The Good Girl Trap

Chapter 29 Ava

AVA

My stomach growls, begging for sustenance as I make my way to my office, weighed down by the box of prompted journals I ordered for the team.

Over the years, I’ve learned that introspection comes more easily when my athletes can collect their thoughts on paper, and journaling is a great way to teach effective post-performance reflection.

Not all the guys will take the assignment seriously, and that’s okay, but for the ones who truly want to level up, it’s a great tool.

You know what else is great for optimizing performance? Food.

To emphasize the point, my stomach makes an unholy gurgle, reminding me that I skipped breakfast this morning, opting instead for a frothy pumpkin drink that was heavy on sugar and light on nutritional content.

Thankfully, there’s no one else around to hear it.

It’s almost noon, but if I hurry, I can probably hit the taco truck before my one o’clock appointment. I’ve been craving birria tacos all week, and just the thought of that spicy, tender beef has my mouth watering.

“Ava?”

I stop mid-stride and turn to find Ollie Davis standing a few feet behind me, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

The Gliders played Columbus last night, and the flight got back late, but even so, he looks like he’s running on fumes.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders are hunched, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his back.

“Hey, Ollie.” I shift the box, perching it against my hip. “What’s up?”

He glances down the hall, then back at me, eyes wary. “Do you have a minute? I don’t have an appointment, and I know you’re probably busy, but I—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “I need to talk.”

My heart squeezes at his obvious distress.

Ollie’s skipped his last two individual coaching sessions, so I haven’t had a chance to sit down with him recently, but if he’s ready to open up, I’m ready to listen.

Lunch can wait.

“I’ve got time.” I nod toward my office and hoist the box in my arms, repositioning my grip on the underside. “Come on.”

“Oh, shit.” Ollie leaps forward, extending his hands. “Let me take that. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay.” I smile reassuringly. He clearly has more important things on his mind, and the last thing I want is for him to feel judged. “But I’m not one to turn down help when I need it.”

Hopefully, it’s a trait Ollie and I share.

He takes the box and I lead the way to my office, mentally recounting what I know of him from our coaching sessions. It’s not much. He grew up in the Midwest, he’s an only child, and he’s been playing hockey for as long as he can remember.

He’s always been closed off, stoic. I assumed that was just his way, but maybe there’s more to it.

When we reach my office, I close the door and gesture to an empty corner. “You can put the books over there.”

He does as instructed and then drops into the chair opposite my desk.

The instant his backside hits the plush seat, his knee starts bouncing. It’s the same frenetic energy he struggled to contain during Fear in a Hat.

I settle in behind my desk, keeping my posture open and relaxed. Ollie is twitchy, and the last thing I want to do is spook him when he so obviously needs to talk.

“How are you doing?” I ask gently.

“Okay.”

The reply is automatic, reflexive. It’s the answer you give in passing because it’s the polite thing to do, not because it’s the truth.

I wait, letting the silence stretch between us, but he doesn’t break, just bounces his knee faster.

“What’s troubling you, Ollie?”

His shoulders stiffen, and for a second I think he’s going to bolt. His hands grip the armrests, knuckles white, but he sticks.

“This is a safe space.” I keep my voice low, striving for a soothing tone. “We can talk about anything you want to talk about. It doesn’t have to be hockey.”

Ollie doesn’t respond. Just drums his thumb against his kneecap, the sound amplified in the quiet space.

Then, like a dam bursting, the words come spilling out.

“I feel like I’m losing it,” he admits, voice cracking. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep it all together. It’s just too much. How can any one person do it all? I can’t— I just—”

He drops his head into his hands, shoulders shaking, but his words hit the mark.

I open my desk drawer and pull out the crumpled note from the snowball fight. The one that’s been weighing on me for weeks. I smooth it out as best I can and slide it across the desk.

“Did you write this?”

He lifts his head, stares at the paper, and nods.

“Talk to me, Ollie.” I lean forward, resting my hands on the desk. “Tell me what’s going on. It’s the only way I can help.”

For a long moment, he just stares at the words on the page. Then he takes a shaky breath, and does the hardest thing of all: he starts talking.

