Chapter Three
I pace past the hissing sprinklers on the TrainTech lawn, breathing in the scent of damp grass. Cool droplets speckle my bare
ankles as I make yet another round of the mostly empty parking lot. In the pale morning light, long shadows stretch across
the sidewalk.
I glance at my watch for the hundredth time as electricity zips beneath my skin. Gale should be here any second. I deliberately
scheduled him early, before the office gets underway for the day. The last thing I need to witness is my coworkers leaving
puddles of drool on the carpet as they trip over themselves for a glimpse of hockey’s fallen golden boy.
We can’t look desperate. Sure, pro athletes aren’t exactly lining up to try our program, but I won’t let him think we need
this more than he does.
I take a deep breath and smooth down my silk blouse—the aquamarine one I definitely didn’t spend forty-five minutes picking
out this morning. Time to put on my game face. My reflection in the tinted office windows shows a composed professional. He’s
just a client, I remind myself. A ridiculously hot client who I absolutely cannot think about in that way. Not about how he’s
grown into those shoulders that used to be all awkward angles, or how his smile still gets crooked on one side when he’s truly
happy, revealing those two infuriating dimples that always made my stomach flip. Nope. Not thinking about any of that.
E.M.M.A. isn’t just a job—it’s my life. Days blur into nights, code etched behind my eyelids when I finally pop a melatonin to sleep. My neglected houseplants and betta fish have probably started a support group by now.
But it’s not all about me hunched over a keyboard. When I’m not whispering sweet algorithms to my computer, I’m out there
captaining the E.M.M.A. evangelism squad. I’ve had to learn the art of the pitch, talking to everyone from skeptical staff
to potential investors, explaining how this could revolutionize sports training while my introverted brain screams for the
safety of my code.
With each presentation, I’ve learned to stand as tall as my five feet allow, my voice disguising any telltale tremor. The
confidence still occasionally feels like an outfit I’m borrowing, but at least it’s better tailored now. During grad school,
I’d carefully calibrated myself in every lab meeting and conference—speaking softly, peppering my statements with “maybe”
and “just,” trying to take up less space in a field where being one of only a few women often felt like having a spotlight
and a target on my back.
My years with Zach were a masterclass in what I didn’t want, even if it took too long to admit it. Sometimes I still can’t
believe Mr. Business Strategy actually bullet-pointed his way out of our relationship. But I’ll give him this—that stupid
SWOT analysis finally made me confront the truth I’d been avoiding: I wasn’t staying for love but for the sunk costs, for
the fear of admitting I’d wasted prime dating years on a bad bet.
Worse, looking back, I see how I made myself smaller in the lab and smaller with him, like being ambitious was something to
apologize for. Now, my latest research is breaking new ground, and for the first time, I’m not trying to soften its impact
or make anyone else comfortable with my success.
Of course, all that hard-won confidence chooses today to pack its bags and desert me.
My traitor hands tremble as I retie my low ponytail.
I’m hoping the effect is cute—not like I’m training to use a musket in the Revolutionary War.
I shouldn’t care what Gale Knight thinks of me.
No, that’s not quite right . . . I don’t care. Okay, fine, I can’t care.
This fascination—for lack of a better word—ignited five years ago. Gale had just turned twenty, and the Regals had drafted him. Brooke was
over the moon, insisting I attend the game. I agreed partly out of loyalty, partly out of curiosity to see the awkward boy
who’d always lingered on the edges of our hangouts come good.
Hockey had always been white noise in the Knight house—I practically lived there in high school, watching Gale lug equipment
bags to the curb, waiting for whichever teammate’s parent had volunteered to give him a ride that week while their mom worked
doubles. Even then, hockey wasn’t just a sport for him—it was oxygen, lifeblood, religion. Once Brooke and I snuck out at
midnight, giggling and buzzed on stolen wine coolers, only to find him in the driveway, practicing slap shots with a battered
tennis ball, the rhythmic thwack-thwack echoing off the garage door. And always there . . . his father’s NHL legacy weighing
on him as he grew, through championships, scholarships, scouts watching his every move.
But that day in the arena, something changed. The tidal wave of navy and white Regals jerseys crashed over me differently.
