Chapter 17 Ava
AVA
I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it together.
I reread the line, acid churning in my gut. The note is a cry for help, but who wrote it?
It could’ve been anyone. There are twenty-four guys on the team, including Sutter, who’s on injured reserve. He was here today, like always, and seemed to be his usual happy-go-lucky self.
That doesn’t mean anything.
True. Lots of people suffer in silence.
For all I know, Coach could’ve written the message, though I doubt it. I’ve seen his handwriting often enough to feel confident it’s not his.
I pocket the note. I need time to consider my next steps. Without tone, context, or body language, it’s difficult to assess the seriousness of the statements, but I’m not about to write it off.
I do a final sweep of the room and head for the rink to observe practice.
When I arrive, one of the admins is filming B-roll from behind the glass, and Dr. Banks is hovering in the viewing area, dressed to the nines, as usual.
His mouth tightens as soon as he spots me. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Somehow I doubt it. “I was in the locker room, running the team through a team building exercise.”
He glances pointedly at the ice, but drops it.
“I read your weekly update, and I have concerns.”
This is what you get for sending it early.
I won’t make that mistake twice.
If I’d held off sending it until this afternoon, I probably could have gotten through the weekend without one of these delightful visits.
We stare at one another in silence, but of course I break first. “What concerns do you have, Dr. Banks? I’m happy to address them.”
“It’s not just the reports themselves, but what they represent.”
Represent? This isn’t freshman English. They’re progress reports, and they’re as straightforward as it gets. “Oh?”
“Your reports show little improvement and offer even less value. You need to at least make it look like you’re trying,” he whisper-hisses. “Jonathan Towers wants results, and he wants them yesterday. This organization is paying you far too much to get nothing in return.”
Is he joking? I don’t even make enough to rent a decent apartment after paying my student loans, and forget about benefits because it’s a contract position, which Banks and Towers, the team GM, must know.
“Jonathan is looking at the budget for next year and evaluating whether your position should be made permanent.” He sniffs. “As it stands, he won’t be recommending it.”
He can’t be serious. Frustration churns in my belly. I’ve only been here a few weeks, and if Banks was doing his job correctly, the GM would understand these things take time. Evaluating my position after three freaking weeks makes zero sense. Zero.
I swallow my frustration and choose my words carefully. “Dr. Banks, material change takes time. It’s a bit premature to be making decisions about next year. Perhaps you could explain—”
“I’ve done all the explaining I intend to do,” he snaps, looking down his sharp nose at me. “Jonathan wants results. This team needs to start winning, and if you cannot help them achieve that goal, then there is no future for you with the Gliders. Do you understand?”
Oh, I understand. He’ll throw me under the bus in a New York minute.
Drawing a slow breath, I force the tension from my body. “While you’re here, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
I pull the note from my pocket, unfold it, and hand it to him.
He glances at the note, then his gaze jumps back to mine. “What is this?”
“One of the players wrote it during our team building exercise this morning. I don’t know who wrote it, but I thought perhaps you might?”
“Ms. Washington, as a psychiatrist, any conversation I have with a patient is privileged. Even if I knew who wrote these statements, I would not be at liberty to say.”
“Of course. I know, but if the patient poses an imminent—”
“Do not tell me how to do my job,” he says, cutting me off. Disdain drips from his voice, and what I wouldn’t give to know why he dislikes me so much. “I’m the psychiatrist here. You’re the performance coach. You’d do well to stay in your lane.”
The dismissal smarts, but I can’t let this go. “Will you be following up then?”
Banks heaves a sigh, and it’s clear he’s over this conversation. “For all we know, it’s a joke. Every player on this team has my number. If one of them is going through a difficult time and needs to talk, they know how to reach me.”
His blasé attitude is infuriating. It’s his job to diagnose and treat any mental health conditions these players experience, yet he seems more interested in making his tee time, or whatever it is he does on a Friday morning.
