22. CHAPTER 22
Livia
The conference room on the executive floor has floor-to-ceiling windows on the long wall, and I always wonder why they do that in rooms designed to hold meetings. I think it gives too much opportunity for someone’s attention to wander if they get bored, but lucky for me, that won’t be a problem.
While I’ve been in many meetings since joining the Wildfire, I can honestly say they’ve all been far from boring, and I think that’s a testament to how much I love this new job.
Patrick’s assistant Janine has arranged the room with drinks and breakfast pastries, no doubt made in the Blue Line on the first floor.
Coach Monahan is seated at the far end, deep in conversation with Van and Oliver.
The analytics director, Steve Durham, works on his tablet beside me, making grunting sounds when he reads a piece of data.
Not sure what that means, but while we wait for Patrick, I let my gaze drift out the window.
And immediately my thoughts drift to Locke. He came over again last night—merely told me he’d be there rather than asking. Once again, I made dinner. The only difference is we actually ate first and fucked later.
Both nights, he stayed all night, and that seems to carry some weight, although I’m not sure how much or what it means.
I only know that while this can still be compartmentalized as fun, which it is, it’s definitely turning into more.
The door opens and Patrick walks in wearing a dark suit, open collar. He scans the room once, finds everyone he’s looking for, and nods.
“Good morning.”
We all echo back the greeting, and Juno comes through the door a step behind him.
She’s in filmmaker mode—cargo pants, loose top, the camera rig already in her cameraman Evan’s hands.
I learned early on that Juno was given full access to all operational meetings and this is the second one I’ve been in that she’s filmed.
She does a quick sweep of the room and offers a small smile when she finds me.
Patrick takes the head of the table and Evan stands in the corner, able to pan to everyone’s face should he need to. Juno stands to his left, out of the way, and the room settles.
“I want to keep this tight,” Patrick says, glancing at his watch. “Two hours maximum. We’ll start with game metrics and work our way to personnel.”
Steve is up first. I have a fondness for analytics and statistics. His message is clear… the team is playing well. The expansion season that everyone in the league was watching with folded arms and barely concealed skepticism is producing results nobody predicted at this scale.
Coach Monahan goes through a litany of micro progress reports—line combinations, penalty kill efficiency, power play stats. He talks about the road trip performance, the back-to-backs in LA, and the way the defensive pairings have tightened since the October numbers.
“Davies and Donovan,” he says, and hearing Locke’s last name causes me to jolt slightly.
“They’ve been the best defensive pair we’ve put on the ice this season.
Locke’s been good. His penalty minutes are down significantly from his previous organizations and his on-ice composure has noticeably improved over the last few weeks. ”
“Which is probably a good time to transition over to Livia.” I look down the table at the Wildfire owner, very aware the camera is rolling and that this might one day make it into the documentary. “Tell me where you are with the performance program.”
I clasp my hands before me. “The program is running well across the board. I’ve completed nine individual assessments on active rostered players with all nine entering into individualized programs with me.
I have two new players scheduled for next week and I want to institute team-wide focus on arousal regulation protocol for the pregame. ”
Steve makes a choking sound and his eyes flare with alarm. “Wait! Arousal? What?”
“Relax, Steve,” I say with a reassuring pat on his arm. “It’s a mental performance technique to manage physiological arousal levels before competition. It helps get players into their optimal activation zone so they’re not too amped up and not too flat before a game.”
His eyebrows draw together. “But how… I mean, what does one do to get in the zone?”
I laugh and pat his arm again. “There are dozens of techniques people employ already. If you’re flat or under-activated, you might play high energy music. Or if you’re over-activated, you might do deep breathing. Half the battle is learning when to recognize it and employ the correct techniques.”
“That’s like a foreign language to a statistician, but I’m looking forward to watching the results.”
“As am I,” Patrick says, and my head swivels his way. “Where do we stand on Donovan?”
“We’ve had two sessions so far.”
The room is very quiet, and I’m not sure if it’s actually quiet or if I just hear it that way.
“Two sessions,” Patrick says. “In how long?”
“In four weeks.” I keep my voice even. “Which I know might sound light, but Donovan needs to be handled a certain way.”
“And what way is that?” Patrick asks, his head tilted slightly in curiosity.
“We struck an agreement,” I say, lifting my chin because I’m proud I got the guy to agree to anything at all. “Three sessions plus his honest attempt to bond with his teammates by attending events, which he has been doing as well.”
Patrick’s eyes are steady on mine. Those vivid blue eyes don’t telegraph much, which is one of the things that makes him formidable. “Whose idea was that?”
“Mine.”
“Why?”
I could give him the professional answer, the one about meeting resistant subjects where they are, the value of buy-in over coercion, yada, yada. All of that is true.
But I simplify it down. “Because he wouldn’t have given me anything otherwise. He’s not someone you can forcibly extract things from, and I had to make it worth his while to hand them over. The carrot I dangled in front of him was limited sessions.”
There’s something uneasy in Patrick’s expression. Not displeasure, but I can see he’s not fully buying into what I’m saying. “And two sessions in, what have you gotten?”
“More than I expected,” I say honestly. “His family background, his childhood, formative relational dynamics. Enough to start piecing the puzzle together of his volatility.”
“And what’s driving it?”
I hold his gaze. “I’d prefer to keep the content of those sessions between Locke and myself. For the same reason you’d want that—if players think anything they say to me ends up at this table, nobody says anything real.”
Patrick inclines his head. “Fair point.”
“What I can tell you is that the on-ice improvement is real and not incidental. He’s doing the work.
