Macey
By the time I parked outside the office building, I’d already talked myself into turning around at least six times.
The glass exterior reflected the Florida morning sun, making the entire building shimmer like it belonged to someone far more successful than me. Men and women in tailored suits walked confidently through the revolving doors, coffee cups in hand, looking like they knew exactly where they were going.
Meanwhile, I sat in my car gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles had turned white.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered to myself.
I’d spent years coordinating charity events for one of the biggest NFL franchises in the country. I’d organized press conferences after heartbreaking losses and unforgettable wins. I’d dealt with reporters who could smell fear from
