifies expansion. You will provide weekly metrics reports, and if this turns into a circus instead of a campaign, I reserve the right to pull the plug.”

A thrill ran through me so swift and electric it almost made me laugh. I kept my face composed. Mostly.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Ted stared at him. “We’re doing this?”

“We are apparently doing this,” Graham said.

Jerome gave me a tiny salute with his pen.

“Congratulations, Abigail,” Graham said. “The orcs are yours.”

Mine.

I gathered my notes, my clicker, my coffee, and what remained of my composure. “Thank you.”

The elevator ride down to my floor felt unusually slow. I stood alone in the mirrored box, staring at my reflection: navy sheath dress, blazer sharp enough to cut glass, brown hair twisted into a low knot that had survived the meeting, lipstick intact. Competent. Composed. Entirely in control.