Chapter 10
CAELIA
My lips part in surprise as I read a message left on one of my socials by a Marilyn Mansfield. My gut instinct is to tell my father, but I’m also intrigued. I have so many questions. There are many other girls who would be interested in hockey players, girls who aren’t me.
Ms. Mansfield,
I really think you have the wrong girl here. I fly into a panic whenever a hulking hockey player gets too close to me. There’s a reason why my father, the coach, steps in front of me whenever they’re coming and going off the ice.
If you were at the game in New Orleans, you may have noticed this. I don’t think I’m the right person for this PR stunt.
Sincerely,
Caelia Freedman
Making a noise under my breath, I send out the response without another thought. I was professional and polite in the message, and I’m sure in her mind, people should fall over themselves to be close to a hockey player.
Gazing around where players are practicing in the stadium’s surplus ice rink, I roll my eyes. My current issue is that I have too many of them around me.
I’m sitting behind the glass, feet up on the bench in front of me, working on editing video clips to upload before the Atlanta game.
I’m surprisingly adaptable for an omega since I’ve never been one to make a nest outside of fluffy blankets.
I brought my own from home, and I’ve been using them to sleep with.
Dad and I sleep in a different suite each night, and change is becoming my new normal.
I really am an odd omega.
I have earbuds in to block out the background noise, and Rían works around me. A bottle of water is nudged in my direction before he heads off to help the trainers. Pulling out an earbud for safety purposes, I continue working.
I need to be semi conscious of my surroundings. My work tends to consume my every thought, and I’m trying to get better about not blocking out the world anymore.
Picking up the bottle, I notice that the cap’s safety seal is still intact, relaxing slightly as I break it and take a sip. I’m starting to feel hungry, but there’s no time to worry about that outside of eating a snack.
Traveling with the team is busy and often feels both chaotic and organized in an odd way.
Digging in my backpack for a protein bar, I rip it open and eat while I continue to work. Screen recording the process, I edit the clips to create a longer reel, knowing it’ll allow me to record my voice over it later to teach people what I’m doing.
I cleared this with the team owner, and he said I could do this as long as I kept my content away from the team’s secrets. I’m always careful not to reveal too much information when I’m recording things during practice.
Moving onto the next thing, I upload the edited clips into another video editor program and look around. Even though I’ve been half paying attention to my surroundings, it still feels as if I’m pulling myself out of a deep well.
Sighing, I continue working, putting both my earbuds in to silence the world around me so I can record. There's a microphone that will supposedly only pick up what I'm saying, and I’m hoping it works well. It’s the first time I’m using it since I bought it.
I’m discovering that a voiceover about players may help my reach on social media, so I’m going to see how it performs for me.
Hitting record, I begin to speak as the clips run by on the screen.
I talk about the newest stats, the energy in stadiums, and how there’s nothing like the scent of ice as it’s torn up during a game.
I’m smiling by the end of the voiceover, and pause the recording to listen to how it works with the video.
Something touches my shoulder and I jump with a gasp, my head snapping up to find one of my dad’s assistant coaches next to me. Blowing out a breath, I pull out my earbuds.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I was completely out of it. I shouldn’t use these at the rink and I know that—”
“You’re working,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “It’s hard to get shit done when you have a herd of elephants down there practicing.”
My lips twitch in amusement as I nod in agreement.
“I was trying to wait until you came up for air to tell you that we’re taking a break. Your dad wants to make sure you eat before the game,” he explains.
“I was trying to hold out,” I admit, showing him my empty wrapper as I close my laptop.
My heart is still racing, but I can self regulate better than before. I tell myself in my mind that I’m safe, no one is hurting me, and it’s a straight shot down the stairs to my dad. The self-talk is something I’m finding helps me from panicking.
I am finding my coping mechanisms through trial and error, as well as some internet searches for those that are struggling with anxiety.
Packing things away, I raise my brow as I see that Patrick is still standing there.
“Your dad would kick my ass if I didn’t walk you down,” he shrugs. “I don’t see the intern anywhere—”
“He said he needed to help somewhere else,” I explain. “I wasn’t planning to move from this spot. I’ve been trying to work with one earbud in to hear what’s going on around me, but I couldn’t do that while recording.”
