Chapter 28 Ava
AVA
“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?” I ask, watching as Emerson makes her final adjustments to the camera and tripod.
We’re set up outside the locker room, near the players’ entrance. The space is wide open, and what it lacks in ambiance it more than makes up for with square footage.
“Trust me.” She flashes a devilish grin that does not instill confidence. “This is going to be epic.”
I throw up my hands in a show of surrender. “Hey, this is your rodeo. I’m just along for the ride.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m a pro at wrangling hockey players.” She wiggles her brows. “Watch and learn.”
The guys begin trickling into the hall. They’re freshly showered, their hair wet, and most of them are sporting the team colors.
They clearly understood the assignment.
“Alright, boys, huddle up,” Emerson calls, bold as you please.
I grin. I wish I’d had her confidence at that age. I’m not entirely sure she can legally buy a beer, but she has no trouble commanding twenty-four jacked men and bending them to her will.
And somehow, she makes it look easy.
“We need a fresh hook for our socials, so today we’re going to try something new.”
There are a few groans from the team, but it’s all in good fun. They understand this is part of the job, part of connecting with fans and building community.
Or, at the very least, creating a rabid fanbase.
“What do you need from us?” Knox asks, hands perched on his slender hips, ready to get to work.
“That’s the spirit!” Emerson scans the group. “Does anyone here have any dance training?”
A fresh wave of groans echo through the concrete hall, but it’s the look of pure terror on Knox’s face that takes me out.
I burst out laughing just as McGinnis raises his hand and says, “I can dance.”
“Pretty sure she’s looking for PG-13 moves.” Hardy smirks. “Not that shit you do in the club.”
The entire group laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it.
“Hey! My moves are good as hell.” McGinnis tosses his hair out of his eyes. “And for the record, I took two years of ballet, so I do actually know what I’m doing.”
“Dude. You took ballet?” Doyle looks like his world’s just been flipped on its axis. “How did we not know this?”
“No way.” Graves shakes his head aggressively. “Sorry, Emerson, but you’re not getting me in a tutu. Ballet is not my thing.”
Her gaze snaps to Graves, and when she addresses the massive enforcer, her tone is firm. “Have you tried it?”
“No, but—”
“You should,” McGinnis chides, cutting him off. “Might improve your balance on the ice.”
The guys get loud again, slapping McGinnis on the back and ribbing Graves, but Emerson regains control easily enough.
“Relax, I’m not looking for ballet moves.” Her gaze cuts to McGinnis. “Or club moves.”
“Thank Christ,” Forey mutters, pretending to wipe his brow in relief.
Emerson grins. “Who here is familiar with Banana Ball?”
Most of the guys nod or raise their hands, and she explains her idea for positioning the Gliders as the it team when it comes to having fun and interacting with fans.
“I want every person who watches a Gliders reel on social media to have FOMO. That’s our brand. We want viewers to feel like they’re missing out because we are the vibe.”
It’s a solid strategy. It works for celebrities, so why not a professional sports franchise?
Even better, Emerson’s content creation is another opportunity for team building, which is why she and I paired up today.
“We want to attract fans who are excited and engaged,” she continues. “We want them bringing that energy into the Treehouse on game night.”
Fifteen minutes later, she has the entire team dancing the Cupid Shuffle, the song drowning out their nonsensical commentary.
“I’ll never doubt you again,” I tell her, shaking my head.
We watch, cheering them on as they go through the moves.
They learn fast, and the younger guys really get into it, embellishing every dip and turn.
Knox isn’t quite as enthusiastic, but he’s grinning, and by the third attempt, even Graves—who turns out to be shockingly good—is laughing.
They’ve almost made it to the end of the song when Bernier turns left instead of right, crashing into Cunningham.
“Seriously?” Cunningham grunts, giving up on the dance. “You don’t know your left from your right?”
Bernier shrugs. “I got confused.”
“So there’s this trick you can do with your hands,” Hardy booms, speaking slowly, as if to a small child. “You stick your thumbs out, and the left one makes an L.” He holds up his hands to demonstrate. “The right one,”—he pauses dramatically—“doesn’t.”
“Screw you,” Bernier shoots back, giving him the finger.
Hardy blows him a kiss. “I’ll text you the infographic later.”
