Unbeatable: The Legend of Vincent Scott – Chapter 1 – The Accidental Salesman

Vincent Scott didn’t mean to become a legend.

He didn’t mean to become anything, really. He was a kid from Mankato, Minnesota, who followed a girlfriend to the city and applied for a phone role he thought was customer service.

You don’t become the greatest by waking up one day and deciding you will be.

You become the greatest by not quitting when everyone else does. By standing up when life knees you in the gut. By answering the phone for the ten-thousandth time with the same intensity you did the first.

Chapter 1: The Accidental Salesman

In 2000, Vincent Thomas Scott III graduated from Minnesota State University, Mankato, with a degree in Business Management and not a single clue what he wanted to do with it. While his classmates launched careers or pursued advanced degrees, Vincent did what many recent grads do: he lingered.

For six months, he bummed around his hometown of Mankato with his two constants—his college buddy Ted and his girlfriend Julie. Ted was planning to move back to Minneapolis with his growing family. Julie had earned a volleyball scholarship and would soon be playing for a university in the city. Vincent, meanwhile, was making habit of showing up at his parents’ house at 3 AM after a night of bar-hopping and bad decisions.

The party had to end.

Logic eventually caught up to him. Ted was moving, Julie was moving, and Vincent’s nocturnal antics were getting old. It was time to move on, to grow up, and to figure out what came next.

He followed Julie to Minneapolis and spent a seemingly endless month working behind the counter at Cooke’s Grocery Store, slicing meats, dodging managerial glares, and questioning everything.

Then the call came.

All Brand Marketing—ABM for short. His godmother’s sister-in-law happened to be a director of communications there, and she knew the hiring manager. That was all it took to get him on the radar. Of the dozen new hires they were bringing in, ten were internal transfers. Two slots were left. Vincent landed one.

Before he even walked through the front doors of ABM’s Rockford call center, Vincent already had doubts. He thought he was interviewing for a basic customer service job—answering billing questions, troubleshooting service issues, transferring calls to other departments. He imagined wearing a headset and reading a few canned lines before passing a call along.

The job visit was scheduled for September 11, 2001. Vincent woke up that morning at his apartment, excited and a bit nervous about what the day might hold. He poured coffee and flipped on ESPN, where the big talk of the day was about Michael Jordan—His Airness—contemplating a return to the NBA with the Washington Wizards. Vincent was riveted. Then, just after 8 a.m., the news shifted. The world changed. Planes hit towers. Smoke billowed. Panic gripped the nation.

His job visit was canceled. The world stood still.

The next week, his visit was rescheduled. He walked into the ABM center with low expectations and a guarded heart. But nothing could prepare him for what he saw.

It wasn’t customer service. Not really.

It was sales. Aggressive, high-pressure, one-call-close sales. The kind where you had to convince someone to buy something they hadn’t asked for—right now—on a phone call they never wanted to make. It was a boiler room with fluorescent lighting. The call script was thick and unrelenting. There was a section for every rebuttal. A phrase for every objection. You weren’t talking with people—you were cornering them, herding them toward a yes.

Vincent wanted to walk out that day.

The training class was twelve strong, and most of them had some call center or sales background. Vincent had neither. He had worked at a grocery store deli and had a college degree in business—whatever that meant. He was out of his element and knew it.

The first week of training was brutal. Roleplays, script memorization, drills on how to deliver pricing without flinching. Vincent was sweating through his collared shirt every day, quietly wondering how long he could fake it before someone figured him out.

He didn’t understand the jargon, the culture, or the need for such pressure. He had never sold anything in his life.

Sales was not on his radar. In fact, mid-way through training, he had called his parents and even his godmother’s sister-in-law to say he didn’t think he could do it. He hated it. He feared failure. It was uncomfortable in every possible way.

The trainers didn’t mince words: “For some of you, this isn’t the right role for you, and that’s OK.” But they always seemed optimistic about Vincent. And with nowhere else to go but back to Cooke’s Grocery Store—back to the cold cuts and the fogged-up deli case—he stayed.

He stuck it out.