” Which is true, but as I told him the other night, there’s the threat of him blowing again if the underlying issues aren’t dealt with.
“And the team trust piece is moving. Slowly, but it’s moving. He’s integrating with the others.”
Patrick sits with that. “You have one session left.”
“Yes.”
“What happens after that?”
The question produces a pit in my stomach, which is why I’ve been turning it over for days without landing on an answer I’m comfortable with. “I’m not entirely sure yet, but I’m hoping the third session gives me enough to build a longer-term voluntary framework with him.”
“And if he doesn’t opt in?”
“Then I’ll have done what I can do.” I meet his eyes. “And it will be solely on Donovan to keep his job with this team.”
Patrick smiles at me. “Thank you, Livia. Sounds like you’re doing a great job.”
I wonder if he’d say the same thing if he knew I was sleeping with Locke. Probably not.
I exhale carefully through my nose, pick up my pen, and jot a note on my legal pad that means nothing, just to have somewhere to look.
From the corner of my eye, I can see the camera has moved.
Evan has angled slightly, the lens no longer on Patrick but back on me.
I make myself stay very still and my expression professional, as it should be when in a staff meeting discussing a player with whom everything is completely appropriate.
The meeting wraps at the two-hour mark. Everyone gathers their things before filing out of the room. I’m stacking my notes and capping my pen when Juno appears at my elbow.
“Walk with me for a second,” she says.
It isn’t really a question and I note Evan’s there with the camera on his shoulder.
We fall into step in the corridor outside the conference room.
“You’ve been working with Locke Donovan for a few weeks now,” she says, coming right out like the opening of an interview, which it is.
“That’s right.”
“He came in with a significant disciplinary history. Penalty minutes, on-ice incidents, the like.” She pauses, glances over at me. “And your read after two sessions is that he’s improving?”
“I think everyone can see that for themselves.”
“What’s your sense of him as a person? Not the player. The man.”
Evan moves around to catch my face and I try to ignore the camera.
“He’s—” I start, but then I stop.
The camera is right there and Juno’s staring at me. I can tell by the look on her face that she suspects I might have a deeper story.
My eyes cut to Evan and no words come out.
Juno looks at Evan. “Give us a minute.”
He lowers the camera without comment and gives me a small smile before heading down the hallway.
Juno turns back to me, and I can’t meet her gaze.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” she murmurs. “Just me and you.”
Off the record, she means.
“Yeah… that would be great.”
I follow Juno to her office in the east wing. It’s not much—a small room with a desk and corkboard covered in index cards. I drop into one of the chairs and she closes the door before hopping onto her desk with her palms on the edge.
She looks at me without an agenda and waits.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I figured.”
“It can’t leave this room.”
“It won’t.”
I look down at my clasped hands, then back up to her. “I crossed a line,” I say out on a long breath.
Juno’s expression remains open and nonjudgmental. “I assume we’re talking about Locke?”
“Yeah,” I admit, weirdly without shame. Concern over my own judgment and whether it’s sound, yes, but not shame.
“The professional boundary that I very clearly established and very clearly needed to maintain for too many reasons to count… well, I crossed it.” I pause.
“We crossed it. It was mutual, but that doesn’t make it better. ”
She’s quiet. “How bad is it?”
My eyebrows lift. “What do you mean by bad?”
“Is your heart tied up or is it just sex?” she asks bluntly. “And are you managing it?”
I think about the way he’s opened himself to me, stayed the night in my bed, held me. The way he smiles and even laughs at times. The tiny layers peeling back that he’s letting me see.
“I’m not managing it,” I admit quietly.
Juno exhales slowly through her nose and gives me an empathetic smile. “Listen… I understand better than anyone exactly what you’re going through. Trying to maintain the professional line while being dragged under personally.”
It’s the personal connection that’s screwing everything up for me.
“He showed up,” I say softly, and Juno cocks her head. “Grant was in LA, grabbed me, and Locke… he was there. And he not only stopped it but was worried for me. That did something to me.” I press my fingers to my mouth briefly. “When it mattered, he showed up and I just—”
“You don’t have to explain it,” Juno says.
I look at her helplessly, needing affirmation.
“I fell for the man I was documenting,” she says simply. “From a slightly different angle but the same essential problem. The ethics of it don’t go away just because the feelings are real.”
“No,” I say dejectedly. “They don’t.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I have one session left with him and professionally, I have to make it count because I need him to be real and I’m almost out of runway.
” I rub my temples. “Personally, I have no idea. We’ve called it compartmentalized.
” I say the word almost with disdain, because it’s already failed. “I’m aware that’s not holding.”
“Does he know that?”
I lift a shoulder. “Maybe.”
Juno is quiet. “Is he good to you?”
The simplicity of the question hits an unguarded cavern in my heart.
“Yes,” I say confidently. “Genuinely, yes. Which is its own problem, honestly. It would be easier if he weren’t.”
She nods like she understands completely. She probably does. “How does this end?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. And it’s the truest thing I’ve said all morning.
Juno looks at me then she does the thing I didn’t know I needed, which is not to say anything wise or cautionary or particularly helpful. She nods once… with confidence. “You’re a smart woman. You’re a good woman. You’ll figure it out just fine.”
And she says it with such surety, I almost believe it.
“Do you want to get some coffee? I found a place here in the east wing that does a decent Americano.”
“That’s called the Blue Line,” I say with a laugh as I rise from my chair.
“But it’s all the way over here in the east wing, so it’s like we’ve traveled somewhere for a decent cup of coffee,” Juno says with a waggle of her eyebrows.
The transition back to friendship banter is just what I need, and I manage to push my worries aside for a little bit.