Chapter 22 #2
Trina steps back toward the door. “I will check in after your call. Settle in. Breathe. And remember, you are not alone in this building. We take care of our own.”
When she leaves, the room goes quiet.
I sit down at my desk in a leather chair that molds to my body, place the video monitor on the desk, and promise myself not to turn it on, to check in this soon. I run my fingers along the smooth walnut surface and breathe in the faint scent of new wood.
The monitor screen lights up.
Incoming Zoom Call: Dr. Mara Benetti
I click accept.
Her face appears, warm eyes, soft expression, slight smile. “Dr. Holloway, welcome. Are you ready to dive right in?”
“I am,” I say as I pull out my laptop.
“The top left drawer should have a tablet. That’s where you may want to keep notes of your sessions, none of this information on it syncs with the Bears organization. It’s protected. That’s all between you and them.”
“Perfect,” I say, hitting the power button and placing it on the desk, then pulling out a yellow legal pad and a notebook. “I’ll set that up later.”
“Let’s talk about what you are stepping into.
” She leans back slightly, crossing her arms in a relaxed way.
“I want to give you a realistic picture of this team. No confidential details, no diagnoses, nothing ethically questionable. Just patterns, group dynamics, what has worked, and what has failed spectacularly.”
I nod, ready to take notes.
“First,” she says, “your players are loyal to each other in a way that is beautiful but blinding. They will walk through fire for each other, but they will also hide everything painful if they think it might make them look weak or distract a teammate.”
I nod. I have already seen that in Deacon. He’s off the ice for this very reason.
“This team plays with heart. That is their strength. It is also their Achilles heel. Here are the big patterns I have observed.
“Your older players worry more than they admit. Not about themselves, but about the younger, newer players. They feel responsible for the rookies. They worry about the guys with young families. They worry about how their performance affects the contracts of everyone underneath them.”
She pauses, letting it sink in.
“When a veteran snaps, it is rarely anger. It is pressure. It is the fear of failing the people who look up to them.” She adds, “The most effective support for veterans is reminding them that leadership is not perfection. It is modeling humanity.” She sighs, “Rookies are all bravado. Jokes, loud voices, gym bravado. But underneath? Terrified. Afraid of failing. Afraid of disappointing people back home. Afraid of losing their contract before they ever get to prove themselves.”
I write faster.
“What does not work? Challenging their ego directly. They will crumble or get defensive. What does work?” she continues. “Asking curious questions. Not tough questions. Curious. Give them permission to be human.”
I wholeheartedly agree with her.
“Another thing of great importance, players from difficult backgrounds have patterned responses.”
The way she says it makes my spine straighten just slightly.
“You will see fight responses disguised as stubbornness. Freeze responses disguised as indifference. Fawn responses disguised as people pleasing.” She watches me closely as I do not write that down, I know this from personal experience.
“When you see a player withdrawing, it is almost never disrespect. It is old survival wiring.” I nod, because I know this language all too well.
“What works? Consistency. Warm tone. Predictability. What does not work? Surprises. Sudden meetings. Public correction.”
“This team is young; only one true veteran remains. He was chosen for a reason. He’s solid, consistent, and so far unbreakable.
” Deacon. “With such a new team, we have several high-achieving perfectionists. They hide their stress until their bodies shut down. Sleep issues. Overtraining. Irritability. Emotional flatness.” She taps her pen against her desk.
“You will need to watch them closely. Not to judge, but to catch subtle shifts. They will not tell you when they are drowning. Their tells are micro expressions, tone changes, and little inconsistencies.”
“Travel weeks are a dream, you will feel human, lean into them to recharge, because some of your players are entering through emotional landmines.” She sighs softly.
“Travel is brutal for them. Time zones. Hotel rooms. Lack of privacy. No routine. Athletes require structure, and travel blows that to hell. Some deal with it better than others. Those others become more irritable, withdrawn. You may see small conflicts within the team. And you’ll notice it because on the ice, they are one.
The ones that struggle will give you signs.
With them, I did check-ins without pressure.
