Free Rocking the Pink by Laura Roppé Page B

conservative gray, Janice wore electric pink St. John knits, flashy scarves, and Prada heels. She was all woman, daring everyone in the room not to notice her. She was charming, flat-out stunning, and funny. She cracked jokes, even in the courtroom. And, man, could she bring in new clients. She was fascinating to me.
    One day, Janice buzzed me and told me to come into her office. When I walked in, there was Eric Allen, one of the NFL’s premier defensive backs. Janice knew I was a huge football fan and that I was enamored of Eric Allen’s athletic prowess (okay, his gorgeous eyes).
    As I approached this Adonis-like man to shake his hand, a high-pitched squeal caught in my throat, and I worried it would escape from my mouth. That wouldn’t be very lawyerlike, Laura. Keep it together.
    â€œLaura, this is Eric Allen.” Janice motioned to me. “Eric, this is my associate Laura.”
    Eric Allen extended his hand, and I shook it. Way too hard.
    And then, in a staccato voice that was three octaves lower than my normal speaking voice, I barked out, “Nice to meet you!” Ugh. I had overcompensated for the squeal I had tried to suppress. It was my trying-to-seem-professional voice, only on major steroids. I sounded like the drill sergeant in Full Metal Jacket.
    â€œNice to meet you, too,” Mr. Allen replied generously. But his amused smile was undeniable.
    Janice heckled me about the Eric Allen Incident for years after that. And, I had to admit, it was pretty damned funny. My embarrassment was well worth it, though: Even when Janice was laughing at me, which was often, I gloried in the warm light of her attention.

    She and I sat in her office many a night after everyone else had gone home for the day, talking endlessly about “our dreams,” though I can’t for the life of me remember what I contributed to those conversations. Janice told me about how she wanted to own a law firm one day and create a place where lawyers could find balance in their lives. And what were my dreams? Well, I just adopted hers. “Me, too” was my mantra—the easiest and only thing to say, since I’d stopped dreaming for myself.
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    Janice and I were working on a case as cocounsel with a huge national law firm in Washington, D.C. This particular litigation involved writing endless legal briefs, the sheer volume of which was too much for any one person to accomplish. The writing tasks were therefore divided up between me and the associate at the other law firm, a guy named Alan. Alan and I spoke on the phone almost every day to integrate our portions of the legal briefs. Based on his voice, which was sort of nebbishy and passive, I had a visual image of him that popped into my head every time we spoke: a tall, skinny white guy with brown hair and glasses. A stereotypical accountant. Or, I guess, more aptly, a corporate lawyer.
    One day while Alan and I were on one of our many phone calls to talk about our never-ending writing tasks, he told me a story about a lawyer in his firm who always interjected into any conversation the fact that he’d been on the law review at his Ivy League law school. In a mockingly pompous voice, Alan imitated the man to demonstrate his point: “‘That reminds me of when I was on law review . . . ’”

    We both chuckled. “Oh, how annoying,” I said. “I hate it when people never stop bragging about their resumes. Especially when their accomplishments aren’t recent.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Alan agreed. “A person can’t rest on past accomplishments forever. You have to keep growing, getting better.”
    â€œTotally!”
    And then Alan’s tone shifted. He sounded contemplative. “Honestly, I worry sometimes I dwell too much on my NFL days . . . ”
    His NFL days? I didn’t hear anything Alan said beyond that phrase. What the hell? Alan had played in the NFL? My mind was reeling. Was