“You know a lot about hockey,” he says. “While I was waiting, I couldn’t help but listen. There’s a fierce appreciation for the sport that I don’t think can be faked when you talk about it.”
“I used to play hockey,” I shrug. “I also grew up around it, so the appreciation for the sport isn’t faked. It’s everything else I dislike.”
Standing, I thread my arms through the straps of my backpack. It’s much more comfortable than my shoulder bag, and I think the change may be permanent. I have too much shit to drag around with me.
“There’s a lot of misogyny in the sport,” Patrick says easily, moving to the stairs as I follow him. “Some of these players believe they’re gods, and that’s how they’re treated.”
“Gods is a bit far-fetched, but they are raised to a higher standard. I’ve noticed there are two sides to it: those who believe they need to keep their noses clean and those who forgive every fucked up thing they do,” I admit. “It’s like hockey is more important than anything else.”
“I love the sport and my team, but I think being a decent human is more important,” he says, walking down the stairs.
“I agree with that. I know my thinking seems overdramatic—”
“It doesn’t,” he says, cutting me off. “I don’t know what happened when Curtis left his previous team. However, I know it was pretty serious. I have daughters, and I don’t know if I’d be comfortable having them on the road with me.”
“They’re younger than I am though, right?” I ask. This assistant coach is much younger than my dad, I think.
“Yeah, but if they weren’t, I would still worry,” he says. “There’s no constant except for chaos.”
“I think that is a type of structure,” I laugh. “I expect nothing from each day, and that makes it easier to navigate.”
“You’re a very odd omega,” he murmurs, opening the door so I can slip past him to see my father.
“I know,” I say, smiling at my dad as he turns.
“The assistant coaches are going to take over so I can grab some food with you,” he says.
“Oh! I thought you were taking a break,” I say, twisting around to make a face at Patrick. He pretends not to notice, yelling something across the ice at a player. “I had a protein bar. I’m good, Dad.”
“Liar,” he says as my stomach complains. “They’ve got it.”
A player skates up to the bench and I take a breath, finding that the longer I’m around them, the better my anxiety seems to get. I’m also down to one heat pill every three days for my medication, and I’ve weaned myself off everything else.
There’s birth control in my heat pills, but if I decide I ever want to have sex, I’ll need to use some other type of medication for it or condoms. It’s too bad that it’s difficult for omegas to become nuns, because I’d consider it. My experience with sex was awful.
“Coach, are you leaving?” the player asks, pulling me out of my odd thoughts. I blame Marilyn for this.
“Only for an hour max,” Dad says. “You need something?”
“Nah, I was just wondering. The team looks good,” the player says. His name is Erro, and he’s careful not to look directly at me. “I’ll see you when you’re back.”
Dad bobs his head, moving over to place his hand on my back as we walk.
“What have you been up to?” he asks. I’m enveloped in a hoodie that hits my thighs. I should be used to the cold by this point, but that’s sadly not the case since I’m not moving as much.
“Working,” I murmur. I’m not going to tell Dad about the message from Marilyn, I decide.
I took care of it. There’s no reason to drive his blood pressure up.
“I’m playing with some new techniques, but I need to check the audio in a quieter place to make sure the background noises didn’t get picked up. ”
“Good. I’m taking you out for dinner somewhere quiet,” he says. “There’s a protein bowl restaurant around the corner. I usually go there when I’m in town. The staff is friendly, and it’s just before the dinner rush.”
“That sounds really good,” I say, leaving behind the stadium as we cross the parking lot.
“Perfect. We’ll swing by the hotel so I can change afterward, and then it’ll be game time,” Dad says. “You look like you’re freezing.”
While it’s slightly warmer outside, I can’t seem to stop shivering.
“I don’t know why,” I say. “It’s not as bad when I’m concentrating on something else, but I’m cold. I may change too. I have thermal leggings I can wear under ripped jeans. I’ll stay warm that way.”
“Warmth is better than cute fashion choices,” he teases me, unlocking the SUV doors.
“You’re right,” I chuckle, getting into the vehicle.
Dropping my bag at my feet, I pull on my seatbelt and snuggle into my sweatshirt. Dad does me a solid by turning up the heater, and soon I’m feeling much better. It’s almost as if someone installed an ice slab in my body.
The restaurant is just as cute and cozy as Dad suggested, and soon we’re tucked into a booth.