Chapter 10
AVA
A warm breeze ruffles my hair as I speedwalk across the parking lot to the Gliders’ practice facility.
The scent of hot asphalt shoves itself up my nose with every step, an unwelcome reminder of my less than stellar commute.
The highway was gridlocked, and I didn’t have time to grab coffee, which is normally my one non-negotiable in the morning.
I need the caffeine to get me going, and I’m feeling its absence now.
It doesn’t help that I barely got a wink of sleep last night. Between the nerves of starting a new job, dinner with my father, and my confrontation with Knox, I was tossing and turning all night.
My father treating me like a child and steamrolling right over my agency seems to be par for the course, so I don’t know why I let it get to me.
Because you’re afraid of rocking the boat.
It’s the same reason I didn’t stand up for myself when my old supervisor took credit for two of my most successful clinics.
My stomach clenches at the memory.
This is a fresh start.
Exactly. I can’t risk my job or my budding relationship with my father. If Adam found out Knox and I slept together, he’d be furious, and then who knows what he’d do? Cut me off? Terminate my contract? The possibilities are endless, and I don’t know him well enough to predict how he might react.
Which is why no matter how much I like Knox—no matter how drawn I am to him—we cannot keep seeing one another. Adam only asked one thing of me when I accepted this job: no dating hockey players.
It seemed like such an easy request at the time.
After all, it’s part of my employment contract, and I can’t go back on my word any more than I can break a legally binding document.
It’s too risky. I worked too hard to get here, and I will not throw this opportunity away for orgasms.
It’s more than just orgasms.
I try to shove the thought away, but it sticks like mold.
Knox is the standard by which all men should be judged. He’s sweet, attentive, and a good conversationalist to boot.
I’ve never connected with anyone, physically or emotionally, the way I connect with him. He makes me feel safe in all the ways that matter, and when I’m with him, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world.
But we’re not, and giving him false hope would be wrong.
If I walk away, it will be the biggest mistake of my life.
His words echo in my head even now, and my heart cracks just a tiny bit at the thought of what might have been. At the realization that he wants me as much as I want him.
This isn’t the time to get caught up in your feelings. You have a job to do.
I check the time on my watch. Nine-oh-one.
Way to be late on your first day.
It’s one minute. I doubt Dr. Banks will even notice.
I push through the doors of the Gliders’ practice facility, and I’m hit with the scent of industrial cleaners, stale popcorn, and damp. Does damp even have a smell? Today it does.
The facility is far nicer than I could have imagined, with a spacious lobby that features a glass atrium, a large concession stand, and a pro shop. Thankfully, the Iceplex is currently closed to the public, making it far easier to spot my new boss.
He stands on the opposite side of the lobby, looking thoroughly unimpressed as he stares at the big, fancy watch on his wrist.
I cross the lobby as fast as my legs will carry me.
“Dr. Banks, I’m so sorry I’m late.” I offer him an apologetic smile. “I left early, but the traffic was terrible, and there was an accident on 85.”
“There’s always an accident. You should’ve done your research.” His words are cold and clipped. There’s no sign of the warm, southern gentleman who interviewed me for the position. “Atlanta is notorious for its traffic.”
Note to self: Banks is a stickler for punctuality.
“It won’t happen again.” I adjust my bag, which hangs heavy on my shoulder. It’s stuffed with player profiles, notebooks, and various other tools of the trade. “I’m excited to be here and ready to get to work.”
He gives me a once-over, taking in my black pants and Gliders polo. Disapproval flashes in his eyes. Compared to his tailored dress pants and starched button-up, I probably look like a slob, but there was no dress code, and team apparel is the standard uniform in my line of work.
“Good. Let’s go meet the team. They’re waiting for us in the locker room.”
The subtle dig smarts, but I paste on a smile and follow him down the concourse.
Dr. Banks and I have only spoken a handful of times.
From what I’ve gathered in our brief conversations, his role as the team psychiatrist is basically a six-figure side hustle.
He has a private practice in Buckhead that seems to be his primary focus, and he’s already warned me that his time on-site will be limited.
