10. Goldie
TEN
GOLDIE
The tires of Dad’s car rumbled on the icy streets, and we were jostled by the streetcar rails as he changed lanes. Even though it was the coldest day of the winter so far, Morton panted heavily over my shoulder.
“Are you too hot, Mortman?” Dad adjusted the temperature and cracked the rear windows. For someone who said he didn’t like dogs, Dad had turned into the biggest Morton fan.
“Are you sure you don’t mind watching him while I talk to the players?” I shivered and zipped up my jacket.
“Of course not. Morty and I are going to hang out in my office until you’re done. He told me he’d like to go to High Park afterwards.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Morton groaned as I reached to scratch his ear. “Did he tell you this at the same time he asked to come to work with us?”
Dad opened the rear window ever further and Morton abandoned my scratches to stick his head out. “Why would we leave him at home, when he’s welcome at the arena?”
A tuft of dog fur floated through the cabin and landed on my lip. I pulled it off and dropped it out the window. “Are you sure the custodial staff will welcome him with open arms? There are going to be tumbleweeds of fur floating around the hallways.”
“He’s a service dog. They can’t say anything.” Dad winked at me.
“Dad,” I squeaked. “You can’t do that. He is absolutely not a service dog.”
Dad shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, Goldie Girl. Focus on your session and let me deal with anyone who dares question Morty’s service skills.” He patted my knee. “It’s fine. I cleared it with the GM. As long as Morty doesn’t pee on the floor, he’s welcome to hang out in my office.”
“Phew.” I let out a breath. “So many people take advantage of the service dog thing, it ruins it for the people who really need them.”
“Are you all set for your introduction to your lab rats?” Crinkles formed beside my father’s eyes as he smiled.
“I’m not experimenting on them. I’m going to ask them questions about their history and then some other questions that will help with my hypothesis. I’ve got an undergrad student helping me. She’s going to compile the data.”
“There’s a few in there that could benefit from some experimentation. Do you want me to see if I can get access to a cattle prod?”
I shook my head. “Dad, you can’t joke about stuff like that.”
“Who said I’m joking? That one Bailey brother is as stubborn as a bull. You might need a prod to get any information out of him.”
Gideon Bailey was one of the players that I hoped would participate in the study. There were two documented concussions in his file, and one had been fairly recent. If he was open with me about his experiences, it would be really helpful for my work. “It’s stubborn as a mule.”
“Right.” Dad’s eyes glinted. “To get the bull to buck, they tie the rope around…”
I held up my hand and tried not to giggle. “I won’t be tying up anyone’s balls either.”
“Too bad.” He signaled to turn onto Tiger Tail Way. “You can do whatever you want, Goldie, but I agree with your advisor. I don’t think it’s a good idea if you tell the team that you’re my daughter. I don’t want that to impact anything they might tell you.”
I hadn’t gone to any games yet, and since Dad was new to the team, I was pretty sure that none of the players even knew he had a daughter. “They might be on their best behavior if they know I have the coach’s ear.”
Dad smiled. “A few of them might try to kiss your ass, but the ones I’m having trouble with…” His voice trailed off, but I knew that he was talking about the Bailey brothers. “They don’t care about being in my good book.”
It was my turn to be supportive. “I’m sure that they will come around, Dad. You’re the best coach in the league. And if they don’t…” I gestured with my thumb out the window. “They’re outta here.”
“You’d make a great ref.” Dad signaled and pulled onto the steep ramp of the underground parking entrance. He stopped and put the car in park. “You’re outta here.” He mimicked my baseball gesture and pointed to the passenger door. “You can’t be seen arriving with the coach. Rumors will fly.”
“Ew.” I squealed and got out of the car. I had been mistaken for Dad’s girlfriend on more than one occasion. He was young when I was born, and in his industry, it wasn’t uncommon for a guy like him to date women half his age. “I’ll meet you at the conference room.”
Dad saluted. “See you there, Dr. Swanson. As he rolled up the window, I caught a glimpse of myself. I wasn’t a doctor yet, but the idea of completing my master’s and then a PhD was something I’d always dreamed about. Hearing my dad call me Dr. Swanson had left me grinning like that kid at Al’s when he met Ace.
