Chapter Three #2
As we enter the building, my shoulders relax slightly, tension I was holding melting away. Thank god—no Chads in sight, my
nickname for the dude-bro pack who spend their days chugging protein shakes between meetings, debating crypto strategies,
and calling themselves “thought leaders” on LinkedIn. The familiar hum of computers and the occasional tapping of keyboards
fills the air, a comforting backdrop to our tour.
As we approach my team’s area, I feel a surge of pride. “Hey, everyone, this is Gale, our first beta tester,” I announce.
“And Gale, this is where the magic happens.” In my little kingdom, the walls are festooned with whiteboards scrawled with
equations and flowcharts.
I gesture toward a corner where a large man with thick curly hair glances from his screen. “This is Amir Kahn, our data scientist,”
I begin. “The superstar who sifts through massive amounts of data trying to find patterns and hidden gems of information.
He’s the mastermind behind making E.M.M.A. smarter.”
Amir toasts him with his Marvel-logo coffee mug.
“Over here,” I continue, leading Gale to a standing desk cluttered with fidget gadgets, soda cans, and multiple monitors, “is Karl Becker, our full-stack developer.” Karl swivels in his chair, his thick-rimmed glasses slightly askew.
“He makes E.M.M.A. work in the real world—the go-to guy for getting different programs talking to each other, ensuring E.M.M.A. can play nice with other software.”
Karl gives a slight bow from his seat.
“And last, but certainly not least,” I say, moving toward a workspace featuring multiple framed photos of her pet Siamese
cat, “we have Hana Lee, our data engineer.” Hana wiggles her fingers. “She is the reason that E.M.M.A. runs smoothly when
lots of people are using it, kind of like making sure that a theme park can handle a crowd of visitors without any problems.
We have other help but this is my core crew.”
I steal a quick glance at Gale, bracing for the telltale wrist twist of a bored spectator checking their watch. Instead, he
is leaning forward, his focused gaze darting from screen to screen.
“I don’t know what any of this means,” he rumbles. “But it’s cool, like y’all are mission control for Mars or something.”
It’s one thing to explain my work to colleagues or investors, but seeing someone from outside our industry show curiosity
gives me a warm glow of satisfaction. His gaze locks on mine for a moment and I force myself to hold it, ignoring another
tiny heart flutter.
“This isn’t rocket science.” Why is my voice so high? I take a breath and pitch it lower. “It’s more like puck science. E.M.M.A. will soon be calculating all the ways to get you to your next game-winning goal.”
My colleagues cringe in unison. Hana actually lets out a sound that falls between a groan and a whimper. “Puck . . . science?
Is she for real.”
My cheeks heat. Yeah, that was pure queso. Time to regroup and try for better social graces than a startled ostrich.
“Okay, okay, gang, I’ll step away from the bad jokes and get Gale here set up.”
“Good meeting you.” Gale gives a wave they all return, looking in unison at me and then each other, a mixture of amusement and clear confusion—what’s gotten into her?—stamped in their expressions.
So much for playing it cool.
After spending the next half hour signing a stack of paperwork and nondisclosure agreements at my desk, Gale looks up with
a mix of relief and anticipation.
“Are you ready to meet E.M.M.A.?” I stand and gesture toward the usability lab with its opaque double glass doors at the end
of the hall. “We can access her from any computer with an internet connection, but the lab gives us a controlled space. No
distractions, better lighting, and”—I tap the opaque glass—“total privacy.”
“Sure.” Gale resets the sunglasses on his head, mussing his hair slightly. “I feel as if it’s the first day of school or something.
I hope your computer likes me.”
“Don’t worry, E.M.M.A. isn’t programmed to simulate any judgment—positive or negative.” I open the door, and the automatic
lights flick on as the whir of cooling fans greets me like an old friend. “Though you might appreciate not having an audience
for your first session.”
Gale stops in his tracks, taking in the contrast of the space—whiteboard walls dense with scrawled algorithms and diagrams
sharing space with gleaming fitness tech. Smart treadmills line one wall, while prototype sensors and sleek monitoring devices
fill the industrial shelving. The morning light streams through the high windows, catching on chrome and glass. “Whoa . . .
so this is where you do your thing?”
“Sure is.” I fight the urge to fidget with my lanyard.
The lab suddenly feels different—smaller somehow—with him here in my sanctuary.
“We can monitor everything from heart rate to muscle activity to brain waves—all feeding into E.M.M.A. in real time. The goal is to get a complete picture of how your body responds during training.”
