Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Claudia
Nalani is meeting a professor to talk about law school and me, I am so grateful to have this time, just me, Savannah, getting ready to leave for our first day with the Bears.
Savannah sits on the bed watching me with big, curious eyes while I get her dressed.
I put her in a soft oatmeal colored long sleeve onesie with tiny, embroidered hockey sticks over her heart, then pull on stretchy caramel knit pants that will not bunch or pinch or ride up, and little baby boot socks that match the teddy bear sweater.
The outfit was a gift from the aunties, given to her last night while we watched the Bears beat Seattle before her first day at childcare.
She giggles when I kiss the tip of her nose, and I swear every emotion I have ever refused to feel tries to climb up my throat at once, and I push myself to get dressed.
Black tailored pants. Cream blouse. Soft blazer that feels like armor but still lets me breathe.
Neutral makeup. Hair pulled back loosely, nothing too severe.
I want to look professional, but not like I am trying too hard to prove I belong, even though that is precisely how I would feel if I weren’t feeling like every mother who takes her child to drop her off for the first time.
When we head downstairs, I see the island is spotless except for a folded note propped against a bowl of fruit and a to-go coffee cup still steaming, probably timed based on how long she knew it would take me to get Savannah fed and dressed.
I pick up the note and read.
Claudia,
Had to leave early for my meeting, but I didn’t want you to head into your first day of a career alone. You busted your ass to get here and are going to kill it today. Savannah is going to charm everyone who looks her way. No doubt being the secret favorite. I left coffee and backup snacks.
Text me when you are done. Proud of you always.
Love, N
I press my lips together to keep the sudden sting in my eyes from becoming tears.
Safe. Supported. Seen. It’s a lot. New York City has been… a lot.
I manage to pull it together right before the app alerts me that my ride is here, I take Savannah’s bag, and head out.
The facility is buzzing with quiet morning energy that would typically light me up, and I know once the firsts are all experienced, they will again, but everything feels heavy. Staff checking in. Screens displaying upcoming team events lit up, as if the building were alive.
I carry Savannah in my arms, her weight pressed against me in a way that was meant to give comfort, but it’s giving it back tenfold.
The childcare door opens with a soft click. Warm light. Soft rugs. Breathable calm. Babies babbling.
Marlene welcomes us with a warm smile. “Good morning, Savannah.” She looks at me now, “How is Mom?”
“Good morning,” I say, trying to sound like a mother who is fine. Not on the verge of unraveling.
“Can I take a photo of you two? It’s the big first day.” Marlene asks, and I pull my phone from my coat and hand it to her.
Once that’s done, her caregiver, Jo, reaches out and gently says. “Whenever you are ready.”
I kiss my daughter’s cheeks. Her forehead. Her tiny hand. I whisper it again before I can stop myself. “See you soon, little one.”
She smiles. Actually smiles. And instead of soothing me, it knocks the air out of me.
I hand her over. Her weight leaves my arms. My heart drops straight to the floor.
The caregiver sways with her, soft and sure. “We will call if she needs anything.” She hands me the small video monitor. “Check in whenever you want.”
I nod, because words feel like they might crack me open. Then I walk out before my face betrays everything.
I barely make it into the bathroom before the tears spill over. Hot. Fast. Immediate. I lock the door, brace my palms on the sink, and let the sobs come. Not the quiet ones you can swallow. The kind that drag themselves out of your chest, whether you give permission or not.
I try to breathe. I try to steady myself. But my body has other plans.
This is the part no one warns you about. The part where your baby is safe and cared for, and you are the one falling apart.
My phone buzzes.
Deacon:
How are my girls doing?
My breath stutters. My girls.
I try to type something stable.
Me:
We are ok.
Delete.
Me:
She is fine.
Delete.
Me:
I am not fine.
Delete.
Me:
I miss her already.
.
Before I can lie again, the phone rings.
Deacon.
I answer, because pretending is not an option.
He hears it in my breathing immediately. “Claudia. Hey. Breathe.”
I press a hand to my chest like that might hold me together. “I’m trying.”
“You handed her to someone who’s had a more thorough background check than any person in the entire country.
Marlene travels with Dean and his family during the off-season,” he says, voice steady and warm.