My stomach churned. I wasn’t hungry, I was nervous. This study was the last piece I needed for my thesis. My father had recruited ten of his players, and I was about to meet them. Dad hadn’t given me the final list of the players he’d approached, but I had a strong feeling that at least one Bailey was on the list.
I strolled to one of the side entrances and punched in the code. Nothing could transport you to another world better than the sense of smell, and the chlorine, rubber, exhaust from the Zamboni, sweat, beer, and popcorn, whisked me back in time. I loved the gross medley of odors because they brought me back to my childhood. Even though this was a national league stadium, it smelled the exact same as every other arena. I lingered in the lobby, checking out all of the trophies and pictures of Toronto Tigers from years past, going all the way back to the 1930s.
My phone chimed and a text from my dad popped up onto the screen.
Ready for you, Dr. Swanson.
I took off my jacket, and in the reflection of a trophy case, I checked to make sure I hadn’t sweated through my blazer. I adjusted my shirt collar and quickly polished my glasses on the tail of my shirt.
“Here we go,” I whispered to no one.
When I reached for the door, a zap of static shot through my fingertip. Recoiling, I clenched my pointer finger with the other hand. Wary, I tapped the handle hoping that the shock had sucked all of the static charge out of my body. “Phew.” I let out a breath of relief when the metal didn’t attack me again. Only this time, instead of a shock, an image popped into my mind. Ten men, sitting on plastic chairs, dressed in various workout garb flashed on the inside of my eyelids. Most of them looked bored, some looked pissed off, like the dark-eyed man at the end of the row, Gideon. At the other end of the ten men sat Ace.
Squeezing my eyes, I shook my head, like a kid shaking an Etch A Sketch, hoping the vision would fall apart. My imagination was getting away from me. I took one more second to compose myself before pulling the door open with confidence. I wasn’t sure how long my mouth gaped open before my dad invited me into the room. The vision I’d just had was identical to the scene in front of me. Ten men, anchored on each end by a Bailey brother, the pissed-off looking one on the far left, and the goofy blond one with the crooked smile on the right.
“Gentlemen. This is Professor…” He paused. If I had the last name as the coach, a few of them might put two and two together.
“Goldie,” I filled in the dead air. “You can call me Goldie.”
“This is Professor Goldie. She is writing a paper for the university. You’ve all been hand picked to participate in this study. It is voluntary, but you will still have to agree and sign some waivers.”
Dad handed me a stack of papers that must have been drawn up by the team’s lawyers. I had my own release, but it seemed wise to be covered on both sides.
“Thank you, Coach Swanson.” I took the stack of papers and turned to face the team. Scanning the lineup, I made eye contact with each of the players, with the exception of Ace. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I was already nervous, and now I felt my tongue start to betray me. The stutter I’d kicked in third grade seemed ready to come back for an encore performance sixteen years later.
“I’m a master’s student at the University of Toronto and I am writing a paper on concussions. Specifically, concussions in athletes. Apparently, a few of you have had your bell rung once or twice.”
A couple of smiles spread down the line of players. Speaking their language was going to help, and I’d stolen that line directly from my dad. If they didn’t trust me, getting them to open up about the emotional impacts of being slammed into the boards one too many times was going to be tricky.
“What do you need from us?” The low voice belonged to Gideon Bailey. He crossed his arms and seemed guarded.
“I’m going to need each of you for three sessions. We are going to do some brain monitoring and I’m going to ask you some questions. That’s it.”
“Will it hurt?” the guy sitting next to Gideon asked.
“No.” I couldn’t help but smile. The dude who got bashed into the boards by two-hundred-pound players skating twenty miles an hour was worried about pain. “It’s purely monitoring. We’re not doing any experimentation.”
The big guy next to Gideon relaxed, but they guy next to him raised his hand.
“Yes?” I pointed to him and felt like a kindergarten teacher.
“Do we get paid?”
Dad clapped his hands. “You’re not getting paid, but the team is making a donation to the school on your behalf. You will get a tax receipt.”
