4. January 17, Monday
Chapter four
Zoey
Zoey paused just inside the grand entrance of Baystate Center, home of the Springfield Cyclones, and tried not to look like a woman one deep breath away from sprinting back to her car.
The soaring glass walls caught the late-morning sun and threw it across the polished floors in shimmering sheets. The whole place looked like someone asked an architect to design a hockey arena and then added, make it feel expensive enough to intimidate people on sight.
Mission accomplished.
Zoey smoothed a hand down the front of her blouse, which had seemed cheerful and professional in her bedroom mirror but now felt like it was screaming, Hello, I am new and trying too hard not to visibly unravel.
Her stomach fizzed with nerves.
Okay.
Deep breath.
You wanted this.
A warm voice cut in from her left. “Zoey? Welcome.”
She turned toward reception, where a petite silver-haired woman stood with one hand lightly braced on the desk.
Mrs. Perry, head of HR, looked exactly like the kind-but-unmovable professional every workplace needed—pearl bracelet, tidy blazer, and the sort of smile that said she could comfort you through a panic attack while still documenting your tardiness.
“We’re very glad you’re joining us,” Mrs. Perry said, stepping forward to shake her hand. “We’ll do the paperwork misery later. I thought we’d start with the tour instead.”
Zoey returned the handshake. “That sounds ideal, honestly.”
Mrs. Perry smiled. “Good answer. Come on.”
She set off through the building with the brisk confidence of someone who could probably navigate it blindfolded and still point out three fire exits on the way.
Zoey followed, trying to absorb everything at once.
Glass-enclosed walkways connected the arena to the training facility next door.
Hallways opened into sleek office suites, treatment areas, conference rooms, and player spaces.
Cyclones branding showed up everywhere in clean, controlled touches.
Burgundy, silver, and storm-gray were worked into carpets, wall panels, signage, even the elevator trim.
It was almost too much to process.
The Cyclones’ home felt nothing like San Jose.
That realization landed in layers.
No teal. No shark logos. No familiar rhythms. No years of accumulated memory tucked into corners, hallways and loading docks. No automatic body-memory of where Mitch would be after a game, which wives tended to cluster by the family lounge, or where she could stand without feeling in the way.
This place was newer. Sharper. Less legacy, more strategy.
It didn’t feel lived in.
It felt built.
“Did you know,” Mrs. Perry said as they crossed a broad upper concourse, “that the Cyclones have won three championships in the past decade? Not bad for one of the younger teams in the league.”
“Not bad at all,” Zoey agreed, because that was safer than admitting she was mostly trying not to walk into a wall while taking in all the glass and steel.
Massive skylights poured sunlight into the upper levels, making parts of the building feel more like an upscale civic center than a hockey arena.
The fan concourse offered more than standard concessions.
There were interactive displays, rotating community booths, local business pop-ups, and a suspended skybridge above the rink that would absolutely make her queasy.
Mrs. Perry led them down another corridor toward the ice-level areas.
The air cooled.
The closer they got to the benches and player tunnel, the more familiar the building began to smell—ice, sweat, rubber, sharpening dust, athletic tape, the sweet tang of electrolyte drinks, and that clean-metal tang every rink in the world seemed to share.
The scent tugged at something deep and old in her.
Hockey.
No matter the city, no matter the team, no matter what name had once been on her license next to hers.
Hockey still smelled like hockey.
“You’ll learn the layout quickly,” Mrs. Perry said over her shoulder. “Though I promise not to test you today.”
Zoey laughed, grateful for the easy tone. “That’s good. I’d fail in spectacular fashion.”
“That’s normal. The building feels enormous until it doesn’t.”
They rode an elevator back up toward the administrative level, and Mrs. Perry gestured out toward one of the connecting walkways.
“One thing ownership prioritized was integration,” she said. “Arena, practice facility, staff spaces, community spaces. They wanted the place to feel connected. Useful. Not like the team disappears into some private fortress no one else can access.”
Zoey nodded, trailing her fingertips over the edge of a velvet curtain as they passed. “I really like that. That people can actually feel the team as part of the city. Not above it.”
Mrs. Perry glanced at her, interested. “Exactly.”