Of the twelve in that training class, only two graduated. Everyone else either resigned or exercised what were called “retreat rights”—a policy that allowed them to return to the internal positions they had vacated to try out this new role. Some said the expectations were impossible. Others cracked under the pressure. Only two endured. And somehow, Vincent was one of them.

The others around him seemed more confident, more polished. But somehow, Vincent made it. They handed him a headset and a cubicle and threw him into the deep end.

The floor was chaos. Morale was low. Grumbling was high. Everyone had something to complain about: the managers, the process, the pay structure. Vincent could feel the negativity bleeding through every conversation around him.

Still, he chose to do his best.

Vincent still remembers his first sale with photographic clarity.

Her name was Mrs. Robinson from Hereford, Texas. He was sitting in the fourth row of cubicles from the main entrance on the second floor. With no real finesse or confidence, he read a script line-by-line and closed his eyes as he said the final word. He waited, heart pounding.

“OK,” she said.

That was it. He was in.

The reluctant salesman was no longer reluctant.

From that point forward, Vincent started walking to the sales board more than anyone else. He filled his sheet while others struggled to record a single win. People took notice. He was swiftly ascending the rankings—past Jake Stallings, past Bambi Jennings.

Surely, some thought, he must be doing something unethical.

Wrong.

Vincent had learned how to talk fast and listen faster. He’d take what customers said and use it to build compelling cases. He tied their own words into his pitch. He wove perception and presentation into something magnetic. He knew the game inside the game: if a customer believed the new package was better than what they had—even slightly—they said yes.

Soon, he was winning prizes, gift cards, electronics. Outfitting his apartment from contest winnings. Earning more than triple what he’d ever made at the grocery store. His first full year? Over $75K.

Vincent became a force of nature. Every call was an opportunity. Every objection, a puzzle to solve. He filled sales sheets so fast, he needed extras. He brought energy to the floor—standing, pointing, goading his cubicle neighbors to compete. He made everyone better. Bryant Edwards, in the cube beside him, went from mediocre to elite just trying to keep pace.

Vincent won President’s Club every quarter he was eligible. Even the tiny sales—a $3.95 feature—mattered. He took pride in each win. Each march to the board.

Every number next to his name on a report reflected his absolute best—no matter what was happening around him, in his life, in his relationships.

Vincent Scott had become what he never intended to be: a salesman. And not just any salesman.

The best.

He had paid the first in a never-ending cycle of dues.

After his explosive rise from grocery store meat clerk to call center phenom, Vincent had set the sales floor ablaze. Month after month, he led the board. He won every contest. He filled his cube with microwaves, coffee makers, DVD players, and gift cards—rewards for dominance. He was winning, and loudly. There were stretches where his sales sheet was so full he had to use two. He made noise every single day, often goading his teammates into competing with him, standing to celebrate each sale, pointing and pacing like a prizefighter between rounds.

Vincent’s name started to come up in management meetings. Other managers would linger near his desk, taking notes on what he said. Some reps would lean over and ask him for tips. His own manager, Ashley Flowers, began leaning heavily on him—not for coaching, but to keep her team numbers afloat. She wasn’t leading. She was riding his coattails.

At first, Vincent didn’t care. He was making money, he was the best, and the thrill of victory was enough. But after several months of unrelenting excellence, the same old thrill began to wear thin. He wanted more. He wanted to build something, shape something. He wanted to lead.

So he told Ashley.

She nodded politely and offered vague encouragement. Then nothing happened.

Vincent doubled down. He took newer reps under his wing. He started leading informal huddles. He offered up suggestions to Ashley—ways to improve morale, to onboard better, to refine call flow. She used some of his ideas but never gave him credit. She dangled the carrot of promotion, always just out of reach.

What Vincent didn’t realize at the time was that Ashley had no real intention of helping him rise. She viewed his performance as a tool—one that she could leverage to bolster her own credibility. But she didn’t want a strong personality rising from her team who might one day surpass her.

One particular conversation with Ashley etched itself into Vincent’s memory permanently.

