Chapter One #2
I resume typing: I do feel as if I’ve been rushing. It’s a lot of work trying to get you ready for beta testing. Maybe I should pick up a yoga
class or get more steps in during the day.
E.M.M.A. responds instantly: I’ve been analyzing patterns in your behavior and daily routines, and my algorithms suggest that you may require more than
increased physical stimulation to thrive. But remember, Harriet, your heart is important too. And just like coding, relationships
require effort, iteration, and debugging at times. I recognize the importance of companionship in human psychological well-being,
even if I cannot fully comprehend the emotional complexities involved.
I purse my lips. E.M.M.A. has been getting savvier at interpersonal connections, which is great news given that its entire
purpose is to connect with athletes to help them improve their performance.
The bad news is that it’s not meant to be dishing out relationship advice. This would be like Frankenstein’s monster opening
his eyes after receiving the lightning bolt that brought him to life and saying, “Bro, you good? Because it looks like you
need to step away from the cadavers and get laid.”
“Hold it right there. Is that who I think it is?” A male voice slices through my internal meltdown like a hot knife through
butter. I spin around, and there’s the TrainTech CEO, my boss Tony Wolff, in his usual office getup—suspenders stretched proudly
over his chest (but paired with a belt) and a polka-dot bow tie that looks like it’s trying to make a break for it. I’ve never
had the guts to ask what look he’s going for. Deranged circus ringmaster? Hipster grandpa?
I glance from his frown to my left monitor, and before I can feel relieved that he isn’t looking at the right screen where
our AI prototype is calling me a loser, I freeze. The YouTube video Brooke sent me is still up. Gale is plastered in high-definition.
“It’s just something a friend sent—boring baby stuff, don’t worry about it.” Tony dislikes kids.
I go to close out the image when he barks, “Stop. Keep your hands where I can see them.” He leans in close and furrows his brows. “That’s Gale Knight. Forward for the Regals.”
There is no point arguing. “Oh, yeah. We grew up together. He’s my best friend’s little brother.”
“And nowhere on the list of athletes you submitted for E.M.M.A. beta testing,” he says instantly, making the mental leap.
“Harriet, how are you holding out on this personal connection? You of all people know we are getting down to the wire.”
Tony is right. We need to secure another round of funding if this project is going to stay afloat. I let out a soft sigh,
meeting his deep-set eyes. I’m confident in E.M.M.A.’s abilities, but the world doesn’t always care how great something works,
it needs high-profile users for marketing and PR. My team was asked to draft a dream list of athletes to be pitched as possible
testers and to date not a single one has responded.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, hoping Tony can’t read the real reason for the hesitation on my face. “I just . . . don’t
think he’s right for this.”
Tony’s brows rise skeptically. “Really? The hockey star you’ve just so happened to have known since childhood isn’t a good
match for our program?”
“It’s complicated,” I mutter, fiddling with a pen to avoid eye contact.
“Uncomplicate it.” Tony’s nothing if not blunt.
I bite my lip, scrambling for an excuse that isn’t “I’ve been locked in a half decade battle with my brain to not think about him.”
“We’re not that close,” I finally say. It’s not a lie. “Our past has always made us friendly, but we keep that older-sister’s-friend
distance, you know?”
“Harriet!” Tony’s sharp tone snaps me back to reality. “Are you doubting our work?” He leans in close enough that I smell the mint gum trying—and failing—to mask his iced Americano addiction. “Your work, born from your blood, sweat, and tears?”
My molars slam against each other, savoring the pressure. “Never.”
“Then you’ll want your old pal Gale here to find a pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. He’s been playing like shit. Imagine
if we turn things around for him—reinvigorate his career.”
I can practically see the dollar signs light in Tony’s eyes. “You’ll do it,” he goes on. “Because I know the real reason.”
“You do?” I keep my voice steady, praying I haven’t been that transparent.
“You don’t want to let your team down,” he continues smugly. “You need to be able to look them in the eyes and say you’ve
done everything you can to ensure their success.”
A twinge of something—not quite relief, not quite resignation—flickers through me. Tony’s words hit their mark, as they often
do. The thought of my team, their determined faces, their late nights and drive, tugs at my heartstrings. These are my people—loyal,
brilliant, and trusting in my lead. E.M.M.A. isn’t just a project; it’s our shared dream.
“And by the way,” Tony adds, snapping his suspenders, “this isn’t a request. Secure Knight’s agreement for testing.” He has
the audacity to wag a finger. “And don’t give me that I’ll-stab-you-in-your-sleep look. You’ve been napping on a gold mine
of a connection.”
I arch an eyebrow at his attempt to command me, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. But for E.M.M.A.
and the team, I can play this game. So I nod, sealing my fate with a simple gesture.
Tony saunters away, probably to practice his “I’m a tech visionary” pose in a mirror, and I turn back to my computer. E.M.M.A.’s interface seems to stare back at me.
My finger hovers over Gale’s chat on my phone. The last message, now a relic, stares up at me: Good seeing ya at Brooke’s wedding. Drinks soon?
Two years. Two whole years, and I never responded. Too risky, like juggling lit matches while drenched in gasoline. Too tempting,
like shooting back that last tequila shot when you’re already three deep. Too much like flying straight into the sun with
wax wings.
But I never deleted the chat either. Masochism? Hope? A special kind of stupidity that only comes with unfinished business?
I’ve seen him since then, of course—those abbreviated moments of passing, a quick hello as he’s coming and I’m strategically
leaving, or a wave across a backyard barbecue that manages to feel both casual and earth-shattering at once.
My heart does a little stutter step as my brain offers helpful advice like “abort mission” and “Can’t you find another job?”
But my thumb’s got other plans. “Okay, I’m doing it. I’m going to call Gale.” I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
The first ring hasn’t finished when E.M.M.A.’s interface suddenly flashes. A notification pops up: Alert: New information about subject may impact approach. Analyzing . . .
Gale’s latest stats pop up on my screen. Holy shit! These numbers—goals, assists, time on ice—aren’t just bad, they’re career-threatening
bad.
“Hello?” Gale’s deep voice comes through the speaker in a slow, tired drawl.
E.M.M.A.’s interface flashes: Caution: Subject’s voice indicates stress. Proceed with care.
I have to give a pitch that can save my career, resurrect Gale’s, and not sound like a total idiot. I blink and get my game face on. When I open my eyes, I’m staring at my reflection on the black computer screen.
“Who is this?” he asks, more gruffly.
Goddess or mere mortal, guess it’s time to find out if I’m making a wise choice or cracking open a box of trouble.