Chapter Two #2
“Yes, well, while those two fields don’t typically intersect, in my case, they do. I work for an AI startup called TrainTech,”
she said.
That’s right—he remembered Brooke mentioning Harriet’s PhD defense. The idea of Dr. Smythe was always hot.
“Yeah, yeah. I don’t want to brag but I’ve seen all the Terminator movies,” he said.
Harriet’s throaty laugh made him grip his phone harder. “Well, rest assured our AI is a lot less murdery. We’ve been developing
a program designed to optimize athlete performance. We’re moving into beta testing, and we need some high-profile users.”
“Ah.” Pieces clicked like a puzzle. “And I’m high profile?”
“Yeah, you know you are. And I wish I had enough pride to say, ‘Hey, don’t worry about saying no.’ But real talk? I don’t.”
Gale let out a surprised chuckle. “You don’t have pride, or I shouldn’t worry about saying no?”
“The pride thing. Definitely the pride thing,” Harriet replied, a smile in her voice. “My CEO is pushing hard for your participation,
and I believe in what we’ve created. I need a win, and—”
“Harriet,” Gale cut in, “it’s okay. I’m not going to make you beg.”
“Good. Going down on my knees isn’t really my brand,” she bristled.
Fuck. The way she said it sent his mind straight to the gutter, but Gale bit his tongue. Harriet didn’t need some locker room
smart-ass routine, but a guy who gave a damn.
“Let’s just say I’m familiar with the concept of needing a win,” he said.
“You’d consider it?”
His gaze drifted back to the empty pool. Scratch that, not empty anymore. A bullfrog was swimming across it. Great.
“There’s a saying I like,” he said finally. “‘It’s not about how you celebrate the win, it’s how you bounce back from a loss
that shows what you’re made of.’ It’s time I start bouncing.”
“That could hurt on the ice,” Harriet teased.
“Good thing I have a high pain tolerance.”
“Well, using E.M.M.A.—that’s our AI—should result in considerably less bruising. We’ll do things like outfit you with biometric-data
wrist sensors. These will track everything from your heart rate and muscle fatigue to your reaction times. We’ll also use
high-speed cameras to capture your movements. E.M.M.A. will analyze all this data to create a comprehensive profile of your
playing style, physical capabilities, and . . .”
As Harriet explained the process—recording his routines, meals, feeding his techniques into the AI—he found himself oddly energized.
Her words flowed with that old familiar rhythm that had always captivated him, making even the most complex ideas feel accessible.
It wasn’t just the plan that sparked hope; it was her voice, steady and sure, laying it all out.
“Think of it as your own personal Cyrano de Bergerac,” Harriet finished. “Whispering sweet nothings of strategy into your
ear. Except, you know, less romantic and more mathematical.”
“Cyrano who?” He frowned.
“You don’t know Cyra—? Never mind. Sorry, that sounded judgmental. Ignore that. We can start easy with some personality profiling.”
“Is your AI gonna want to know my sign and how I like my eggs? Because I can tell you now that I’m a Leo who likes ’em scrambled
with a side of salsa.”
“Good to know, but sadly not relevant. E.M.M.A. will be looking at how your mind works under pressure, your decision-making
style, even how you process information. This helps it tailor its advice to your specific psychological makeup.”
“Will there be mood lighting?” He couldn’t help it . . . a little flirting slipped out.
“Only the dulcet glow of computer screens, I’m afraid. But once we have all this information, E.M.M.A. will crunch the numbers
and spit out optimization tips so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
Gale hesitated. “If this works . . . I don’t have to worry about E.M.M.A. becoming self-aware and deciding it wants to be
some sort of overlord, right?”
Harriet’s laugh was genuine. “I promise, your job on the rink is safe from it. The rest is up to you.”
“So when do we start?”
“How’s your tomorrow looking? You can come by the TrainTech office to sign the paperwork and NDAs and then we can dive in
on personality protocols.”
“So getting right into it.” Gale nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Yeah, okay, I’m down. Should be interesting
to see how this plays out.”
“Interesting? Sure, I guess. If you’re into understatements,” Harriet replied. “I believe in E.M.M.A. and appreciate you helping
me out here—I’ll make it worth your while.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, letting that one go too—did she always make accidental double entendres these days? Because
it was pretty damn cute.
As Harriet’s voice faded with a final “see you tomorrow,” Gale lowered the phone from his ear. His fingers hovered over the
screen, not quite ready to end the call. The corner of his mouth twitched upward—a ghost of a grin. He stood, stretching muscles
that suddenly felt loose, limber. Maybe this AI thing would crash and burn like everything else in his life lately. But maybe,
just maybe, it was the assist he needed to bury the puck in the back of the net again.
A knock at the door startled him.
Right, food.
He padded over, opening it to find a delivery guy holding a bag that smelled like curry heaven.
The teen’s jaw dropped, nearly fumbling the order. “Holy shit, Gale Knight!” His voice cracked with excitement. “Bro, I saw
you get a hat trick against the Hellions during my first ever game. I’ve been repping your jersey since I was ten. No matter
what any hater says, I know you’re coming back stronger than ever.”
Gale gaped, caught off guard by the genuine enthusiasm. “Thanks, buddy,” he managed. “I’m working on it.”
“I don’t want to make it weird.” The delivery driver carefully handed the bag to Gale. “Would you mind . . . think I could grab a quick selfie?”
“Sure, no problem, kid.” Gale shifted closer to the doorway as the teen pulled out his phone with trembling hands. He snapped
the photo, beaming.
“Thanks, man. Seriously.” Adjusting his cap, the driver backed toward his car, still grinning. “Good luck with everything.”
Gale nodded, managing a small smile before closing the door. But as he walked back to his living room and sank into the couch,
a thought itched at the back of his mind. If this AI was as effective as Harriet claimed—if it could really crawl inside his
brain and supercharge his game—what other dirty little secrets might it uncover? Was he ready to see himself—the raw, unfiltered
Gale—laid bare in a sea of cold, hard data?
He caught a glimpse of himself in the darkened flat-screen across the room. The man looking back might as well be a stranger—one
he wasn’t all that sure that he was ready to meet.