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it was Ohio. And before that, Vancouver,” I say. “Baxter was hardly on the road at all last year. Send him if you need someone overqualified.”
    “This needs your touch. It’s a huge project and you’ve got more of an eye for detail than Baxter.”
    “He’s a strong project lead, and he’s from Ottawa originally. It just makes sense.”
    Frustrated now, Reuben blurts, “The client wants you.”
    We all met with the executive director in the pitch session, and he’s a 6-foot-6-inch former military leader. In choosing between a woman and a gay man, I guess I was the lesser of two evils.
    “Baxter will win him over,” I say.
    Reuben places both palms on the desk and leans forward, his face redder than ever. “NTA didn’t suddenly become a democracy, Hudson. But if you’re asking for a raise, I can look into it.”
    I stare into his slightly bloodshot brown eyes, feeling lightheaded. All these years, Reuben has been my mentor and role model. For a long time, I revered him. That ebbed to admiration, and then respect with a hint of disdain. Today, he toppled right off the pedestal.
    “This isn’t personal, Hudson,” he says. “And it’s not like you to take it that way. You’re the consummate professional.”
    He’s hit my Achilles heel. My professionalism defines me. Without it, I don’t even know who I am.
    Sensing the weakness he presses. “I can guarantee you a five per cent raise.”  He waits a beat, and adds, “Now, let’s go. The launch party is about to start. Time to meet your team.”

 
     
     
    I stare down at the undulating sea of faces, and briefly contemplate a stage dive. It would get me out of delivering this speech. And, if no one actually caught me, it would get me out of leading the project. With my luck, however, I’d end up maimed but still able to make the commute to Ottawa.
    Reuben slaps my shoulder. “They’re all yours, Hudson.”
    I hate public speaking, even when the audience is small. Tonight the crowd in the hotel ballroom exceeds 100, and most of the faces belong to preppy youngsters, fresh out of the company’s training program.
    I feel like a huge nerd, standing up here in my black suit and sensible pumps. But I am the nerd in charge, and as such, possibly the most popular woman in the room.
    Flipping through the notes Rueben gave me, I stall as long as possible, knowing that the moment I begin speaking, I’ve officially accepted the reins of a project that’s dull even by NTA standards. It’s saying “yes” to career stagnation, and “no” to happiness in my personal life. The irony is that while Reuben blackballed me as partner because he thinks I want to settle down, Noah will blackball me for accepting this project, taking it as proof that I refuse to settle down—especially when there’s no partnership offer on the table.
    “Come over and chat up the guys when you’re done,” Reuben says, pointing to the other partners who have joined us for the kick-off. “Partnership isn’t all about work, you know.”
    It certainly isn’t. At NTA, partnership is about smoking cigars and drinking single malt scotch, for example. It’s about long mornings on a hot driving range, evenings at play-off games, and dinners at pricey restaurants—all in the name of client management. Partnership is about politics. And most of all, it’s about testosterone.
    “They just spurned me,” I say. “I’m not going to suck up to them now.”  
    “There you go, making it personal again. Can I give you a piece of advice?”  He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Have a couple of drinks tonight.”
    “I don’t drink on the job,” I say. When you’re surrounded by sharks, you need a clear head.
    “Time to start,” he says. “But first, you need to pump up your team for the adventure ahead.”
    Rueben leaves the stage to join his cronies. The junior consultants look up at me expectantly, so clean-cut that this could pass Christian youth retreat. I consider turning