Chapter Four Skye
Chapter Four
Skye
I’m standing in the bedroom of my presidential suite at The Four Seasons Hotel in Milan, and the imposter syndrome is hitting hard. My team decided that staying in a five-star hotel would give us a better experience of the city than staying in the Olympic Village. Hopefully, they’re right.
Either way, I’m here.
I was facetiming with Keisha this morning since I didn’t get to spend a lot of time there last night, and now I’m preparing to play hockey in Milan, Italy.
How is this my life?
I was a little girl hitting pucks in the streets of my mom’s neighborhood as a child, and now I’m at the Olympics.
Skye Callahan, captain of the women’s Olympic hockey team.
I shiver and look at myself in the mirror as I come to a quick realization.
I’m a stranger in a foreign country filled with other strangers. I have a famous face, but people wear disguises all the time. What are the chances I can put that mirror to good use and watch myself do things I’ve always wanted to do?
“Fuck that,” I hiss at my reflection.
There’s no way I’m ever putting myself in that position again. Not after I almost lost everything.
The bedroom sits just off the seating area and has a balcony that overlooks the garden.
This place is breathtaking. Though I suppose it should be for a five-star hotel in Milan, right?
I check my watch and see that it’s nine o’clock here in Italy.
Doing quick math, I realize it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon back home, which is why I feel wide awake.
I told the team not to sleep on the plane because we would need to try to rest a little when we landed.
We got to Italy a day early to give ourselves a little wiggle room in case we struggled with jet lag or the time difference.
So far, I’m not tired. Problematic, but not the end of the world.
I leave the bedroom and head back into the seating area to look around.
The furniture is cream-colored with dark throw pillows, adding a nice contrast to the dark wood flooring.
It faces a giant wall-mounted television, and behind the couch is a sleek marble dining room table and eight red leather chairs surrounding it.
Too bad I don’t see myself inviting the team over to put those chairs to good use.
A full bar sits farther back with lights that glow under the shelves of bottles. If I had the motivation, I’d make myself a drink, but I’d rather explore the rest of the artistic hotel and pay the top-tier bartender to mix up a little something.
I walk through the kitchen space and into a giant marble bathroom. The walls, floor, and sinks are all marble. I feel like I’m on drugs, like everything is too bright to be real.
Pressing my hand to the wall to keep myself from swaying, I turn off the light and head back toward the seating area.
I can’t help my curiosity about the garden escape I’ve heard so much about on the plane.
Everyone who was staying at the Four Seasons Milan was describing the secret garden area.
Or at least that’s what they called it. To me, it’s not a secret if you keep talking about it, but I’m just a hockey player, so what do I know?
Checking my watch again, I decide that I have time to check out the garden and still grab a drink at the bar. Get a taste of the cool air before I sip at an expensive mocktail. I can’t be irresponsible, but also, “When in Rome”, ya know? Or I guess, “When in Milan.”.
I’m tapping the hotel room key in my pocket to make sure it doesn’t magically disappear. The last thing I need is to tell the people at the counter I’ve managed to lock myself out of my room after only being here for an hour.
I walk down the hall and take the elevator to the lobby. The Zelo restaurant around the corner seems to command this entire floor. Signs and photos of food, drinks, and their famous bar are posted on every available wall. My nose is assaulted with the delicious smells of food I can’t wait to try.
So many carbs.
Hockey players consume way more calories than a normal person, but I don’t think I can justify a full meal this late in the evening. Maybe the bar will have appetizers. Do five-star hotel bars do that, or is that strictly for the little dive bars back home?
Maybe I’m way out of my league here. I wonder if the Olympic Village has this many options.
I find the doors that lead to the historic garden and look around as if I’ll be denied access.
I’m the team captain of the hockey team. I think I’m allowed to explore the hotel, right?
One way to find out.
Pushing the doors open, I step into the garden and immediately notice how quiet it is. Bare trees, trimmed hedges, stone paths. Like someone planned it almost too perfectly.
The fountains aren’t running full blast, only a trickle of water catching the subtle surrounding lights. February in Milan isn’t exactly garden weather, but there’s something about it. An immediate calm that allows my attention to land on every small detail in the garden.
