Off Topic
December 1, 2062, Marshall Islands:
“Good morning, Monica,” Ron Collins, General Manager of the Bikini Krill said as his assistant GM Monica Green stepped into his office.
Green's Contract Expires
This Season“Sorry it took a moment. I was in the middle of preparing for the Rule V draft,” she said in a clipped voice that carried more than a hint of “what’re’ya’doin’I’m’workin’here” vibe.
Green had taken it upon herself to work with the baseball side of the fence as well as Amit Hahn, the young head of the Krill’s Analytical staff to write up the team’s position paper on which players to protect and which to leave open. Collins had already rubber stamped her first recommendations, and now was waiting on final decisions for two others. The prickly, business first, nature of her presence heighted the fact that his assistant’s out of office relationship with multi-trillionaire, technopreneur, futurist, and team owner P. Moreau Westmoreland gave her a sense of gravitas that Collins himself most certainly did not have.
In that fashion, Monica Green was a double edged blade.
She had the boss’s ear, which made her dangerous. But she was also the first Assistant GM he’d had in his whole career who was actually competent, which made her useful. The trick with her was making sure she had enough rope to run with, but not enough to hang him with.
“That’s great to hear,” Collins said, motioning Green to take a seat across from him. Which she did, sitting up primly, and crossing a business-slacked knee over another business-slacked knee. “I’ll be looking forward to your thoughts.”
“So, what did you want,” Green said, her demeanor growing softer.
Collins gave a satisfied grin. He always liked giving people good news. “I hope you’ll forgive my interruption, but I wanted to tell you that, while I know sometimes we’ve clashed a bit, that you’ve been doing a really good job. I note that your contract is up at the end of the year, and I wanted you to know that I—”
Green held her hand up. “About that contract—”
Collins talked over her, unable to stifle a smile. “That I really do appreciate the pushback. So much that I’d like to remove all the anxiety that comes with an expiring contract, and offer you a 5% raise to re-up for another two seasons.”
He sat back in his chair and crossed his hands over gently rounding mounds of what might be dangerously close to a paunch, enjoying the various flavors of delight that crossed Monica Green’s expression. He knew that with her relationship to Westy all over the papers, he was going to approve the offer, and he assumed the communication channel between them was open enough that if he’d presented it to the owner before handing it to Green, that he’d ruin the surprise. Seeing Monica Green absorb the fact that he wanted to give her more money was worth all the secrecy. The offer was solid. A bump from $315K up to $330K and change for two more years learning under his wing. He sat upright gently.
“No need to thank me,” Collins said with magnanimous smugness. “You’ll find the offer in your mail system.”
“Well,” Green said, stifling something that might have been a smile, but carried something edgy to it. “Isn’t this a little embarrassing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to have to turn your offer down,” Green said.
“What?” Collins waited a moment. “You’re not going somewhere else, are you? Because if you are I can go another $5K.”
“Oh, no, Boss. Nothing like that.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you turning me down? Are you leaving the business?”
“Of course, not. I love baseball.”
“Then …”
“I can’t accept your offer because I’ve already re-upped a deal with P,” she said, using the owner’s first initial in the way that only she could. “He offered me five years for $350,000. I’m sorry. I thought you knew that.”
“Five years?”
Green nodded. “$350,000.”
“To be my assistant?”
“Well,” Green said, “For as long as you last, anyway. I think 78 wins in a season you were expected to go to the SPET would put you officially on the hot seat.”
Collins swallowed hard. It had been impossible to miss the derision with which Green said the term SPET. As a person born in Public Relations, it was a point of contention with her. She kept telling him that using Silly Postseason Exhibition Tournament to describe the Monty Brewster Championship Series was not something that would tantalize fans in this modern era.
“I see,” he said.
Green stood up briskly then. “Well, if that’s done, I’ve got some work to do?”
“Yes,” Collins said with distraction, his gaze drawn to the form of a diving bird of prey as it hunted fish in the currents outside his tiki hut window. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be looking for your report.”
When she left, Collins sat in silence, contemplating what had just happened. He would check the system just to be sure Monica hadn’t been messing with him, but he was certain it would be there—which in the end it would be there, a deal that went five years and had as many perks as his did, and more.