“I got hurt last year. Near the end of the season.” He touches his right shoulder. “I took a nasty hit during the Rangers game and tore my rotator cuff.”

His words trigger a memory, and I flash back to the Fear in a Hat exercise. To Kristiansen’s guilt. To the guys talking about the hit.

Injuries are part of the game, but a rotator cuff tear is hard to come back from, and sharing a locker room with the guy who’s responsible?

That would eat at anyone.

“It was Kristiansen?” I ask quietly.

Ollie nods. “It was an accident. We talked it out, and he apologized like a hundred times.” He laughs bitterly. “I had surgery to repair it, and I was optimistic when the season started. I was a healthy scratch, but I figured I’d work my way back.”

His knee starts bouncing again.

“But then I started worrying about getting traded. So I pushed myself harder at practice. And when I finally started dressing for games, I—” He swallows, not meeting my eyes. “I hurt it again.”

“I’m so sorry, Ollie.” My gut twists, and even though it’s unprofessional as hell, I want to reach out and hug him. “Does Coach know?”

I ask the question, already knowing the answer. If my father knew about the injury, Ollie would be on IR with Sutter.

“I haven’t told anyone.” The words come out in a rush, laced with fear and desperation. “I can’t afford to be traded, and if they know I’m injured again, they’ll start making deals.”

“I understand your concern, but can you tell me why the prospect of a trade worries you so much?” Trades are part of the game, and while I’m no expert, it trumps getting sent down to the AHL or worse, having his contract terminated.

“You’d still get to play the game you love.

Wouldn’t that be better than playing through chronic pain and risking permanent damage? ”

His eyes fill with tears, and I pass him a tissue from the box on my desk.

“When I moved to Atlanta last year, my parents came with me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

“My parents are older, and my mom—” He attempts to square his shoulders, but it’s futile.

He’s drained, physically and emotionally.

“She was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s six months ago.

She’s deteriorating quickly, and some days she doesn’t even know who I am.

I can’t move her to a new, unfamiliar place.

She already gets so confused. The doc says she needs stability.

A familiar environment. And my dad…he can’t take care of her alone. He needs me. They both do.”

Christ on a cracker. The kid is going through it.

My chest tightens, but I steel my resolve. Ollie doesn’t need my pity; he needs my professional guidance.

“Ollie.” I meet his eyes. “That’s a lot to handle. Anyone would feel overwhelmed in your position.”

It’s a wonder he’s been able to keep it together this long. The physical and emotional toll must be staggering, and yet he’s been keeping at all bottled up inside.

How is he even functioning?

I’d probably be curled up in a blanket fort eating my feelings.

“I can’t afford to be overwhelmed.” He shoves his fingers through his hair, pushing the loose strands off his forehead. “I need to find a way to fix it.”

“You need to talk to Coach,” I say firmly. “Take some time off. Focus on your family and your health.”

“I can’t do that.” He shakes his head vehemently. “The team is starting to win games. People are counting on me.”

“Coach will understand. So will your teammates. Your family and your health come first, Ollie. Always.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue either, so I’m calling it a win.

We spend the next twenty minutes walking through a series of visualization techniques. We focus on grounding exercises to manage stress and mental imagery to process his emotions.

By the time we’re done, some of the tension has eased from his shoulders.

“My door is always open,” I remind him as we wrap up. “Let’s meet again next week, okay?”

He nods and stands to leave.

“Ollie? You should consider talking to Dr. Banks. As the team psychiatrist, he might be able to—”

“No way.” His response is sharp and firm. “I tried that before. Banks doesn’t listen, and he thinks there’s a prescription for every problem. I don’t want to go down that road.”

My stomach sinks, but I force a smile. “Okay. That’s your choice. But I hope you’ll give it some more thought.”

After he leaves, I sit at my desk for a long moment, staring at the crumpled note.

Then I pick up my phone and dial Banks.

The line rings twice before his assistant picks up.

“Dr. Banks’s office, this is Judy.”

The unwitting scapegoat for her boss’s bad behavior.

It’s not her fault, and I have more important things to worry about, so I press on.

