The E.M.M.A. Effect

Chapter One

Greek mythology was once my obsession—those passionate gods and forbidden love stories had me dreaming of my own epic romance.

But apparently the Fates had different plans. My own thread of destiny turned out to be less indestructible gold thread and

more like dental floss—fragile and easily snapped. Now those ancient tales are just another relic in my personal Museum of

Abandoned Special Interests, sharing shelf space with cryptography, tiny food videos, that short-lived fermentation phase,

and my brief but intense foray into origami.

But deep down, I still yearn to be an Athena—wise, strategic, and worshipped. Instead, I’ve morphed into Pandora 2.0, a mere

mortal addicted to the Find My Phone app as I fixate on my ex’s blue dot, pulsing from a trendy fusion joint in East Austin.

“Hey, boss lady.” Hana Lee, my team’s data engineer, pops up like a meerkat over my frosted-glass cubicle wall, peering out

from beneath curtain bangs. “Wanna grab some lunch with the team?”

“Oh, hi.” I hastily flip my phone over, internally cringing as the case clacks against the laminate desk surface littered

with Post-it notes. I adjust my glasses, aiming for an aura of calm, cool, and definitely not stalking my ex. “Thanks, but

I brought leftovers.”

“Again?” Her groan could win an Oscar. “Come on! When’s the last time you’ve gone out with us?”

“How about Friday and I’ll treat everyone?” I suggest with a small but genuine smile. “We could try that new soul food truck that everyone’s been raving about.”

“This isn’t fair.” She drums her fingers on the cubicle wall, pretending to consider. “So you’re bribing me with jumbo shrimp

and grits?”

“That all depends.” I lean in, waggling my eyebrows. “Is it working?”

“What can I say? I’m weak for shellfish.” She glares at me. “Friday—promise?”

I lift my hand and lock fingers with her. “Pinky promise.”

“And you know there are consequences for breaking a pinky promise, right?” she says. “I’ll change your screensaver to that

video from the Christmas party. You know, the one where you’re serenading that potted plant with ‘All by Myself.’”

“Hana Marie Lee.” I gasp in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare! That ficus and I had a deep soul connection!”

“All I’m saying is you gave me the pinky, and that’s sacred.” She disappears back behind the wall.

I wait until her heels click-clack away on the tile floor—a sound not unlike my departing dignity—before I dive back to my

phone. Turns out, my on-off ex for most of my twenties, Zach, never removed me from his Friends and Family list. So now I’ve

got a fun lunch ritual that’s one part stalking, two parts masochism, with a sprinkle of “What the hell am I doing with my

life?”

The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sickly glow on my sad excuse for lunch. Today’s special: refrigerator-aged pizza. It

pairs nicely with this generic cola, which has a lingering aftertaste of disappointment.

Zach’s probably getting cozy with Colette Renard, angel investor and his rumored new situationship.

I shouldn’t care, but curiosity is a persistent itch.

I bet they’re sipping yuzu margaritas and sharing a dish that’s more art installation than food.

What’s on the menu there anyway? I hit a few keys and pull it up.

Ah, perhaps they’re noshing on White Truffle Conchiglie with Sous Vide Pork Belly, aka mac and cheese with an inflated ego.

I heave a sigh. Zach upgraded to a gorgeous millionaire while I’m contemplating the gentrification of pasta shells.

It’s fine. Totally fine.

And I don’t want him back. It just sucks being the loser.

I grab a sticky note and start folding, dead set on making at least one paper crane before I lose my mind. Guess my version

of self-care is frantically creasing office supplies.

I’m definitely not picturing Colette feeding him flirtatious bites from her fork. Or hyper-fixating on those deep appreciative

noises he makes whenever he tastes something delicious. The same sounds he used to make when he would—

My mind flashes a mock error message: Stop. Error 404: Healthy coping nowhere in sight. Please reboot your self-worth and try again later.

But I do try to move on. I mean, I deleted the breakup text he sent me. Though that doesn’t change the fact that the guy had

the audacity to end things using corporate speak. In his message—which I can still quote verbatim despite deleting it—he used

SWOT analysis. I call it BS:

Strengths: You make good banana pancakes. (I’ll add that to my LinkedIn profile.)

Weaknesses: Bedroom performance needs improvement. (Right, because being assertive and knowing exactly what I want is such a terrible thing.)

Opportunities: Chance to find someone more compatible. (Someone who will stroke his ego so he can maintain his fragile illusion of being God’s gift to women.)

Threats: I’m not sure I ever loved you. (Knife meet heart.)