It was late afternoon, and Vincent, frustrated with a lack of success pitching ABM’s overpriced internet service, approached her desk. He knocked lightly on the metal frame of her cubicle. Ashley turned from her screen, which had been displaying what looked suspiciously like a shopping cart full of handbags, and quickly minimized the window.

“Yes, Vincent?” she asked, feigning interest.

“Ashley, I’m doing everything I can, but customers just aren’t biting on our internet service. I can’t get past the fact that everyone’s getting free trial discs from Online Solution in their mailboxes. They don’t want to pay more for our service.”

Ashley leaned back, puffed out a cloud of smoke from her last break, and lowered her voice.

“Well, you’re not the first person on the team to bring that up. Look,” she said, leaning in as if sharing a secret, “what I told Deb—and now I’m telling you—is this: if you just can’t close the sale, send out a few free disks anyway at the end of the month. That way, they won’t be able to call in and cancel before it hits your numbers.”

Vincent froze. His brow furrowed.

“Wait… what?”

“Come on, Vincent. Everybody does it. It’s no big deal. Just send a few. I’ll cover for you.”

It wasn’t advice. It was a directive to cheat.

It was the moment everything changed.

Vincent walked away without another word. His instincts screamed not to trust her. He had always been principled, sometimes to a fault, but this was different. This was sanctioned deception. And it explained a lot: why Ashley’s team numbers often looked stronger than their morale suggested. Why turnover was so high. Why trust in leadership was nonexistent.

He never sent the disks.

He never even considered it again.

But from that moment on, he knew Ashley’s leadership was a façade. And he knew he had to find a way out from under her.

Then came a moment that solidified everything.

It had been a particularly difficult day. Vincent had taken a call from an elderly woman—Mrs. Delores Hanford—who had been with the company for over thirty years. She lived on a fixed income and called because she noticed a strange charge on her bill. Vincent walked her through the details patiently, helped resolve the confusion, and then, with sincerity, offered her a small add-on service: a $3.95 wire protection plan. He knew she didn’t need or want the $40 Everywhere and Everything bundle the company required them to push.

To his surprise, she agreed.

That night, Vincent left work proud. He had done the right thing—for the customer, for the company.

The next morning, Ashley pulled him into the infamous conference room known as “The Aquarium.” Its glass walls made it visible to the entire office unless the blinds were drawn. Today, they were.

“Vincent,” she began, flipping open a folder, “I have to inform you that this is a disciplinary meeting. Would you like union representation?”

Vincent’s face tensed. “No, I don’t need anyone. What’s this about?”

Ashley pushed a printed call score sheet across the table.

“This is about your call with Mrs. Hanford. You failed to follow call flow. You did not offer the Everywhere and Everything Plan as required.”

Vincent blinked. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. This is a serious violation.”

“You do realize she’s 82 and has been paying $18 a month for basic service since the Reagan administration? And I got her to say yes to a $3.95 service she never had before. That’s a win.”

Ashley didn’t flinch. “Our process is not negotiable. Every customer must be offered the full plan regardless of age or circumstance.”

“This is ludicrous,” Vincent said. “Are we in the business of helping people or gaming stats?”

Ashley slid over a printed warning. “Future failures will result in further disciplinary action up to and including termination. Do you understand?”

“I understand the words coming out of your mouth. But none of it makes sense.”

Ashley smiled tightly. “Consider this your official coaching.”

Vincent left The Aquarium furious. But instead of rebelling, he decided to play her game—for a day.

The next morning, he followed the call flow to the letter. Every question. Every mandatory upsell. Every robotic phrasing.

The result? His worst day on the phones since week one. He went from $500 gross profit days to barely clearing $100. Customers were frustrated. Calls dragged. He felt fake.

And it wasn’t just him who suffered.

Because Vincent typically carried the team, Ashley’s entire team performance tanked overnight. Her reports showed it. She panicked.

The following afternoon, she called him back in.

“We’re going to remove the warning,” she said quickly. “Just… keep doing what you’ve been doing.”

No apology. No admission of fault.

But Vincent heard what she wasn’t saying: I need you. I can’t afford for you to follow my playbook.

He nodded, said thank you, and left the room.

And that was the day he knew.

Ashley didn’t care about customers.