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Unless someone comes to you for help directly, forget about this and do the job you’re being paid to do.” He folds the paper and slips it into his pocket. “If you want any shot at returning next fall, you need to deliver results.”
With that, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the rink.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and count to ten.
I will not let that man get the best of me.
I will not let that man get the best of me.
I will not—
“What an asshole. Does he talk to you like that all the time?”
My eyes fly open, and I straighten, searching for the speaker.
It’s the woman who was filming practice. I’ve seen her around and I think she works in the front office, but I’m not sure what her role is. She’s young, early twenties, and…she’s waiting for a response.
I force a smile. “He’s my boss, so…”
God, it sounds even more pathetic when I say it out loud.
“That man is the definition of a hostile workplace.” She plants a hand on her hip. “You should report him to HR.”
I could never. What would my dad think?
Does it even matter? There’s no way I’d report Dr. Banks. If what the guys say is true, and he’s friends with the GM, he’d just get a slap on the wrist, and he definitely seems like the type to retaliate.
No, thank you. My job is hard enough already without adding fuel to the fire.
“It’s not that bad.” I wrap my arms around myself for warmth. “I think he’s just having a bad day.”
“Yeah, like every time he’s on-site.” She shudders, and it’s not from the cold. “I don’t know how you stand it. I wouldn’t last a day under that creep.” Her hand shoots out and I shake it. “I’m Emerson, by the way. I’m a social media intern.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ava. I’m the team’s mental performance coach.”
“Cool.” She cocks her head thoughtfully. “I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
“It’s a new position this year. If it doesn’t go well, it’ll be my first and last season with the Gliders.”
It rankles, but I knew from the start that it was a possibility. And for all of Banks’s bluster about budgets, it’s clear the final decision hasn’t been made. There’s still time to turn things around.
Hockey seasons are long, and we’re just getting started.
We lapse into silence, and Emerson resumes filming.
It’s a good practice. There’s light contact, but no one’s fighting, and the lines appear to be in sync.
Passes are solid and Bouchard looks sharp.
Johnson is taking heat from the assistant coach for avoiding contact, and I make a mental note to talk to him about it after practice.
It could be a physical issue, but it’s equally possible there’s a mental aspect to it.
Overall, they look good, and with any luck, they can pull off a win tomorrow against the Rangers.
They’ve got the home-ice advantage, and I’ll be in the stands cheering them on.
Practice winds down, and Emerson positions herself at the open door of the players’ tunnel. “Can I get some trick shots before you call it?” she yells, cupping a hand to her mouth. “The fans eat that stuff up!”
The guys comply, giving her a solid fifteen minutes of footage that defies the laws of physics. I stand by her side, watching, and I can’t help but notice how relaxed they are while attempting shots that should be near impossible.
The skill level, while impressive, isn’t even the most interesting part.
It’s the way they cheer each other on and hand out compliments like Tic Tacs.
When they finally clear the ice, Emerson blocks the entrance, holding up her phone.
She’s tall, probably 5’9, but compared to the guys in their skates? Not so much.
“You’ve gotta pay the tax,” she tells them, grinning. “And let’s keep it PG-13 for the fans.”
Patterson groans, but gives her an out with it gesture.
Emerson smirks, not the least bit deterred. “Do you ever wish you were taller?”
He laughs, taking the question in stride. “Yeah, a little. I’m just under six feet and the guys give me crap about it all the time.”
She lets him pass, and Graves takes his place. “What sport would you play if you were more athletic?”
His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Are you serious right now?” He turns to Bateman and smacks him in the chest. “Did you hear what she just asked me?”
Bateman squeezes into the shot. “What’s the question? Hit me.”
Emerson grins, and it’s clear she takes great pleasure in her job. “What sport would you play if you were more athletic?”
Bateman narrows his eyes, but then he shrugs. “Golf. My grandpa destroys me every time.”