It’s been three months and the universe must have decided that I’ve had enough self-pity for one lunch break because my inbox

pings.

Brooke, my ride-or-die since high school, just slid into my inbox with a link to her private YouTube channel. I hesitate,

pizza halfway to my mouth. I’m kind of on a roll with my personal dumpster fire, but Brooke’s enthusiasm is infectious, even

digitally. The subject line reads: Benji’s One Month Old!

I adore her new baby so I take a bite and click. But the moment the image loads, the crust lodges itself in my throat. My

fingers freeze on the mouse, knuckles white against the cheap plastic.

Grinning out from my left thirty-two-inch monitor is Gale Knight in all his glory, forward for the Austin Regals NHL team,

Brooke’s younger brother, and the proud owner of not just one but TWO heart-stopping dimples. He’s basically a modern-day

Adonis wearing expensive workout clothes. The overhead lights even flicker, like they’re swooning at the sight of him too.

And of course, because the Fates currently hate me, he is cradling his infant nephew—while clad in a T-shirt that clings to

his pecs like a second skin, paired with snug gray sweatpants that do virtually nothing to conceal the sheer magnificence

of his . . . assets.

And it hits me, in a Zen moment of pizza-choking clarity, as the edges of my vision blur: if I have to choose my final earthly

vision, I could do a lot worse than a twenty-five-year-old pro hockey player in all his low-slung sweats, dimple-flashing,

gap-toothed glory.

Then sanity prevails. Or maybe it’s old-fashioned self-preservation kicking in. Either way, I refuse to become a viral cautionary

tale: “Woman Chokes While Cyber-Stalking Ex and Lusting After Best Friend’s Little Brother.”

Instead, I make a fist, and I’m about to pound my own abdomen in an attempt at a personal Heimlich when my body goes on autopilot. With a coughing gag and a few wheezes, the pizza is dislodged and I’m back to the land of the breathing.

Not today, Hades.

I brace my hands on my desk, focusing on my pounding heart and taking deep, greedy gulps of air. Thankfully, no one in the

office sees my near-tragedy play out—except the monitor.

E.M.M.A. is here too—or the Empirical Machine for Maximizing Athletics, the AI I’ve been developing here at TrainTech. It’s

a precision tool that helps coaches make more-informed training decisions. It tracks detailed metrics—from movement patterns

to sleep and nutrition—and converts this data into clear, actionable insights.

The goal is simple: Let coaches focus on what they do best. While E.M.M.A. handles data collection and analysis, coaches can

dedicate more time to hands-on training, mentorship, and developing personalized strategies for each athlete.

But we’re still in the development stage, and today I have to guide this digital novice through an alphabet of images, pointing

out what is a smile, a frown, a rose petal, me gargling old pizza, whatever. But I’m amazed by its swift comprehension. It’s

as if I’ve handed a paintbrush to a prodigy, watching in awe as they quickly master the nuances of light and shadow.

Given what it just observed, I switch into a testing environment for its conversational capabilities—this lets me test for

bugs, inconsistencies, or undesirable behaviors. My fingers poise over the keyboard. On my screen, a sleek interface displays

“ConvoAI Testing Environment v4.2.”

Time to put E.M.M.A. through its paces.

I type into the command prompt: > initialize_test_scenario (“performancecoach_mode” “stressed_user”) Hey E.M.M.A.—did you just see what happened to me? That was scary.

The screen refreshes, and E.M.M.A. responds: My analysis of the data you provided indicates that you recently encountered an anomalous event within your biological framework.

To optimize your nutritional intake and processing, I recommend reducing the size of your food portions and ensuring time

for thorough mastication. Allocating sufficient time and attention to your consumption rituals will facilitate improved digestive

efficiency and overall systemic performance.

I blow out a breath. No one wants to open up to a machine that—well—talks like a machine. I adjust the command to “friend

setting” and try again:

Hey Harriet, it seems like you recently had a bit of a scary incident. No worries, though, it happens to the best of us! I

have a couple suggestions that might help. First, try eating smaller meals rather than big portions. Take your time with each

bite and chew thoroughly. I know life gets busy, but carving out a little extra time to really focus on enjoying your food

can do wonders for digestion. Think of mealtimes as a relaxing ritual rather than something to rush through.

Hmmm. Not too bad.

My team has been debating what sort of tone E.M.M.A. should have—and there have been some votes for it being more formal and

others for more casual. Today, given that my heart is still pounding from my near-death-by-pizza encounter, a friendly one

is welcome.