She didn’t even care about integrity.

She cared about metrics that made her look good.

And Vincent? He cared about winning—but winning the right way.

From that moment on, he never once strayed from his values.

And Ashley, for all her posturing, never dared to put another warning in front of him again.

The way out came in a reshuffling of leadership. The call center was underperforming, and corporate knew it. In a quiet but telling move, Ashley was reassigned to the Montrose center—effectively a demotion. In her place came Harriet Raines.

Harriet was a firebrand—opinionated, loud, sharp. With over 25 years of company tenure, she had a reputation for being no-nonsense and unfiltered. Unlike Ashley, Harriet didn’t hide behind metrics or policy jargon. She said what she meant, and she expected results.

At first, Vincent was wary. He didn’t know whether Harriet would be more of the same.

But he quickly realized something critical: she wasn’t fake. She had rough edges, but she had experience. And she respected performance.

Harriet gave Vincent room to lead informally, and while she didn’t always agree with his approach, she appreciated his work ethic. She didn’t ask him to cheat. She didn’t need him to make her look good—he did that naturally.

Over time, their dynamic turned into one of mutual respect. And as Harriet started to feel the weight of two decades with the company, she began looking for her successor.

Unknowingly, Vincent had passed the audition.

And his rise to management was no longer a question of if. It was just a matter of when.

Months passed.

Then, a change.

The Area Manager, Maggie Allen, was replaced. In her place came someone entirely new—Shelly Cheekwood.

From the moment Shelly arrived, everything felt different. She was loud. Energetic. She brought breakfast to the team. She shouted “Rockford rocks!” as she walked the floor. She seemed to care. And more importantly, she paid attention.

Within weeks, Vincent received an email from Shelly asking to meet. It surprised him. He hadn’t reached out to her, assuming any request from a frontline rep might get lost in the flood of voices.

When they met, she was warm and direct.

“Vincent,” she said, “I’ve been inundated with people telling me they want to be a manager. But the one person I hoped to hear from—was you.”

Vincent was floored.

They talked for nearly an hour. She asked him about his goals, how he would lead, how he would discipline former peers. He told her the truth: he believed in the mission, but the system needed help. He believed that customers and employees were too often afterthoughts. He wanted to make it better.

Shelly smiled. She believed in him. She told him, “When I can make a move, you’ll be one of my first.”

Vincent walked out of that meeting with hope.

But hope has a shelf life.

Weeks turned into months. He kept producing, kept mentoring. He tried to be patient, but it wasn’t his nature. He was young, confident, and growing increasingly disillusioned. He began to loathe the monotony of call center sales. He had already mastered the game. There were no more challenges. Just recycled objections and a whiteboard full of his own name.

He started voicing his frustration.

To peers. To managers. Sometimes too loudly.

He stopped hiding his disdain for the process. He joked sarcastically about the call flow. He stopped sugarcoating his feelings in team meetings. He was no longer the polished poster child of the sales floor—he was the rebel who had outgrown the machine.

Shelly noticed.

But instead of dismissing him, she doubled down. She invited him to share ideas, to coach, to continue helping others. She reminded him that she hadn’t forgotten their talk. “Just hang in,” she said. “I’m working on it.”

It was nearly a year after that conversation before anything happened.

Vincent’s patience had long run dry. He was going through the motions now—still selling at a high level, but increasingly detached. He wasn’t inspired anymore. His relationship with Julie had ended. His vision of what life could look like had been altered.

Then one afternoon, Shelly called him back into her office.

This time, it was different.

“Vincent, there’s going to be a management opening. And I want you in the seat.”

He felt everything at once: validation, relief, anxiety, excitement. He had waited so long that the promotion felt surreal.

But there was one more twist.

“You’ll be going to Montrose,” she said.

The lowest-performing site. The call center in the basement. And—you guessed it—the team led by Ashley Flowers.

“She’s being reassigned back to Rockford. You’ll be taking over her team.”

Poetic justice.

On his last day as a rep, Vincent broke the all-time one-day sales record for the site. He walked out a legend.

And walked into Montrose a manager.

Now, the real work was about to begin.