I don’t mind. Honestly, I welcome the autonomy. At least I won’t have to worry about anyone else taking credit for my work, which happened regularly at the Ivy League where I was previously employed. When I told Knox it was difficult working in a male-dominated field, I wasn’t exaggerating.
Good vibes only…even if Dr. Banks is proving to be a pompous jerk.
The door is propped open when we arrive, and the instant I catch a whiff of moldy socks, the reason is apparent.
Adam—Coach Carlyle—greets us with a smile, and the room falls silent as all eyes turn our way. I do my best to avoid Knox’s stare as I survey the room, which is at full capacity.
“Listen up,” Coach says, voice commanding attention.
“Most of you already know Dr. Banks, our team psychiatrist, but for those who don’t, the doc is available to support you with any mental health challenges you may be facing.
I encourage all of you to take advantage of his services.
It’s going to be a long season, and we need to stay sharp physically and emotionally. ”
There’s a murmur of assent, and Banks steps forward to explain his role in detail. He’s far more personable with the team and coaching staff than he’s been with me this morning, but that’s no surprise.
The man oozes boys’ club.
When he finishes, Coach Carlyle addresses the team again.
“I’m happy to share we’ve expanded our support staff to include a full-time mental performance coach.
” He gestures to me. “This is Ava Washington. She’ll be working with the team on a day-to-day basis.
Ava’s focus is to help us build mental toughness, teamwork, and a leadership mindset so we can get out there and win games. ”
There are a few shouts of “Hell yeah!” and a couple of guys thump the wooden stalls in a show of support.
It’s a good sign, and I’ll take it.
Coach turns the room over to me, and I step forward, projecting confidence.
“Thanks for the introduction, Coach.” I focus on the players, meeting each of their eyes in turn. Except for Knox. I pass over him quickly in order to avoid distraction. “I’m excited to partner with the Gliders this season, and I’m looking forward to seeing what we can accomplish as a team.”
I quickly run them through my credentials and experience. It’s standard practice to build rapport and establish myself as an expert. A few ears perk up at my resume.
“I’ll be scheduling one-on-one sessions with every player on the team to determine how I can best support you individually. I’ll also be leading regular group exercises.”
The players groan, but I don’t take it personally.
A lot of these guys probably grew up being told to just get out there and play the game. They haven’t had the opportunity—or the encouragement—to analyze their feelings or the way their mental health impacts their on-ice play.
I clap my hands together and they fall silent. “Coach has agreed to let me kick off this morning’s practice with a group team building activity, and because I want to ensure it feels like a safe space, I’m going to ask the coaching staff to leave us to it.”
Coach nods, albeit begrudgingly. “We’ll see you on the ice in thirty minutes.”
Once the coaching staff is gone, I turn back to the players. “My goal is to get to know all of you, and for you to get to know one another. Being part of a team means learning to be vulnerable and trusting that the guy beside you has your back on the ice.”
Dr. Banks clears his throat, impatience radiating from his stiff posture.
Thanks for the support, boss.
“You’re all incredible hockey players. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” I pause, letting my words sink in. “Our goal this season is to make you an incredible team.”
They remain silent. They don’t give me so much as a grunt of approval.
It’s fine. I’ve worked with challenging teams before.
I mentally scrap my planned icebreaker.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to play a game called common threads. Each member of the team will be given sixty seconds to rant about something that’s bothering them—no taking shots at teammates—and the rest of us will listen and respond.”
Dr. Banks and I do a quick practice round to warm the group up, and then I ask for a volunteer to start.
One of the younger guys raises his hand. “I’ll go first.” He smirks. “Just like in the draft.”
Conor McGinnis. Twenty. Center. Rookie.
And apparently he can strut sitting down.
McGinnis leans forward and looks around the locker room.
“Back at school, I had a social media manager who could skate circles around the Gliders admin. My girl could do banging edits, seamless transitions, and she never posted my bad side.” He gestures to the left side of his face.
“She knew to only post my good side.” He turns his head.
“It’s not that hard, but tell it to admin.
They insist on showcasing my bad side, even though I’ve brought it to their attention half a dozen times.
It’s like they’re trying to ruin my brand, and the season hasn’t even started yet. ”