Suddenly, I wasn’t immune anymore. Silly foam crowns bobbed everywhere like buoys in a sea of devotion. The Puck King mascot
did exaggerated pelvic thrusts across the freshly Zambonied ice, and I found myself swept up in the collective frenzy, my
heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with hockey.
As we left the arena, my ears still rang from the crowd roaring the chorus to “That’s Right (You’re Not from Texas)” after every goal the Regals scored.
But what really echoed in my mind was that moment when the players skated out for the national anthem and there he was—number seven.
The determined set of his jaw, the intense focus in his gaze .
. . this wasn’t the goofy kid brother I remembered.
He commanded attention, his presence electric.
He commanded the rink, his presence magnetic, unavoidable.
When his linemate leaned over to murmur something, I caught the transformation on the Jumbotron—his game face cracking into that lopsided smile I’d seen a thousand times across dining tables, but now charged with something new, a flash of earned confidence that sucker punched the air from my lungs. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.
It wasn’t that I’d never noticed him before. I have human eyes. There had been moments since he turned eighteen—doing pull-ups
in the garage doorway, or the way his booming laugh would fill up a room. But I’d always pushed those thoughts away, filed
them under “Stop It” and “Gross, Best Friend’s Little Brother.” Now, though, watching him command the ice, those old feelings
crashed through my carefully constructed walls.
By the end of the night, I’d lost most of my mind, except for one small corner of truth. Gale wasn’t just playing a game;
he owned the ice, and everyone there knew it. Including me.
Beside me, Brooke had chatted excitedly about his performance. I nodded along, making the right noises at the right times,
but my brain was a jumbled mess. Some things were better left unsaid, tucked away in the corners of my mind where they couldn’t
complicate friendships or cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
My phone pings with my daily horoscope. I don’t really believe orbiting balls of gas and dust dictate my life, but with the
insane work pressure lately and being fairly freshly single, I guess I’m grasping at any cosmic phone-a-friend that I can
get.
I pause in checking the update when I hear the rumble of an approaching truck. My gaze flicks to the entrance of the parking lot as the black Ford F-150 turns in. So he’s still driving the Beast. I put my phone back in my purse as he pulls into an open space and bounds out.
No gray sweatpants today—it’s somehow even worse. He’s wearing faded denim that hugs his athletic frame just right, and a
white button-up rolled over his muscular forearms. I swallow, hard, trying to ignore the way my heart flutters like a bird
in a box when his deep-set eyes lock on mine.
It’s just a physiological reaction, nothing to overthink.
“Hey, so good to see you.” I start to give a wave but change my mind and go in for a handshake. The brief contact sends an
electric spark through my arm, his large, calloused hand engulfing mine. Just another physiological reaction. Sure. They happen.
“Whoa, Smythe, fancy moves you got there.” His voice is warm and teasing. The hint of a boyish grin plays at the corners of
his wide mouth, softening that knife-edge jawline.
“Aw, thanks, you know me! More where that came from.” My smile is so frozen that my mouth could get stuck, nevertheless I
push on. “Welcome to TrainTech.”
He glances at the beige building. The morning sun catches in his tousled dark hair as he pushes a wavy lock off his forehead.
“This is where you make robots do your bidding, Dr. Evil?” he asks with his intense focus now entirely centered on me. There’s
always been something about the way he looks when we talk about my work—like I’m some kind of genius, not just his sister’s
nerdy friend who happens to be good with computers.
I gesture toward the front entrance with what I hope passes for casual professionalism. “Someone has to keep the machines
in line before they stage an uprising.” His laugh—low and genuine—sends heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks, but I
bulldoze forward, launching into TrainTech’s mission as we push through the glass doors.
The further I dive into our latest breakthroughs in machine-learning algorithms and coaching support, the more his expression transforms. Polite interest gives way to genuine curiosity, his eyebrows lifting slightly as I explain how the E.M.M.A.
can identify athletes’ biomechanical patterns.
Thank God for my brain—the one part of me that can be counted on to perform under pressure when the rest of my body stages a mutiny.
The familiar territory of data models and optimization metrics slowly steadies my pulse, even as I become traitorously aware of the cedar and bergamot notes of his cologne each time he leans closer to hear me over the lobby’s ambient chatter.