6. The Phantom
On Thursday morning, Dru-Ann Jones threads her Phantom through traffic on Lake Shore Drive, and, as usual, everyone around her changes lanes as if sensing that if they don’t, she’ll run them over. Dru-Ann loves this car— she’d debated getting a Ferrari for the wow factor, but the Phantom is so classy, it can’t be argued with.
Dru-Ann’s phone rings and a silken British voice announces, “Call from Marla Fitzsimmon.”
Whaaaaaa? Dru-Ann thinks. Marla, Dru-Ann’s cohost on Throw Like a Girl, is a Millennial and will talk on the phone only if she’s calling 911.
“Accept,” Dru-Ann says. Her tone is guarded when she says, “Hey, girl… what’s up?”
“Did Zeke get ahold of you?” Marla asks.
Zeke is their producer. (Yes, it does rankle Dru-Ann that the producer of their woman-forward sports show is a man.) Zeke has not gotten ahold of her. Dru-Ann tried calling him multiple times so she could explain what had happened with Posey, but she had been relegated to his voice mail. Is it concerning that, apparently, Marla has spoken to Zeke? Marla is the ingenue on the show, the baby talent. She’s a former client of Dru-Ann’s. She was a basketball star at Tennessee heading for a starting position with the Chicago Sky until she tore her ACL skiing.
The injury ended Marla’s basketball career, but did Dru-Ann give up on her?
No! Zeke and the execs at ESPN had approached Dru-Ann about doing Throw Like a Girl, and she’d agreed to do it only as long as Marla could be her cohost.
“Why?” Dru-Ann says. “Is he angry about the Posey thing? Because for the record, that wasn’t my fault.”
Dru-Ann can hear Marla sucking on her vape. “Don’t shoot the
messenger,” she says.
“He’s not canceling the show, is he?”
“No,” Marla says. “But he’s replacing you until this thing blows over.
Crabby Gabby is taking your spot.”
“You have got to be joking,” Dru-Ann says. The cars in front of her have stopped, which Dru-Ann belatedly notices. She slams on the brakes, and her coffee spills all over the console. “Please tell me he’s not doing that.”
“He is doing that.”
“But it isn’t that bad!” Dru-Ann says.
“It is that bad, though, Dru,” Marla says. “I assume you haven’t checked Twitter this morning?”
After Dru-Ann pulls into her parking spot in her office building’s garage—is it her imagination or did the attendant give her a look?—she brings up Twitter on her phone and types her own name into the search bar.
#DruAnnJones
Trending
#cancelDruAnnJones
13.5k tweets in the last hour
#PrioritizeMentalHealth
11.2k tweets in the last hour
#TeamPosey 4.6k tweets in the last hour
Dru-Ann suddenly feels like her ass is fusing with the buttery leather of her car seat. She can’t move, and yet apparently her hands are on a different circuit, because they begin to shake. She holds a trembling finger over the screen. Should she read what people are saying? She has dealt with clients who were in this situation, most notably Tania Oaks, an Olympic champion equestrienne who was caught on video—on her way home from the Games, with the gold medal around her neck—calling the flight attendant a “basic bitch.” That video went viral. Dru-Ann had helped Tania handle the ensuing media frenzy by taking away her phone so she didn’t make things worse.
Follow your own counsel, Dru-Ann tells herself. Don’t look.
But this is different. This is me. And I wasn’t wrong. The people who are #TeamPosey don’t know the details. If they did, they would be
#TeamDruAnn!
Dru-Ann wishes she could explain what actually happened.
It’s Friday evening. Dru-Ann, her client Posey Wofford, and Posey’s father, Nick Wofford—who is Dru-Ann’s boyfriend and maybe the long-awaited love of her life—are at a restaurant called Whine, which isn’t far from the country club in Midland, Michigan. The three of them are celebrating the fact that Posey leads by four strokes in the Dow Great Lakes Bay Invitational going into the final round.
They order cocktails—Dru-Ann a Casamigos over ice, Nick a martini, Posey a Pellegrino with a splash of cran. Dru-Ann peruses the menu; the Yelp reviews of this place were decent. Their drinks arrive and they raise their glasses.
Posey says, “I can’t stay for dinner. I have a Lyft coming in twenty minutes to take me to Detroit. I’m flying to Edinburgh tonight.”
Nick laughs. Dru-Ann is tempted to join in but she senses that Posey might not be kidding. Dru-Ann takes a measured sip of tequila and waits.
“Phineas just found out he made the open,” Posey says. “And as you know, they’re playing the Old Lady this year. He had a dream he was going to win. I have to be there.”
Dru-Ann looks at Nick; his reaction can best be described as At a loss for words. But Nick won’t tell his daughter no. Nick never tells her no. That job always falls to Dru-Ann. This is how she earns her money: by saving her
clients from themselves.
“No,” Dru-Ann says.
“Yes,” Posey says, flicking her ponytail off her shoulder with defiance.
“It’s the British Open. At St. Andrews.”