“Five years,” he muttered. “Five more years.”
“Good morning, Monica,” Ron Collins, General Manager of the Bikini Krill said as his assistant GM Monica Green stepped into his office.
Green's Contract Expires
This Season
Green had taken it upon herself to work with the baseball side of the fence as well as Amit Hahn, the young head of the Krill’s Analytical staff to write up the team’s position paper on which players to protect and which to leave open. Collins had already rubber stamped her first recommendations, and now was waiting on final decisions for two others. The prickly, business first, nature of her presence heighted the fact that his assistant’s out of office relationship with multi-trillionaire, technopreneur, futurist, and team owner P. Moreau Westmoreland gave her a sense of gravitas that Collins himself most certainly did not have.
In that fashion, Monica Green was a double edged blade.
She had the boss’s ear, which made her dangerous. But she was also the first Assistant GM he’d had in his whole career who was actually competent, which made her useful. The trick with her was making sure she had enough rope to run with, but not enough to hang him with.
“That’s great to hear,” Collins said, motioning Green to take a seat across from him. Which she did, sitting up primly, and crossing a business-slacked knee over another business-slacked knee. “I’ll be looking forward to your thoughts.”
“So, what did you want,” Green said, her demeanor growing softer.
Collins gave a satisfied grin. He always liked giving people good news. “I hope you’ll forgive my interruption, but I wanted to tell you that, while I know sometimes we’ve clashed a bit, that you’ve been doing a really good job. I note that your contract is up at the end of the year, and I wanted you to know that I—”
Green held her hand up. “About that contract—”
Collins talked over her, unable to stifle a smile. “That I really do appreciate the pushback. So much that I’d like to remove all the anxiety that comes with an expiring contract, and offer you a 5% raise to re-up for another two seasons.”
He sat back in his chair and crossed his hands over gently rounding mounds of what might be dangerously close to a paunch, enjoying the various flavors of delight that crossed Monica Green’s expression. He knew that with her relationship to Westy all over the papers, he was going to approve the offer, and he assumed the communication channel between them was open enough that if he’d presented it to the owner before handing it to Green, that he’d ruin the surprise. Seeing Monica Green absorb the fact that he wanted to give her more money was worth all the secrecy. The offer was solid. A bump from $315K up to $330K and change for two more years learning under his wing. He sat upright gently.
“No need to thank me,” Collins said with magnanimous smugness. “You’ll find the offer in your mail system.”
“Well,” Green said, stifling something that might have been a smile, but carried something edgy to it. “Isn’t this a little embarrassing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to have to turn your offer down,” Green said.
“What?” Collins waited a moment. “You’re not going somewhere else, are you? Because if you are I can go another $5K.”
“Oh, no, Boss. Nothing like that.”
“I don’t understand. Why are you turning me down? Are you leaving the business?”
“Of course, not. I love baseball.”
“Then …”
“I can’t accept your offer because I’ve already re-upped a deal with P,” she said, using the owner’s first initial in the way that only she could. “He offered me five years for $350,000. I’m sorry. I thought you knew that.”
“Five years?”
Green nodded. “$350,000.”
“To be my assistant?”
“Well,” Green said, “For as long as you last, anyway. I think 78 wins in a season you were expected to go to the SPET would put you officially on the hot seat.”
Collins swallowed hard. It had been impossible to miss the derision with which Green said the term SPET. As a person born in Public Relations, it was a point of contention with her. She kept telling him that using Silly Postseason Exhibition Tournament to describe the Monty Brewster Championship Series was not something that would tantalize fans in this modern era.
“I see,” he said.
Green stood up briskly then. “Well, if that’s done, I’ve got some work to do?”
“Yes,” Collins said with distraction, his gaze drawn to the form of a diving bird of prey as it hunted fish in the currents outside his tiki hut window. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be looking for your report.”
When she left, Collins sat in silence, contemplating what had just happened. He would check the system just to be sure Monica hadn’t been messing with him, but he was certain it would be there—which in the end it would be there, a deal that went five years and had as many perks as his did, and more.
“Five years,” he muttered. “Five more years.”
