“Yeah, like every time he’s on-site.” She shudders, and it’s not from the cold. “I don’t know how you stand it. I wouldn’t last a day under that creep.” Her hand shoots out and I shake it. “I’m Emerson, by the way. I’m a social media intern.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ava. I’m the team’s mental performance coach.”
“Cool.” She cocks her head thoughtfully. “I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
“It’s a new position this year. If it doesn’t go well, it’ll be my first and last season with the Gliders.”
It rankles, but I knew from the start that it was a possibility. And for all of Banks’s bluster about budgets, it’s clear the final decision hasn’t been made. There’s still time to turn things around.
Hockey seasons are long, and we’re just getting started.
We lapse into silence, and Emerson resumes filming.
It’s a good practice. There’s light contact, but no one’s fighting, and the lines appear to be in sync. Passes are solid and Bouchard looks sharp. Johnson is taking heat from the assistant coach for avoiding contact, and I make a mental note to talk to him about it after practice. It could be a physical issue, but it’s equally possible there’s a mental aspect to it.
Overall, they look good, and with any luck, they can pull off a win tomorrow against the Rangers.
They’ve got the home-ice advantage, and I’ll be in the stands cheering them on.
Practice winds down, and Emerson positions herself at the open door of the players’ tunnel. “Can I get some trick shotsbefore you call it?” she yells, cupping a hand to her mouth. “The fans eat that stuff up!”
The guys comply, giving her a solid fifteen minutes of footage that defies the laws of physics. I stand by her side, watching, and I can’t help but notice how relaxed they are while attempting shots that should be near impossible.
The skill level, while impressive, isn’t even the most interesting part.
It’s the way they cheer each other on and hand out compliments like Tic Tacs.
When they finally clear the ice, Emerson blocks the entrance, holding up her phone.
She’s tall, probably 5’9, but compared to the guys in their skates? Not so much.
“You’ve gotta pay the tax,” she tells them, grinning. “And let’s keep it PG-13 for the fans.”
Patterson groans, but gives her anout with itgesture.
Emerson smirks, not the least bit deterred. “Do you ever wish you were taller?”
He laughs, taking the question in stride. “Yeah, a little. I’m just under six feet and the guys give me crap about it all the time.”
She lets him pass, and Graves takes his place. “What sport would you play if you were more athletic?”
His eyes nearly bug out of his head. “Are you serious right now?” He turns to Bateman and smacks him in the chest. “Did you hear what she just asked me?”
Bateman squeezes into the shot. “What’s the question? Hit me.”
Emerson grins, and it’s clear she takes great pleasure in her job. “What sport would you play if you were more athletic?”
Bateman narrows his eyes, but then he shrugs. “Golf. My grandpa destroys me every time.”
Bateman shuffles past and Graves is close on his heels, still shaking his head and muttering about the audacity.
Knox steps up next, and I can’t wait to see what doozy she gives him, but he gets a softball. “Who’s your favorite female athlete?”
A slow grin spreads over his face, and he looks from Emerson to me and back again. “I’ll give you a hint. She’s a gymnast.”
A slow flush creeps up my neck, and I do my best to keep a neutral expression because something tells me Emerson won’t be able to guess this one.
She jumps on it with all four feet, though. “Simone Biles?”