It’s a solid strategy. It works for celebrities, so why not a professional sports franchise?
Even better, Emerson’s content creation is another opportunity for team building, which is why she and I paired up today.
“We want to attract fans who are excited and engaged,” she continues. “We want them bringing that energy into the Treehouse on game night.”
Fifteen minutes later, she has the entire team dancing the Cupid Shuffle, the song drowning out their nonsensical commentary.
“I’ll never doubt you again,” I tell her, shaking my head.
We watch, cheering them on as they go through the moves. They learn fast, and the younger guys really get into it, embellishing every dip and turn. Knox isn’t quite as enthusiastic, but he’s grinning, and by the third attempt, even Graves—who turns out to be shockingly good—is laughing. They’ve almost made it to the end of the song when Bernier turns left instead of right, crashing into Cunningham.
“Seriously?” Cunningham grunts, giving up on the dance. “You don’t know your left from your right?”
Bernier shrugs. “I got confused.”
“So there’s this trick you can do with your hands,” Hardy booms, speaking slowly, as if to a small child. “You stick your thumbs out, and the left one makes an L.” He holds up his hands to demonstrate. “The right one,”—he pauses dramatically—“doesn’t.”
“Screw you,” Bernier shoots back, giving him the finger.
Hardy blows him a kiss. “I’ll text you the infographic later.”
“I don’t need an infographic. I obviously know my left from my right.”
“Are you sure about that?” Cunningham casts him a doubtful look as he massages his shoulder. “I’m sure Hardy could print out the instructions and hang them in your stall.”
“Okay,” Emerson shouts, killing the music and cutting off all further debate. “I’ve got what I need for now, but next week we’re doing the Macarena, so if you don’t already know it, I suggest you learn.”
“Seriously?” Doyle whines. “Now admin is giving us homework too?”
I meet his gaze. “We could always double it.”
That shuts him right up. A few of the guys snicker, and I give myself a mental high five for being assertive. And, yeah, funny too.
Emerson must agree because she gives me a casual hip bump. “Admin for the win!”
“If we’re not careful,” Smitty stage whispers, “they’ll have us dancing and talking about our feelings every day.”
McGinnis pops his booty and starts twerking. “I’m down.”
Laughter fills the air, and Emerson holds up a hand, signaling one of the admins who’ve gathered at the other end of the long hall.
The guys fall silent, and I shoot her a questioning look, but she pretends not to see it.
“A few weeks ago, a little birdie told me you guys weren’t happy with Chippy,” she says. “So I, being the dedicated intern that I am, went to marketing and worked my magic.”
The guys look at each other, confused, and I’m right there with them. Emerson said she’d see what she could do about the players’ concerns, but when she didn’t bring it up again, I assumed the issue was DOA.
You know what they say about assuming.
“Meet Chippy 2.0!” Emerson bellows, gesturing to the other end of the hall.
A gritty rock anthem shatters the silence, the bass vibrating through every cell in my body. The guys turn toward the sound, but there’s nothing to see. Just the admins at the other end of the long hall, staring back at us like we’re in some kind of awkward showdown.
Then, the admins step aside and Chippy bursts forward, pumping his hands—paws?—in the air as he charges us.
He’s quick, closing the gap surprisingly fast. There’s something different about him, but I can’t put my finger on it. The only thing I know for sure is that he’s running straight at us, and he’s not slowing down.
“He’s going to stop, right?”