FYI: I Outpitched You
FYI: I Outpitched You
Friday midday found Callie and Lana weaving through the aisles of a novelty candy shop downtown—one that specialized in sour gummies, spicy lollipops, and questionable import snacks. Callie held a small wicker basket in one hand, already half-filled with her curated chaos.
Lana held up a packet of sour pickle balls. “These look illegal.”
“Perfect,” Callie grinned, tossing them in. “Nothing says ‘Congrats, but you suck’ like a candy that might chemically burn your mouth.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Lana said, laughing. “It’s just a campaign challenge, not a Nobel Prize.”
“Exactly why he needs to be taken down a peg.”
“And by ‘taken down,’ you mean smothered with sour sugar and passive-aggressive compliments?”
Callie shrugged, slipping a Photoshopped picture into the basket—one of Miles at their college Halloween party, head pasted onto a banana costume. “It’s tradition.”
Lana narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms. “You always did this for him, even when he beat you out of that Appleton Labs project senior year.”
“It’s just a gag,” Callie said, a little too fast. “It’s what we used to do.”
“Sure. And I used to say tequila was good for me.”
Callie didn’t answer. She just kept arranging the basket—sticking the sour candies around the edges like armor, placing a tiny plastic trophy in the center that read Not That Impressive.
“Admit it,” Lana said, nudging her. “You still like him.”
Callie rolled her eyes. “I like candy warfare. Totally different.”
Lana raised both brows.
“Fine,” Callie muttered, “maybe there’s a flicker of old feelings. But it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Uh-huh,” Lana said, dropping a pack of fireball gummies into the basket. “Just a flicker.”
\---
Back at Beacon & Wren, Peyton walked into the breakroom and spotted the finished basket on the counter.
“Please tell me you’re not sending that to them.”
Callie grinned as she secured the ribbon. “It’s tradition.”
Peyton raised a brow. “You’ve got some weird coping mechanisms.”
“They’re not coping mechanisms. They’re psychological warfare. With glitter.”
Peyton grabbed a soda from the fridge and leaned against the counter. “Fine. Just make sure you send it before five. We’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Callie dropped the basket off at reception with a note that read:
Congrats on the win. Try not to let it go to your head. I’ve included a balanced diet of humiliation and heartburn to keep you grounded. Enjoy—while it lasts.
She scribbled a little winking face at the bottom before hurrying out. She didn’t want to stick around and explain anything to anyone.
\---
Over at Catalyst Media, the atmosphere was electric. Miles’s team was buzzing with energy, everyone riding high off their win.
Elise popped a bottle of champagne in the breakroom, foam spraying the countertop as the cork bounced off a ceiling tile.
“To the Rush Room,” she cheered, “and to our fearless leader!”
Miles chuckled as the team toasted. Glasses clinked, music played, and someone turned on a speaker to blast the campaign’s audio tag.
Elise sidled up next to him, champagne in hand. “You know, if this keeps up, we’ll need to start celebrating privately. Over dinner maybe?”
Miles lifted his glass and offered a polite smile. “Let’s focus on winning the campaign first.”
Nick, thankfully, swooped in with a toast of his own, giving Miles just enough space to retreat.
Then the receptionist walked in carrying a suspiciously familiar basket.
Miles blinked. “Oh no.”
Nick whistled. “Is that a banana costume picture? I haven’t seen that in years.”
Miles grabbed the basket with a grin, digging through it. There was the photo, the sour pickle balls, the flaming tamarind strips, the ‘World’s Okayest Marketer’ mug.
Elise peered over his shoulder. “This from Beacon girl?”
“She has a name,” he said, still smiling.
He reached the note last and laughed, hard. “Classic Callie.”
He popped one of the Tajín-laced sour rings into his mouth without hesitation, chewing while the others winced.
“She always picked the worst candies,” he said, eyes watering slightly. “And I always eat them.”
“Sounds like a complicated friendship,” Elise said. “Or something else.”
Miles didn’t respond, but his smile lingered a little longer than necessary.
\---
That night, Callie flopped onto her bed and opened her phone to scroll.
Beacon & Wren had reposted a video clip from Catalyst’s story.
Miles was on screen, surrounded by his team, holding the mug she’d sent in the basket while they all laughed. Elise stood a little too close. Champagne in one hand, her other grazing his shoulder. Callie’s eyes narrowed slightly.
She watched as he read the note aloud, cracked up, and said, “She’s still got it.”
Her stomach flipped, and she didn’t know if it was pride or something closer to nerves.
She clicked out of the story and opened her texts.
Roman’s message still sat there unanswered:
Drinks later? I’m intrigued. Let’s see what else you’re good at.
She finally typed:
When and where?
Not two minutes later, her phone buzzed again.
New Message: Unknown Number
Thanks for the basket. Didn’t think I’d get one after all this time.
Callie froze.
That wasn’t Roman.
She stared at the message, then typed a reply before deleting it.
She didn’t need to ask. She knew exactly who it was.
She sent back a thumbs-up emoji.
Immediately regretted it.
“Thumbs up? Seriously?” she muttered, rolling onto her side and tossing the phone onto the comforter. “What am I, eighty?”
Her stomach flipped. Because that old butterfly feeling? Yeah. Still there.
Her email dinged.
She reached for her laptop, already expecting a follow-up from Roman.
But it wasn’t.
Subject: So Predictable
From: [email protected]
Sour candy and recycled jokes? Trying to win back the guy who handed your dreams to someone else? You really haven’t changed.
Then again… neither have I.
See you soon, Callie.
She slammed the laptop shut.
She sat in the silence of her room, heart still racing. Whoever it was—whatever game they were playing—it wasn’t over. And this time, she wasn’t going to lose.
The game just shifted again.
And someone out there wanted her to lose a lot more than a pitch.