“I don’t need an infographic. I obviously know my left from my right.”
“Are you sure about that?” Cunningham casts him a doubtful look as he massages his shoulder. “I’m sure Hardy could print out the instructions and hang them in your stall.”
“Okay,” Emerson shouts, killing the music and cutting off all further debate. “I’ve got what I need for now, but next week we’re doing the Macarena, so if you don’t already know it, I suggest you learn.”
“Seriously?” Doyle whines. “Now admin is giving us homework too?”
I meet his gaze. “We could always double it.”
That shuts him right up. A few of the guys snicker, and I give myself a mental high five for being assertive. And, yeah, funny too.
Emerson must agree because she gives me a casual hip bump. “Admin for the win!”
“If we’re not careful,” Smitty stage whispers, “they’ll have us dancing and talking about our feelings every day.”
McGinnis pops his booty and starts twerking. “I’m down.”
Laughter fills the air, and Emerson holds up a hand, signaling one of the admins who’ve gathered at the other end of the long hall.
The guys fall silent, and I shoot her a questioning look, but she pretends not to see it.
“A few weeks ago, a little birdie told me you guys weren’t happy with Chippy,” she says. “So I, being the dedicated intern that I am, went to marketing and worked my magic.”
The guys look at each other, confused, and I’m right there with them. Emerson said she’d see what she could do about the players’ concerns, but when she didn’t bring it up again, I assumed the issue was DOA.
You know what they say about assuming.
“Meet Chippy 2.0!” Emerson bellows, gesturing to the other end of the hall.
A gritty rock anthem shatters the silence, the bass vibrating through every cell in my body. The guys turn toward the sound, but there’s nothing to see. Just the admins at the other end of the long hall, staring back at us like we’re in some kind of awkward showdown.
Then, the admins step aside and Chippy bursts forward, pumping his hands—paws?—in the air as he charges us.
He’s quick, closing the gap surprisingly fast. There’s something different about him, but I can’t put my finger on it. The only thing I know for sure is that he’s running straight at us, and he’s not slowing down.
“He’s going to stop, right?”
Emerson shrugs, and I try to take a step back, but she grabs my arm, holding me in place. “You don’t want to miss this.”
The guys scramble to move out of Chippy’s way, and just when it looks like he’s going to bowl them over, he drops like he’s sliding into first, his giant head propped up on his hand. He skids to a stop at the feet of the two dozen gobsmacked hockey players.
What is even happening right now?
It’s then that I realize Chippy’s face is different, his happy grin replaced by a decidedly mischievous smirk. That isn’t the only change. A black bandana has been fitted over his eyes like an old-fashioned cartoon villain.
The mascot pops up, dusts off his jersey, and swaggers toward Emerson and me.
McGinnis throws his hand up for a high five, but instead of slapping the proffered hand, Chippy face-palms him, catching the forward completely off guard.
Fontaine lets out a low whistle. “That’s stone cold.”
Chippy turns to him, grabs the ball cap off his head, and makes a show of throwing it down the hall.
“Hey!”
Chippy ignores him, and when he turns to Knox, I stiffen. Which is ridiculous. He’s a flying squirrel. And not even a real one.
He pulls something from his sleeve, and before any of us can react, he blasts Knox in the face with a stream of whipped topping.
Bates cackles, clutching his stomach. “Our boy is a menace!”
The guys go nuts, their hoots and hollers filling the hall.
It’s completely unhinged. I don’t know how Emerson managed it, but the guys are eating it up.
Well, all of them except Knox.
He’s too busy scraping whipped topping off his face. When he can finally see again, our eyes meet, and I mouth, “You and your sweet treats.”
He smirks, and when the team finally settles down, Emerson explains that Chippy’s mischievous new persona will complement the sweet one fans know and love, showing up in unexpected places at unexpected times to keep fans—and players—on their toes.
It’s an effective compromise. One that shows the organization is listening.
“You guys did good,” Bateman says, his gaze ping-ponging between Emerson and me. “But what’s it going to take to get us in red and black like the rest of the Atlanta teams?”
Emerson smirks and reaches up to pat his cheek. “Why would y’all want to blend in with the other teams when I’m here to make sure you stand out?”