“That’s a lot of gadgets.” Gale’s unable to keep the skepticism from infiltrating his voice. “And I’m the human guinea pig?”
I lean against the desk. “Looks like a mad scientist’s lab, right? But don’t worry, each piece just helps us understand how
your body works under pressure.” I pick up the slim wristband, keeping my tone professional even as I feel the weight of his
attention. “We’ll start with the basics today and work our way up. This will track your baseline data even when you’re not
in here.” I smile. “Don’t worry—I’ll be gentle with you. At first.”
He leans in just close enough that I catch another whiff of his spicy cologne and almost shudder. Damn him and his effortless
charm.
“So this is the thing that is going to be spying on me?”
“‘Spying’ is a loaded word. Privacy and data security are top priorities,” I reply crisply. “We anonymize, encrypt, and store
all data securely. We strictly limit access to authorized researchers, and participants have the right to request their data
be deleted at any time.” I pause for breath, striving for some levity. “But let’s pause for a second. It’s not all work, there’s
some play. Want to pick the voice you want E.M.M.A. to use?”
“What does that mean?” Gale rumbles, his low lip jutting in a way that’s oddly compelling. I mentally swat away the sudden,
intrusive urge to bite it, to see if it tastes as good as it looks—and quickly file the thought under sleep deprivation, low
blood sugar, and temporary insanity. Nothing a protein bar and professional boundaries can’t fix.
“Hey, E.M.M.A.,” I call to the workstation in the middle of the room. “Give examples of your different audio options.”
Certainly.
Gale jumps at the sound of the robotic voice before E.M.M.A. cycles through various tones, from a casual friend to a cheery
Australian, from a robotic monotone to a drill sergeant. With each shift, Gale’s eyebrows climb higher, his lips twitching
between amusement and disbelief.
I grin. “We’ve got dozens of options lined up. You can select for motivational, calm, energetic, or whatever. E.M.M.A. adapts
its language style to match the voice tone to round out the experience.”
“Huh.” Gale tilts his head like a curious golden retriever. “Why, though?”
“It’s about personalization and engagement,” I explain. “Different users respond better to different coaching styles. Plus,
it makes the experience more enjoyable, which increases user commitment.”
He dips his chin in a nod. “Which voice do you prefer?”
“Activate Duchess mode, E.M.M.A.,” I command without hesitation.
As you have requested, E.M.M.A. responds in an upper-class British accent.
“I love watching BBC costume dramas,” I admit. “So this option is my favorite.”
“Ah, those ballroom shows,” he mutters in a knowing tone. “Tuck—that’s our goalie—is down some deep-ass rabbit hole with Jane Austen.
Bro won’t shut up about the Regency if you catch him in the right mood.”
“Wow—you know the term Regency?” I tease. “Color me impressed.”
“Look—it’s all credit due to T. Sometimes I like to wind him up on the subject and watch him pop off about how those old books were secretly calling out stuff like rich people being snobs and women getting the short end of the stick.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Isn’t that an odd passion project for a goalie?”
“Nah, it fits the stereotype. Goalies and their special interests.” Gale shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s like they’re
playing their own game out there, all alone in the net. Must do something to their brain.”
“Or maybe it’s the quirky ones who are drawn to being goalies,” I suggest.
Gale nods. “Chicken or the egg, right? Anyway, I’m cool with this Duchess version. Let’s pull the trigger and send it.”
“Take a seat,” I say with a gesture. “Strap on those wrist cuffs—they’re wireless monitors that will report back to E.M.M.A.”
“How will it know how I’m feeling?”
E.M.M.A. chimes in with its posh British voice, My dear, I implore you to trust in my ingenious design.
“Dang.” His pupils dilate like ink spilled on damp paper. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or creeped out.”
“Are you kidding? Definitely the former,” I shoot back. “Please continue, E.M.M.A.”
Rest assured, as you embark upon this journey, I shall stand as your steadfast ally, keenly attuned to the subtlest shifts
in your spirits. Might I inquire, are you prepared to begin?
I get Gale situated and the session progresses, with E.M.M.A.
asking Gale about his pregame routines and his relationship with his teammates.
The conversation flows cautiously but seminaturally until E.M.M.A.
asks: I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence, sir, but I cannot help but wonder about your paternal relation. Might we speak of your
father?
The temperature of the room seems to drop twenty degrees. “What?”
Crap. I worry my lip between my teeth. I didn’t expect E.M.M.A. to dredge up Jim Knight. Their father’s story isn’t exactly