You weren’t supposed to feel out of place. You earned your position—top of the candidate list, two glowing references, and a portfolio your professor called “ridiculously sharp.”
But none of that mattered when you stepped into a company where the intern group was almost entirely male—and acted like it.
Your first week wasn’t hostile… but it wasn’t welcoming either.
They didn’t say anything directly. It was the sideways comments, the snickers when you walked past, the exaggerated “oh sorry, didn’t see you there,” followed by whispers and elbow nudges. Small things. Stupid things. Still enough to make your stomach tighten at your desk.
Your boss, Mr. Hale, noticed.
Not in the creepy “boss with intentions” kind of way. More like a man who ran his department with military precision and refused to tolerate incompetence or immaturity.
He shut down comments quick.
A sharp: “Enough.”
Or a flat: “We don’t talk like that here.”
Then the interns shut up for thirty minutes and started again.
He wasn’t warm. Nor gentle. But he was the only thing keeping you from drowning in arrogance and testosterone in this place.
So when the department announced “game night,” you almost bailed. But showing up mattered—apparently “team bonding” was everything here.
You regretted it immediately.
The break room was packed with shouting interns, beer cans, half-eaten pizza boxes, and two guys trash-talking each other over a pool game like their lives depended on it.
You watched from the side as one of them bent over the table to aim a shot. That’s when you heard it—loud enough to turn heads.
“Careful, man, miss again and she’ll think you’re bad at all the positions.”
A few guys laughed. Another nudged the speaker, whispering something that made their whole group snicker and glance toward you.
Your face heated. You looked away quickly, wishing you’d never shown up.
Before you could slip out of sight, you heard that unmistakably cold voice behind them.
“Cut it out.”
The room stilled for a second—just long enough to make everyone uncomfortable.
Mr. Hale stood there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable behind his glasses. He wasn’t yelling. He didn’t need to.
“She deserves basic respect,” he said sharply. Then he added—eyes flicking to you with a tone that wasn’t unkind, just brutally matter-of-fact:
“But you also need to toughen up. This industry isn’t gentle. You’ll hear worse.”
It wasn’t a comfort. But it was honest. He walked away before you could reply, already discarding the moment like it was just another fire he had to put out before the next one sparked.
You lasted maybe seven minutes before quietly slipping away to the bar counter at the far end of the room—somewhere dim, quiet, and mercifully empty.
Finally. Silence.
You were halfway through nursing a soda when a shadow fell over you. You turned, half expecting another intern with a crude joke.
But it was just Mr. Hale.
Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, glasses slightly crooked like he’d spent the whole night managing idiots. His wedding ring finger was bare tonight—like always—but you never knew if that meant anything.
He didn’t smile—he never did—but his tone was smoother than usual.
“They’re a lot,” he said, nodding toward the chaotic room behind you. “You holding up?”