Later, I’m working in my office, trying to finish up some administrative work, when there’s a knock at the door. I look up to find Adam watching me, a crooked grin on his face.
“Got a minute?”
“Of course.” I gesture to the chair I use for individual coaching sessions, and he sits down. “What’s up?”
It isn’t every day that he comes to my office. In fact, I’m not sure he’s ever stopped by without an invitation.
Whatever he wants to talk about must be important.
“Rumor has it Chippy got a makeover.”
I blink. This is what he came to talk about? No way.
“Is it actually a rumor if it’s true?” I force a smile, trying to figure out where this discussion is heading. “Chippy got a new costume and a new personality. Or maybe it’s a persona. Either way, it was a double whammy.”
He shakes his head. “When I played, it was all about the game. We didn’t care about the bells and whistles, and we didn’t have to worry about social media.” He flashes me a wry smile. “In my case, that was probably a good thing.”
I make a noncommittal sound because really, what can I say?
“Sorry. I didn’t actually come here to talk about Chippy, and I’m sure you have work to do.”
He leans forward, as if preparing to stand, and my training kicks in.
“What did you come to talk about?” I ask, leaning back in my chair so he knows he’s got my full attention.
“You.”
My pulse quickens. “Me?”
Stay calm. There could be a million different things he wants to talk about.
Yeah, and one of those things could be the fact that I’m sleeping with his star player.
This is it. He’s going to call me out, and I’m going to get fired, and then what? I’ve never seen Adam angry. For all I know, he has a temper, and he’ll scream and rage and kick me out of the townhouse. No, he wouldn’t do that, would he?
He threatened to break his players’ fingers if they so much as touched you.
Adam clears his throat. “You’re doing a great job, Ava. The team is firing on all cylinders, and that’s thanks in part to you and the work you’re doing.”
The compliment should fill me with pride, but it’s all I can do not to sag with relief as Adam shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
“I know things were kind of rocky at the beginning of the season, and I said some things that were…well, they were insensitive and impulsive, and for that I’m sorry. It was never my intention to denigrate your work or to make you question your value to this team.”
Okay, I definitely didn’t see that coming, but it’s nice to know my father is the kind of man who apologizes when he makes a mistake…even if it takes him a while to get there.
He’s quiet, and I realize he’s waiting for a reply. Waiting for me to accept his apology.
I open my mouth and then snap it shut again.
I sit with the apology, considering. Despite what I was raised to believe, I don’t have to accept. Whether he meant them or not, his words were hurtful, and it’s the impact that matters.
On the other hand, the Rangers game was intense. The on-ice behavior was unprecedented, and tempers were running hot throughout the arena.
I can’t say for sure how I would have reacted in his shoes. I’d only been working with the team for a few weeks at that point, and I felt like a failure. I can only imagine how he felt as their coach.
More importantly, I can give grace. I don’t want this hanging over my head, or his, as we move forward.
“I accept your apology.”
His shoulders visibly relax, and I smile.
Oh, please. You don’t get to claim the moral high ground when you’re secretly dating one of his players.
That’s completely different, and now isn’t the time to dwell on it.
I shove the thought—and my guilt—into a box and seal it up tight.
“You know,” he says, shaking his head. “I wish we’d had the kind of support these guys do back in my day. Maybe if we had, things between your mother and I would have gone differently.”
I’d be lying if I said the same thought hadn’t crossed my mind, but this is the first time Adam’s said as much.
“It’s never too late. I’m here for you if you ever want to talk. Personally, or professionally.”
He waves the suggestion away. “I’m too old and set in my ways. Your energy is best spent focusing on the team.”
“Of which you are a part.”
“Only in the technical sense.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and I grin at the familiarity of it. After all, it’s my mouth too. “These young guys still have their whole careers ahead of them.”
“It’s your call, but mental performance coaching isn’t just for athletes. It can help in all aspects of your life, regardless of age or profession.”
I want to push, but it has to be his choice. He came up in the league during a time when mental health wasn’t prioritized, and deep down, I think he knows his entire life might have turned out differently if he’d had the right support network post-injury.
It’s why he was so passionate about providing Knox with the safety-net he never had.
And it’s why, when he finds out we’ve been sneaking around behind his back, he might not be able to forgive us.