“That is the hardest thing you will do today. Maybe the hardest thing you have done since she was born. And you did it.”
A tear hits the counter.
He continues, quiet but firm. “You are not weak for feeling this. You’re a mother. And Claudia, you’re a really fucking amazing one.”
I close my eyes and let his words sink in.
“She’s okay,” he says. “She’s safe. If she gets hungry, they text you. You can be proud of yourself for giving her a life where she gets that kind of care.”
A shaky breath escapes me. “I hate that it hurts.”
“It hurts because you love her, right? And the fact that you walked in there anyway tells me everything I’ll ever need to know about the kind of parent you are.”
I wipe my eyes.
“You got this,” he says softly. “Take your time. Fix your face. Breathe. Walk into your first day knowing I respect the hell out of you for doing what you just did.”
My throat catches.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Always,” he says. “Call me if you need anything.”
“When are you back on the ice? I need something to look forward to.”
“Not sure yet,” he says.
“What? I thought you were fine?” I say as I fix my mascara.
“I’m good, they’re just being extra cautious.”
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“I’m sure.” He chuckles. “Have a good day, Doc.”
We hang up, and I finish putting myself back together.
Straighten my blazer. Look at myself in the mirror and see a woman doing something impossibly hard. A mother surviving the first separation. Then I take one last breath and step out.
By the time I make it back to the hallway, my breathing is even, and my eyes are no longer betraying me. I am steady enough to pretend I have not just had a minor emotional implosion in a very clean, very public restroom.
Trina spots me immediately.
She is leaning against the wall outside the family wing, tablet in hand, suit sharp as always.
Her expression softens when she sees me, not with pity, but with the calm understanding of a woman who has seen many versions of people walking into their first day, trying desperately to hold themselves together.
“Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s get you to your space.”
I fall into step beside her, and she gives me that little side glance and quietly asks,“You doing alright?”
“I’m good now.”
She nods once, approving my honesty. “First drop off is brutal. Anyone who says otherwise is lying or trying to impress someone. You did great.”
My chest loosens a little. “It did not feel great.”
“Great never feels like great in the moment,” she says. “It feels like panic, tears, and hoping you do not look like you got mugged by your own emotions. But trust me, it was great.”
We keep walking.
This part of the building is quiet, temperature-controlled, and intentionally insulated from the practice areas.
As we walk, Trina taps the tablet and says, “Your schedule auto-synced. Your onboarding starts this afternoon, but this morning is intentionally light. With the team away, you’ll have a chance to get comfortable before we start tossing players at you.”
“I appreciate the timing.”
We turn down a private hallway, and I start to feel that energy, that excitement I hoped to.
“You have been in the building once before, but not this wing,” she says. “This is where we keep the more sensitive roles. Player development. Legal. Mental health. Player support. Fewer people wandering through means more privacy.”
We stop at a door with my name already engraved in brushed metal, Dr. Claudia Holloway. It’s not taped on. It’s not temporary. It’s permanent.
Trina pushes the door open.
The morning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long gold shafts across the deep charcoal rug. The rink is visible below, massive and cold and beautiful, a reminder of the world I am now part of.
My shelves are fully stocked. Books I know, books I want to know. Trauma-informed practice. Performance psychology. Leadership theory. Sports culture. Even a couple of fiction titles that feel suspiciously chosen based on my resume’s side mention of loving nineteenth-century literature.
The seating area features sage-green chairs, a low slate table, and a sofa with clean lines and soft edges that are inviting. Everything here is intentional
The consultation nook feels private yet warm, like a tiny pocket designed for moments when someone needs to say something they have never said aloud. And the desk. God. The desk.
Walnut. Matte black frame. Clean. Strong. Quietly powerful.
Trina watches my reaction with a small smile. “Still good?”
“Stunning,” I admit, in the best way possible.
“That is the point,” she says. “The Bears do not do cheap. They do thoughtful. And you are here because you bring something we cannot train. Instinct. Intuition. Lived experience. We invest in that.”
Trina taps her tablet. “Your Zoom call with your predecessor, Dr. Benetti should start in two minutes. She is wonderful. She respects boundaries, and she respects people. You will get along well.”
I nod.
“She asked to meet you herself,” Trina adds. “That does not happen often. Take that as a compliment.”