Sent messages asking, how is the room? You good on meals?
Anything stressing you? As much as I dislike what these devices do to enable us to withdraw and therefore harm our mental health, these men are far more open in text.
” I couldn’t agree more. “This team has many players with partners, spouses, or girlfriends. The emotional strain of being with an athlete is not small.”
She gives me a look that says she knows I understand that personally.
“You will hear more from the players whose partners are overwhelmed.
Not direct complaints. But comments like, ‘She has been quiet,’ or ‘I feel bad leaving right now. What works? Normalizing the struggle. Reassuring them that their relationships are not fragile because they hit bumps.” She smiles.
“We have great couples now, and fingers crossed for you, they stay that way.”
She flips a page in her notebook, “What has actually helped these players? Gentle consistency. Walking the facility instead of waiting for them to come to you. Being present at practices. Making eye contact. Asking questions that allow the answer to be simple. Offering help, not demanding compliance. Leaving space for silence. Giving them small wins. Speaking their language: effort, resilience, loyalty.” She smiles.
“They respect anyone who respects their grind.” She clears her throat, her tone drier.
“Here are the things that blow up in your face every time. Public confrontation, pushing too hard, assuming you know their story, challenging their masculinity, suggesting therapy in a way that implies weakness. Overcompensation. Appearing inconsistent. Telling a player he looks tired in front of teammates. Using clinical vocabulary without context. Commenting on their performance, ever. That’s not your job.
They do not want another coach,” she leans in. “They want a steady presence.”
Again, I nod.
“The players issues right now? One of your guys is very stoic. He will pretend nothing bothers him. His tells are micro gestures, not words. One bottles up until he explodes. You will hear about that one through teammates before you hear it from him. One uses humor like a shield. If the jokes get meaner, he is stressed. One isolates. If he misses meals or gym time, intervene gently. One gets loud when scared. It sounds like anger, but it is fear. One becomes overhelpful when he is overwhelmed. He will ask if you need anything three times in ten minutes. And one,” she says softly, “is far more vulnerable than he looks. His heart is on the ice even when he is trying to hide it.”
She lets me breathe that in.
“Your presence,” she says, “is impact. You read emotion. You understand trauma. You carry lived experience. Players trust people who have survived their own storms.”
Her voice gentle, warm, steady.
“You are not here to fix them. You are here to see them. To give them space to be human. And that is something no coach, no GM, and no statistic can do.”
I swallow, hard.
“You will be incredible at this,” she says. “I can already tell.”
Dr. Benetti adjusts her glasses and says, “There is one more piece we need to cover, and it is important. Your team has several players born outside the United States. That brings unique strengths, and it brings unique challenges, and it’s even more difficult as we head into the holiday season.”
I sit up straighter, pen ready, because I know exactly where this is going.
“Athletes who come from other countries carry layers of pressure American born players never face. The immigration process is stressful enough on its own. Add language differences, cultural expectations, homesickness, and the fear of losing their visa if they get injured or their contract is not renewed, and you have a recipe for quiet internal collapse.”
Nearly half the roster, I think.
“Your foreign-born players have to renew visas. File paperwork. Prove employment. Maintain high performance or risk losing sponsorship.” She looks directly into the camera. “Imagine every game feeling like you are not only playing for your team, but for your legal right to stay in the country.”
I feel that. Deep.
“They will not admit this fear. You will see it in their sleep patterns, irritability, overeating or undereating, and moments when they seem checked out. They miss home in a way that American players do not understand. Food. Language. Humor. Holidays. Family rituals.” Her tone softens.
“They carry the loneliness quietly. Not because they want to be stoic, but because they do not want to burden American teammates who do not know how to help. Inviting them into community spaces, even casually, works wonders. The Puck Pad?” She laughs.
“It should be a model for all teams. That group are future leaders.”
She looks down at her notebook, “With that said, some of your players come from regions where instability, political conflict, or unsafe childhoods were normal.”
She does not give names. She does not give details. But her voice carries the weight of stories she cannot tell.