I didn’t realize that Dad had arranged this compensation. Gratitude filled my body, but I stopped short of tearing up. I couldn’t let the players see any kind of connection. “The study is going to provide guidance to the minor leagues in how they deal with traumatic brain injuries. You will be helping out all the young players following in your footsteps. We might even make some correlations that will be helpful to any of you, should you experience any more konks on the noggin.”
The smiles were back. Maybe the stuffy professor act wasn’t the way to get through to these guys. I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to look at the end of the row. In my vision, Ace was wearing a Toronto Tigers warm-up jacket, had his hat on backwards, and was wearing blue shoes. I was thrown off enough by his presence in that room, but if he was wearing the same thing in my vision, I would be train-wrecked.
After explaining the methodology and timing for the study, it seemed like most of the players were on board. My shoulders relaxed, and my nerves had mostly calmed down, so I gave myself permission to let my eyes drift to Ace. My heart pounded against my rib cage so hard I could hear it in my ears. I was speaking, but I couldn’t hear what I was saying. I hoped that it was intelligent, but I had gone into autopilot.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heart thudded louder as I scanned down the line of players. Ace’s eyes met mine and the thumping turned into a whooshing. I grabbed for the table as the room felt like it was tilting on an axis. Ace’s hat was backwards and he was wearing a Toronto Tigers workout jacket…my eyes tracked down his body. I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw the black Adidas.
I wasn’t like my mom, and that wasn’t a “vision.” The room came back into focus and someone was talking about Traumatic Brain Injury and hormones. That someone was me. “We’d be thrilled if all of you would participate.” My voice sounded confident.
A murmur spread through the room and a bunch of the players nodded. “If you’d like to participate, please fill out this form.” I attached the participation form to a clipboard and passed it to Gideon. He gave me what I think was his version of a smile: his lips were pressed together, but they were slightly turned up at the sides.
“I’d be happy to participate and help out in any way I can. I think this is a very important area of study. Thank you for doing this.” There was a softness in Gideon’s voice that I hadn’t expected, and like my father’s tax donation, I was caught off guard.
“Y-y-you’re welcome,” I stammered, gulping hard to stop the tears from forming.
Once Gideon signed, the rest of the team followed suit. I had them fill in their contact information and let them know I’d be in touch to set up their sessions. Last in line was Ace.
“Hey.” He scribbled his signature on the pages and filled in his phone number and email.
“Hi.” I took the clipboard from him and set it on the desk. Dad had filed out with the rest of the team and the door clanged shut. With just Ace and me alone in the concrete room, it got very quiet.
Ace cleared his throat. “I guess it’s a good thing you turned me down.”
“Why is that?” I hoped that the tremble in my voice wasn’t obvious. Where Gideon had a commanding presence, one that was a little unnerving, Ace’s was warm. There was an ease about him that I could only describe as feeling like home. It was equally unnerving, but in a different way. The comfort I felt with him was the kind I’d only experienced with people I knew very well.
He ran his hands over his backwards hat and squeezed the brim behind his head. “Wouldn’t it be an ethics violation to get into my head if you were already in my bed?”
The comment seemed so out of character, and it reminded me that I didn’t actually know the man standing in front of me. “That’s awfully presumptuous.” I scribbled my signature on the paper and set the clipboard on the desk.
His breath was hot on my ear as he leaned in close. “Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
Holy hell. How did Ace Bailey know that I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since our not-a-date? “You’re one of my subjects. This conversation is inappropriate on so many levels. If you want to participate in the study, you’re going to have to be a lot more professional.”
“Milady.” He bowed.
My brow furrowed. What was he doing?
“I’m your loyal subject and in case you haven’t heard, ‘unprofessional’ is my middle name.” He headed to the door and paused with his hand on the lever. “Have a great day, Professor Goldie.”
The door closed behind him, leaving me standing there with my mouth agape. On our not-a-date, he had seemed the opposite of cocky, but then I remembered his antics on the dock at the plunge. He was a showman. The man was a professional athlete who made more money in one season than I would by the time I was fifty. This cocky side of Ace Bailey should’ve been a turn-off, but the thrum between my legs told me otherwise.
I was in trouble. Being this attracted to one of my subjects was not okay. I had to figure out a way to not want that man’s lips on mine, or I had to exclude him completely. Like my father, we both seemed to have a Bailey brother problem.