The first thing that I do when I enter the arena, is go to the restroom. Not because I have a small bladder; or wanna make sure I don't look like I was just tongue-wrestling with my boyfriend - a few minutes ago. No, the reason for my visit to the land of cheap toilet paper and empty soap dispensers, is a desire to examine my stomach.
Looking in the mirror, I do the same thing I always do - look from the front, look from the side, look from the other side. I just don't turn around, because this isn't some perverted version of the Cha-Cha slide. Instead, it's a self-diagnostical version of a full-body exam; the end goal, the same as it has been since I found out I was carrying a tiny-being in my body - making sure that nobody knows I am.
As an extra precaution, I've even began wearing a giant zip-up hoodie over all of my work clothes. It's branded TD Arena; is a men's extra-large; and looks like it could swallow me whole. Whenever I wash my hands while I'm wearing it, I have to juggle between keeping the sleeves rolled up and making sure the front of it doesn't dip into the sink.
And although I usually find it to be the most unflattering piece of clothing that even a Munk would be turned off by, my bun-carrying has caused me to find a sense of comfort in it.
Once my hoodie's draped over my body - my coat safely secured over it, I grab my bag and head into the lion's den. What usually is a quiet place filled with only occasional chatter of office gossip and bitching about the team, has turned into something reminiscent of Santa's throw-up, over the past week.
There are baked goods everywhere: on my desk; on the filing cabinets; in the fridge. One of the full-time custodians was a baker by trade - and every Christmas, goes out of her way to feed the entire operations and marketing departments.
Which is rather surprising, because she's one of the least cheerful people I've ever met. Every time I talk to her, it's like a new family member has died; or gotten cancer; or refused to go to rehab. I maintain our friendly conversations because I want to develop a repour with her, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't turned the other way when I saw her talking to someone nearby.
But apparently the holiday season is when she decides to vomit out all her positive energy into a ray of sunshine - which comes in the form of brownies; cheesecakes; and pretty much any other baked good that's guaranteed to make you gain ten pounds.
"Rosie!" Brent exclaims, seeming oddly excited to see me - though, that could just be the rush of sugar flowing through his veins. Despite his constant announcements of eating healthy and going to the gym, he's currently stuffing his face with what appears to be a variety of chocolate chip brownies.
He's in a good mood now, but I expect in ten minutes when Danielle mentions a budget that got cut; or an issue that needs to be fixed, he'll be cussing out a storm like he usually is.
Robert, the building's operations supervisor, is sitting in my chair, chatting with the others whilst getting cake crumbs all over my desk. When he notices me, he gets up and grabs his cup of coffee - resetting the calendar of last time since someone left a coffee ring on my desk, back to zero.
"Look who it is!" Oscar exclaims, beaming with a childlike smile when he sees me.
"How was your weekend?" He asks, leaning against the frame of his office door. It's located right beside mine - well, not my actual office, I'm not important enough for that. Just my desk - along with a small cupboard where I keep my coat; and a drawer set where I hide all my good office supplies.
I navigate my way through the sea of visitors, trying not to look visibly irritated when I sit down - and can feel the warmth left from Robert's body. Over my time here, it's become clear that respect is something you don't have automatically - it's something you earn. And even with my many months of hard work, I still haven't seemed to be able to secure that badge of honor.
"It was good." I answer, briefly glancing over at him before pulling out the contents of my bag. One dry bun; a water bottle; a cliff bar; and a medium-sized Tupperware container. I take them out methodically, feeling a sense of nervousness as I place them on my desk. Despite having spent hundreds of hours around these people, I still feel a sense of anxiety whenever I have to communicate with them.
Except for Danielle, but that's just because she's more predictable than the bus being late. "How was yours?" I ask him, engaging in the ever so prevalent social game of small talk. I don't particularly enjoy doing it - mostly because it's a combination of people asking me questions, I'll never honestly answer; and learning far too much about someone's social life.
But I do it, because that's what networking and career development channels on YouTube, dictate.
"It was good. Nothing special." He answers, taking a momentary pause from our conversation to stuff his mouth full of food. On today's lunch menu, we have an assortment of wraps that Brent has shoplifted from the hockey department's catering room. Though, I guess he technically didn't steal them - since the food he brings back is usually the exact same food that was about to be trashed.
But bringing it back, allows him to paint himself as a hero; a giver; someone that would go out of their way to make sure his co-workers are being well fed. In reality, he's just trying to make himself look better, whilst exerting practically no extra effort at all.
It's a good strategy, I'll admit - but it still doesn't change the fact that I think he's a complete and utter, piece of shit. Of course I can't say that out loud, instead having to feign the same appreciation I do when he gives me nosebleed tickets - the same ones that are given to every other full-time staff member.
"I'm working on the social media calendar for next month, do you wanna come up with some ideas for it?" Oscar asks me, snapping me out of my seemingly endless supply room of resentment towards men. More specifically, assholes.
If I were five years old - atrociously coloring outside the lines of a dollar store coloring book, and someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say, Oscar. He's my role model; my mentor; someone I've spent the last few months looking up to.
It's not just the fact that he knows what he's doing that makes him my idol, but also the fact that everyone knows him - and loves him. Over the past five years, he's managed to befriend any and every player; electrician; and higher-up of the hockey team.
So, whenever he asks me to do something, I practically jump out of my seat. "Sure." I answer, following the strategy of a fifteen year old-boy and playing it cool - whilst on the inside, I really just wanna scream.
The social media calendar is a coveted and incredibly important component for the team.
Oscar creates it; Brian (our big boss) approves it; and I schedule all the posts into their respective social media platforms. I have, by far, the easiest job - one that arguably could be done by a brainless chimpanzee. But that still doesn't stop me from double-checking all the information, at least twice, before submitting it. It used to be three times, but I've been trying to limit my OCD tendencies.
"But before you do that, could you run these down to Brian's office?" Danielle asks, appearing out of thin air and crushing my dreams, laminated green folder in hand.
Inside, are a stack of pink purchase orders that Brian will review one-by-one, before deciding that none of the expenses are necessary, and we should all make do with what we have.
So basically, continuing the same mirage of rejections that we had when the previous owner ruled this place. Though now, their justification for not being able to afford a new vending machine, is that the owner's spending millions of dollars on building the new arena. And is not looking to - and I quote, sink any more money into this reeking pile of shit.
The pile of shit of course, being the arena that the team has been occupying since it's inception - over twenty years ago. Back then, we were supposed to build downtown - but there were issues between the owners of the land they wanted to build on, and the city. So instead of trying to find a resolution, the team built an arena in the middle of a corn field - where if you look closely enough, you can still find cows moseying-on by.
"Sure." I agree, despite not really having any other choice. I mean, what would I say? Being an intern may as well be synonymous with being the company's bitch - minus the unprotected sex and Literotica flavored prostitution.
After retrieving the mighty green folder from my mailbox, I grab my building pass and venture out into the hall.
The marketing department is located in the busiest - and coldest corner of the building, right beside the loading dock. If I had my own office, I could plug in a space heater - basking in the glory of its warmth. Instead, I'm sequestered to the brutal coldness of what feels like could be a mating ground for penguins, and polar bears, alike.
It's times like these when I'm thankful for my gigantically-sized hoodie. And the fact that I don't have to worry about looking cute at work - because there's nothing that'll kill a boner faster than wearing something that looks like it's swallowed you whole.
Unless the penis in question belongs to Erik King – who I exit the marketing office to find standing five feet away from my humble abode.