I tug my coat a little tighter as I let my mind wander in the serene atmosphere. Practice schedules, team meetings, travel, interviews, and press. It’s hard to shut off the chaos that’s trying to take over my zen.
Shaking away my captain status for a moment, I refocus on the garden. My gaze moves over the layout of the paths and the spacing of the shrubs, and I catch myself thinking like I’m on the ice. I look for patterns, anticipate movement, read the space, and surrounding fixtures.
You can put the player into a garden, but she’ll still think about hockey.
A faint floral smell drifts over from the greenhouse, and I get a little closer to peek inside.
It’s too dark to see much, but it makes me miss spring.
The smells of freshly cut grass and the chaos of yard sale posts on social media.
Once we’re done in Italy, I’ll be ready for the warmer weather.
You just can’t have the Winter Olympics without the winter part.
The city of Milan is muted beyond the walls of the garden.
It’s peaceful in here, almost alarmingly so, but I let it settle around me.
A few minutes like this, walking, thinking, noticing, it helps me rest. I’m still the captain, still responsible, still on alert, but for a moment, it’s just me moving through a space, keeping my focus sharp and my head clear.
I try to appreciate where I am standing at this very second and allow the pride to consume me. Inhaling the scents of Milan’s winter is the only thing grounding me, embedding this memory into my mind so I can remain humble.
I’m in Milan as a world-famous hockey player.
I’m in the Olympics.
The door opens to the garden, and a woman walks out, tall and fit, wearing a tight red dress.
“Sorry.” She startles when she sees me, like she’s surprised that someone else is out here. “I’m looking for my friend.”
Her accent is thick, and I can tell she’s local to the area, or at least the country.
Words fail me as I stand and look around the area. As if standing still and glancing around the garden for the hundredth time is in any way going to help find her friend.
I give her a small wave, and she heads back inside without another word.
I really should work on being more approachable. Maybe a good place to start is the hotel bar.
Approachability is not my strong suit.
As soon as the model wearing the red dress from the garden approaches the bar, I give her my best smile, only for her to wince and turn toward the guy who places a hand on her lower back.
Is she recoiling because of my smile or the man?
My internal monologue is always second-guessing me, which reminds me that being social is more work than it’s worth.
My thought train is derailed by the woman four seats down. Another reminder why I despise the public.
Not only is she being loud as she speeds through her tragic love story, but as my eyes linger on her, I can’t help feeling like I know her.
That’s crazy because you wouldn’t know anyone in Milan.
Something just seems familiar.
I toy with the straw in my mocktail as I get comfortable on the barstool. Part of me really wanted something a little stronger, but I couldn't do that after mentally scolding the team for getting wine drunk.
I dial into Drunk Woman's conversation with the bartender, already invested in the story. I have to know what happened after she found her cousin and her now ex-boyfriend together. Did she punch him? Kick him? Burn his clothes on the sidewalk?
That’s how most of my teammates would have handled a cheating bastard, especially if it was with their cousin. Who does that?
“And then he had the audacity to blame me. Saying I’m not home enough,” she continues, stirring the liquor-coated ice in her empty glass. “As if that’s reason enough to dip that low.”
Normally, when I see bartenders listening to a story being told by a customer, they’re nodding along with glazed eyes as if they’re mentally building their grocery list for when their shift ends.
This bartender, however, seems fully enveloped by what he’s being told, and has only broken eye contact once when a cute blonde waitress asked for a drink refill for her table.
He didn't even flirt with her, which, kudos to him, because I definitely would have.
“That is pretty low.” The bartender shakes his head with sympathy in his eyes.
She slides her glass toward the edge of the bar, and he begins filling it with vodka.
Straight vodka? Damn. This poor broad is going through it.
“I had to sit beside him on the plane ride here, ya know,” she continues, moving her mouth above the glass, trying to find the straw. It’s almost embarrassing enough that I want to walk over and guide the straw to her lips so she can stop looking like a brand-new puppy in search of a tit.
“Can I help you?”
My eyes shift up from her glass to realize her slurred question is directed at me. I look all around and confirm. Yep. She’s talking to me.
“I’m sorry?” I’m unsure of how to respond to the newly single, albeit very hot, drunk woman.