Dru-Ann takes another sip of tequila and considers her next move. She can’t downplay the prestige or mystique of the British Open. The tournament, when it’s played at the “R and A,” the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St.
Andrews, is Dru-Ann’s secret favorite. (It has to be secret because how can she, as a Black woman, revere a club with “ancient” membership rules? They didn’t allow women to join until September of 2014 and they still don’t let women change inside the main clubhouse.) Phineas is presently ranked number 127 in the world. Dru-Ann can’t believe he’s playing in the open at
all; this is very big news.
Neither can Dru-Ann diminish Posey and Phineas’s relationship. They’ve been together since their first week at IMG. They’ve withstood the challenges of a long-distance relationship and the pressures of tournament life— qualifying, rankings, a brutal travel schedule. Someday, Dru-Ann knows, they’ll get married and Posey will give birth to Dru-Ann’s next generation of clients.
Dru-Ann’s best strategy is to focus on Posey herself. “You’re in the lead by four strokes,” she says. “You’ve been owning the course. Bella is in her head; she won’t beat you and she’s your only real competition. You’re going to win this tournament, Posey.”
Posey smiles at Dru-Ann. “I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about winning a tournament on the LPGA tour?” Dru- Ann says. “Isn’t this what you’ve been dreaming about since Q-school?”
Posey shrugs. “It’s the Dow. We’re in central Michigan. It’s not”—she pauses—“the same thing.”
Nick stares at the round surface of his martini like he’s considering doing a cannonball into it. Dru-Ann kicks him under the table but he pretends not to notice. Can she love a man who has a blind spot the exact size and shape of his youngest child?
“How are you going to explain this to your sponsors?” Dru-Ann asks.
“Ping? Lululemon golf? They invested in you.”
“I’m going to tell them it’s a mental-health issue,” Posey says.
“Obviously.”
“A mental-health issue?” Dru-Ann knows her voice is loud enough to draw the attention of guests at surrounding tables, but she doesn’t care. “Are you kidding me right now? You can’t just trot out that excuse at will, Posey.
It cheapens the suffering of athletes who have legitimate mental-health issues, like Biles and Osaka and the countless women we don’t even know about.”
“What I’m telling you is that I won’t be able to focus tomorrow. If you and Dad insist on making me stay to play the final round, I’ll be distracted thinking about Phineas. I’ll regret not going. I’ll wish I were there.”
“Right, sure,” Dru-Ann says, reining her emotions in. Here, she thinks, is a teachable moment. “But being distracted and wishing you were somewhere else isn’t a mental-health issue. Mentally healthy people feel this way all the
time, Posey. Like when the Drake concert is the same night as a can’t-miss client dinner.” She searches Posey’s face for a sign of understanding. Did that example land? “You can easily play eighteen holes tomorrow and then go.”
Posey checks her phone and stands up. “My Lyft is twelve minutes away.
I’m going to the hotel to get my bags.” She looks at Nick. “You’ll take my clubs back to Chicago?”
“Posey,” Nick says in a tone that is part admonishing, part disappointed.
But nothing follows. When Posey bends over to kiss her father’s forehead, he closes his eyes in defeat. “Wish Phineas good luck from us.”
Dru-Ann can’t believe this. Nick is as soft as a shoe full of shit.
Posey leaves Whine without so much as another look at Dru-Ann —Coward!—which prompts Dru-Ann to call after her, “Quitter!”
This, she assumes, is what motivates some nosy ass-clown at a neighboring table to whip out his phone and start filming. He captures Dru- Ann’s unfiltered rage as she rails at Nick. “I can’t believe you didn’t stand up to her. She’s leaving, Nick. She’s flying to Scotland. She’s going to tell everyone it’s a ‘mental-health issue’”—Dru-Ann uses air quotes—“when she needs to suck it up and play through!”
Now Dru-Ann watches herself shriek these words in a trim sound bite on three different Twitter accounts, including one that belongs to some dude with a million-billion followers whose only job appears to be posting on Twitter.
Dru-Ann clicks out of the app and storms upstairs, where her partners— all of whom are fed up with dealing with the whims of their entitled clients— will be waiting to talk her off the ledge.
But the offices of the J. B. Channing Agency are oddly subdued. Usually at this hour, everyone is gathered in the common area in front of the 105-inch television, watching SportsCenter. But today, the television is off. Dru-Ann blinks. Has she ever seen the television off? There’s always a sporting event happening somewhere in the world—cricket, soccer, rugby, polo, Australian- rules football—and chances are, a J. B. Channing client is participating. The blank screen is so unusual that Dru-Ann suspects a power outage—but all the lights are on.
Dru-Ann approaches her corner office with a sense of impending doom.
All the office doors are closed. This never happens. The men Dru-Ann works with love to showboat the very important conversations they’re having—with Federer, with Davante Adams, with the PR people at Emirates airlines who want to feature Dwayne Wade in their new ad campaign.
Dru-Ann’s assistant, Jayquan, has her espresso waiting as usual, so apparently the apocalypse hasn’t arrived. Dru-Ann accepts the cup gratefully and Jayquan winces. “JB is in your office.”