“Hi, Judy. It’s Ava Washington. Is Dr. Banks available?”

“Let me check. One moment, please.”

I swear to god if that jerk says he’s too busy to talk to me, I’ll…

Well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but it won’t be nice.

The hold music is some kind of smooth jazz that’s probably supposed to help me relax, but I’m too wired for it to be effective. I tap my fingers on the desk blotter, mentally rehearsing what I’m going to say.

There’s a quiet beep, and Banks comes on the line. “Ms. Washington.”

He sounds aggrieved, but that’s his default setting when dealing with me, so I ignore it.

“I just met with Ollie Davis,” I say, keeping my tone professional. “He’s dealing with some serious physical and personal issues. I think you should meet with him as soon as possible. And I’d recommend benching him until he can be evaluated and given proper treatment.”

Silence.

Then Banks laughs. Actually freaking laughs.

“Are you really trying to tell me how to do my job?”

Anger sparks behind my ribcage, and I immediately find myself on the defensive, trying to placate him when we should be partnering to help Ollie.

“I’m not trying to—”

“Let me make something very clear to you, Ms. Washington.” His voice drops, and when he speaks again, it’s cold and condescending.

“You only got the MPC contract with the Gliders because your father is the head coach. Everyone knows it, and the longer you’re here, the more certain I am that you’re not qualified for the position.

Frankly, I think you’re in over your head. ”

My vision blurs, and my grip tightens on the phone.

“I’ve been doing this job for a long time,” he continues.

“Trust me when I say that the organization doesn’t actually want us to identify problems and remove players from the lineup.

They keep us on the payroll to project the right image and deal with the occasional PR crisis.

The kind of work you do? It doesn’t make a bit of difference at the end of the day.

The players either have it or they don’t. The league will decide.”

The line goes dead, and I sit there, phone pressed to my ear, fury ripping through my chest like wildfire.

How dare he.

How dare he dismiss me like that. Dismiss Ollie. Dismiss the work I’ve been doing with this team.

I slam the phone down on the desk, breathing hard.

“Whoa.” Emerson appears in my doorway, eyes wide. “You okay?”

“No.” I stand up and pace, cupping my hands over the lower part of my face to keep from screaming. “I am not okay. Banks is being his usual dismissive self, and this time it’s actually important. There are real stakes involved and real consequences and—”

“Have you read Escaping the Good Girl Trap yet?”

I stop pacing and stare at her. “Yes. Why?”

“Then you should know you don’t have to tiptoe around Banks’s feelings or put up with his bullshit.

Having a PhD doesn’t make him infallible, and it sure as hell doesn’t give him the right to treat you the way he does.

” She crosses her arms. “You know what you’re doing, Ava.

You need to stop listening to that jackass and trust your instincts. ”

I sink back into my chair, her words echoing in my head.

She’s right.

I’ve taken baby steps toward breaking out of the good girl trap—standing up to Nana, setting boundaries with my mother, being more assertive with the team.

But I’m still defaulting to the same old patterns when it comes to Banks.

I’ve spent so much of my life being guilted and silenced. Taught that my opinions and feelings don’t matter. That it’s “bad” to cause others stress or discomfort. That the safe path is to follow the rules and be a “good” girl.

It’s made me doubt my instincts, made me afraid to trust them.

And why wouldn’t I when my brain is telling me to keep my head down? To not make waves. To let Banks walk all over me because he’s the boss and challenging him is risky.

He wants me to be smaller, quieter, more compliant. He wants me to be easy to control.

I’m done playing his game.

I can’t sit idly by and ignore his negligence.

Going over his head to the GM is a risk, though. They’re friends, and Towers might not believe me. And I can’t go running to my father for help because it will just validate every hateful thing Banks said.

I need to handle this myself, but how?

“Ava?” Emerson’s voice pulls me back to the office. “You want to grab a quick lunch?”

I look up at her, the fierce young woman who refuses to shrink herself for anyone, and I could not be prouder to call her a friend.

“Yeah,” I say finally. “I’m starving.”

As we head out, my thoughts are spinning.

I need to do something about Banks. I just don’t know what yet.