He can’t be serious. Frustration churns in my belly. I’ve only been here a few weeks, and if Banks was doing his job correctly, the GM would understand these things take time. Evaluating my position after three freaking weeks makes zero sense.Zero.
I swallow my frustration and choose my words carefully. “Dr. Banks, material change takes time. It’s a bit premature to be making decisions about next year. Perhaps you could explain—”
“I’ve done all the explaining I intend to do,” he snaps, looking down his sharp nose at me. “Jonathan wants results. This team needs to start winning, and if you cannot help them achieve that goal, then there is no future for you with the Gliders. Do you understand?”
Oh, I understand. He’ll throw me under the bus in a New York minute.
Drawing a slow breath, I force the tension from my body. “While you’re here, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
I pull the note from my pocket, unfold it, and hand it to him.
He glances at the note, then his gaze jumps back to mine. “What is this?”
“One of the players wrote it during our team building exercise this morning. I don’t know who wrote it, but I thought perhaps you might?”
“Ms. Washington, as a psychiatrist, any conversation I have with a patient is privileged. Even if I knew who wrote these statements, I would not be at liberty to say.”
“Of course. I know, but if the patient poses an imminent—”
“Do not tell me how to do my job,” he says, cutting me off. Disdain drips from his voice, and what I wouldn’t give to know why he dislikes me so much. “I’m the psychiatrist here. You’re the performance coach. You’d do well to stay in your lane.”
The dismissal smarts, but I can’t let this go. “Will you be following up then?”
Banks heaves a sigh, and it’s clear he’s over this conversation. “For all we know, it’s a joke. Every player on this team has my number. If one of them is going through a difficult time and needs to talk, they know how to reach me.”
His blasé attitude is infuriating. It’s his job to diagnose and treat any mental health conditions these players experience, yet he seems more interested in making his tee time, or whatever it is he does on a Friday morning.
I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off. “Unless someone comes to you for help directly, forget about this and do the job you’re being paid to do.” He folds the paper and slips it into his pocket. “If you want any shot at returning next fall, you need to deliver results.”
With that, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the rink.
Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and count to ten.
I will not let that man get the best of me.
I will not let that man get the best of me.
I will not—
“What an asshole. Does he talk to you like that all the time?”
My eyes fly open, and I straighten, searching for the speaker.
It’s the woman who was filming practice. I’ve seen her around and I think she works in the front office, but I’m not sure what her role is. She’s young, early twenties, and…she’s waiting for a response.
I force a smile. “He’s my boss, so…”
God, it sounds even more pathetic when I say it out loud.
“That man is the definition of a hostile workplace.” She plants a hand on her hip. “You should report him to HR.”
I could never. What would my dad think?
Does it even matter? There’s no way I’d report Dr. Banks. If what the guys say is true, and he’s friends with the GM, he’d just get a slap on the wrist, and he definitely seems like the type to retaliate.
No, thank you. My job is hard enough already without adding fuel to the fire.
“It’s not that bad.” I wrap my arms around myself for warmth. “I think he’s just having a bad day.”