Scratch that—the apocalypse has arrived.
J. B. Channing is a force in the world of sports. He founded this agency; he’s a five-time winner of Chicago’s Businessperson of the Year, and he’s perennially on the Ebony Power 100 list. Last year he appeared in People magazine’s Most Beautiful People issue; he dates actresses, and for a few months, he was sleeping with the most successful pop star on the planet. He has very famous friends. (Behind his desk is a photograph of him with Jimmy Kimmel, Jason Bateman, and Chris Rock; they were out together at the Green Door.) JB is not only Dru-Ann’s boss, he’s her champion. Like Dru-Ann, he graduated from North Carolina and then the Kellogg School at Northwestern.
He hired Dru-Ann because they share two alma maters and because she has the best nose for talent that he’s ever seen. Dru-Ann is a fierce advocate for other women of color; she doesn’t tolerate nonsense, and she speaks her mind. She thinks only two things are more important than natural ability in an athlete: hard work and discipline.
JB has made it clear that he loves these things about her.
But not today.
He doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “The video is everywhere and, unfortunately for us, it’s a slow news day in the sports world.” He sighs and runs a hand over his shaved head. “There are very few hard noes in our business, Dru-Ann. But you can’t mess with mental health.”
“Right, I know. Except—”
“No exceptions. You were at the retreat with the rest of us.”
Yes, Dru-Ann was at the mental-fitness retreat at the American Club in Kohler, Wisconsin, which JB organized after a wide receiver from Baylor—a kid who had been drafted by the 49ers—committed suicide.
“I was defending mental health,” Dru-Ann says. “Posey whipped it out
because it was convenient.”
“You’ve lost four clients already this morning,” JB says. “Tamika, Winnie, Nyla, and Linzy. More are sure to follow. I’m placing you on a leave of absence until this blows over, and Jim and his team are drafting your apology statement right now. We want to get it out as quickly as possible.”
“I’m not issuing an apology,” Dru-Ann says, “because I wasn’t wrong.
Posey Wofford is mentally healthy. She’s using it as an excuse, JB.”
“You’ll issue an apology,” JB says, “or I’ll be forced to take the next
steps.”
“And do what, fire me?”
“Obviously I’m not going to fire you, Dru-Ann,” JB says.
“Then defend me, please.” Dru-Ann gazes out the window at the skyline of Chicago, then turns on her stilettos. He wants a leave of absence from her, she’ll give him one.
“We’ll be in touch about the statement!” JB calls after her.
Dru-Ann retraces her steps to the womblike comfort of the Phantom and peels out of the garage (the attendant is dishing her attitude!). Like an automaton, she pulls onto Lake Shore Drive and heads north, which feels so wrong, so backward. She owns a beautiful brownstone in Lincoln Park but she doesn’t want to hang out there during the day.
Her phone rings and the posh British voice says, “Nicholas Wofford,” making it sound like Nick has appeared on the doorstep in a tuxedo with an armful of calla lilies.
“Accept.” Dru-Ann doesn’t really want to talk to Nick—this whole thing happened because of his terrible handling (and, let’s just say it, parenting) of Posey—but the sad fact is that Dru-Ann has fallen in love with him, and also, she’s low on friends. “Hey,” she says. “Are you at the office? Can we grab coffee?”
A silence follows, then Nick clears his throat and Dru-Ann thinks, Oh, dear God, no. Not you too.
“I think we should hit the brakes,” Nick says. “And not see each other for a little—”
Dru-Ann ends the call and screams into the rarefied air of her car’s
interior. Is it possible that absolutely everyone in her life has abandoned her?
A text comes in and Dru-Ann assumes it’s Nick offering some feeble, patronizing words, but when Dru-Ann checks the display, she sees it’s from Hollis. Colors for our outings this weekend, it says. Dinner Saturday: black or white. Lunch Sunday: orange or hot pink.
That’s right, Dru-Ann thinks. Nantucket. She had intended to cancel.
She’s pretty sure Hollis was expecting her to cancel—not for mental-health reasons but because Dru-Ann just plain old-fashioned hates the idea of any kind of girls’ weekend, especially one where they’re all wearing the same damn colors in public.
But Dru-Ann is so relieved that there’s a place she’s actually welcome that she calls Jayquan and asks him to book her a first-class ticket to Nantucket for the morning.
“Am I using the corporate card for this?” Jayquan asks.
Dru-Ann is tempted to say yes just to piss off JB, but the last thing she needs is an inquiry from Accounting. “Personal card, please,” she says. “And arrange for a car service on the other side to take me to a place called Squam Road. Put my e-mail on OOO until further notice.”
When Dru-Ann hangs up, she feels a tiny bit better. She’ll pull her hot- pink Stella McCartney bodycon out of the back of her overflowing closet; she will slurp the oysters and dance on Hollis’s deck in the moonlight.
She will slay the girls’ weekend. She will be the MVP.
Nantucket, she thinks, here I come.