Zoey gave a small shrug. “I think access matters. Not in an invasive way. Just…” She searched for the right words. “It’s grounding. Seeing players as people. Seeing kids in the same building as their heroes. That matters.”
Mrs. Perry’s smile warmed. “That’s one reason we hired you.”
The words settled something in Zoey’s chest. Good. Because underneath all the nerves, she did know this part.
She knew community-building. She knew events, logistics, outreach, and the weird, invisible labor of making people feel welcomed instead of managed.
She knew how to make a room move. How to make a person feel noticed.
How to make a team appearance feel less like a corporate obligation and more like a real point of contact.
And yes, she knew how to frame things well, shoot usable photos, and turn a moment into something marketable.
But the real job wasn’t photography. It was people.
A turn down another hall brought them into a wide atrium flooded with light from a glass dome overhead.
Zoey slowed despite herself.
The space was alive in a way the corridors hadn’t been.
People moved in and out of adjoining bays.
A bearded man was getting a quick trim in the barbershop corner, two staffers hooked up to IV drips in recliners, a pair of players hunched over a gaming setup, someone was getting worked on by a massage therapist in the far alcove.
And, near one wall, a broad-shouldered man sat at a glossy black piano, tattooed fingers moving through a riff that threaded unexpectedly through the room’s constant hum.
It was a lot. Movement. Noise. Light. Smells. The ambient chaos of too many things happening at once.
Someone brushed past her shoulder, and the sudden contact sent a brief flare of adrenaline through her.
Her ears started ringing. Not loudly. Just enough to make the edges of everything go fuzzy.
Breathe.
She twisted the ring on her finger with her thumb, grounding herself in the pressure.
Feel your feet.
One breath in.
One out.
Don’t spiral in public on your first day.
When she looked back at Mrs. Perry, the older woman was watching her with a kind of subtle, competent concern Zoey found both comforting and mortifying.
Right.
She noticed.
Of course, she had.
Zoey latched onto the last thread of conversation and straightened.
“I really do understand the balance piece,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly.
“Community outreach matters, but I know this is still a hockey organization first. I’m excited about the role because I think there’s room to support both without making either side weaker. ”
Mrs. Perry’s expression eased.
Zoey pressed on, wanting to sound competent and not one step from sensory mutiny.
“I know the players’ time is finite. I know optics matter, but burnout matters too.
I’m not here to create a million shiny ideas no one can actually sustain.
I want to build programs people believe in and can repeat.
Stuff that’s good for the city, good for the team, and realistic enough to keep running. ”
Now Mrs. Perry looked pleased. “There you are,” she said gently. “That’s exactly the thinking Nina and I liked.”
The mention of Nina sent a tiny cold draft through Zoey’s insides.
Of course, it did.
Nothing said calming first day quite like remembering she’d soon be reintroduced to Nina Fontaine: queen of immaculate hair, immaculate branding, and, if Zoey’s college memories were still accurate, an immaculate intolerance for stupidity.
Nina had been Zoey’s biggest competition for president of the Young Feminists Club, and the two of them had spent four years verbally trying to assassinate each other on the debate team.
Gotta love how small the world was sometimes…
Mrs. Perry patted her arm. “You’re going to be fine.”
That helped. More than it should.
They continued the tour, and introductions began flying at Zoey from every direction.
Names. Departments. Quick handshakes. Smiles.
More names. So many names. Her brain tried valiantly to file them and instead seemed to be storing them in a leaking sieve.
For every one she caught, three more slipped away.
By the time they hit another corridor, her face hurt from smiling and her brain felt like static.
Mrs. Perry slowed and gave her a knowing look. “I seem to remember you identifying as a coffee person in your interview.”
Zoey nearly wept. “That is one of the truest things I’ve ever said about myself.”
Mrs. Perry laughed. “Come on, then. We’ll swing through the staff café before your marketing meeting. You left your cup back near the media suite anyway.”
Right. Her cup. She’d abandoned it somewhere between Hallway Four and Existential Dread.
“Perfect,” Zoey said. “Coffee would be excellent.” It would give her something to do with her hands too, which was important, because otherwise she might start touching every pretty surface in the building like a Victorian woman seeing marble for the first time.
They rounded the corner into the open staff café, and the smell of coffee reached her first.
Then the room itself.
Zoey stopped short.