Bateman shuffles past and Graves is close on his heels, still shaking his head and muttering about the audacity.
Knox steps up next, and I can’t wait to see what doozy she gives him, but he gets a softball. “Who’s your favorite female athlete?”
A slow grin spreads over his face, and he looks from Emerson to me and back again. “I’ll give you a hint. She’s a gymnast.”
A slow flush creeps up my neck, and I do my best to keep a neutral expression because something tells me Emerson won’t be able to guess this one.
She jumps on it with all four feet, though. “Simone Biles?”
Knox shakes his head slowly, his smug grin fixed in place.
“Really? She’s the GOAT.” Emerson frowns. “Give us another hint. Is she active or retired?”
He laughs, and gravelly sound sparks heat low in my belly. “Retired.”
Emerson turns to me. “Any ideas?”
I press my lips together to keep from grinning and shake my head.
“Better luck next time,” he says, swaggering past us, his sweat-damp hair making him look even sexier than usual.
Emerson continues down the line, and I observe the players’ reactions, searching for one that feels off or a little too forced, but I’ve got nothing. I’m no closer to knowing who wrote the note this morning, and now I don’t even have it as a reference thanks to Dr. Banks.
Bouchard is the last one off the ice and cites a PWHL player as his favorite female athlete.
“I love it!” Emerson says. “Way to support the women!”
Bouchard blushes and lopes off with a crooked grin.
“They can do all that,”—I gesture to her camera, defeated—”but they’d never be able to say nice things about their own teammates.”
Emerson eyes me curiously. “I could make that happen.”
Of that, I have no doubt.
“How do you do it? It’s like you’ve got them wrapped around your finger.”
“My brother is a hockey player.” She grabs a bag off the bench and puts her camera inside it. “I’ve been managing him my whole life, despite being smaller and prettier, so I guess the answer is lots of practice.”
We both laugh, and it feels nice after the morning I’ve had.
“It’s a physical sport,” she says thoughtfully. “They’re used to using their size and speed to their advantage, but they’re plenty easy to outwit. You just have to get creative and show them you won’t back down.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Though I suspect it’s not as easy as she makes it out to be. “Where does your brother play?”
“He plays for the Canes. He’s in the final year of his entry-level contract, but he’ll be re-signed.”
“They’re the Gliders’ rivals, right?” I snort-laugh, imagining the family dinners. “That must be fun.”
“You have no idea.” Emerson rolls her eyes. “I’ve been running his social accounts for years, which is how I got this job. He has over two million followers, despite being a complete douche.” She grins. “Which is why the Gliders call me Little Spy.”
“Count your blessings. It could be worse.”
“Tell me about it.” She flips her ponytail over her shoulder.
“It doesn’t bother me. Honestly, I love it here, and I hope I get to stay on when my internship is over.
The owners have an incredible vision for this team, and the marketing directive is to make sure people come for the vibes, regardless of whether the team is winning or losing.
They want to build a community, and I’d like to continue being part of it. Plus, my job is fun as hell.”
“Speaking of your job… I wonder if you could carry a message back to the marketing team.”
Emerson lifts a brow. “Shoot.”
I tell her how the team feels about Chippy, and she cackles, her laughter echoing through the empty rink.
“If you think it’ll help morale, I’ll bring it up at the next marketing meeting,” she promises.
“Oh, and there’s one other thing.” I hold up my fingers, pinching them together. “It’s really just a tiny favor, but since you’re on the socials team, I have to ask. Could you try to feature McGinnis’s good side a little more often?”
“Aww,” she croons, a devilish grin curving her lips. “Was Baby Glider complaining?”
I groan. “Please tell me you didn’t start that.”
Emerson makes a ‘Who me?’ face and presses her hand to her chest. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Something tells me McGinnis won’t be escaping the moniker anytime soon, but that’s the least of my concerns because now more than ever, I need the Gliders to win tomorrow night.
My job quite literally depends on it.