My chest tightens, dread taking root, as I turn to see who it could be.
19
AVA
Awful bold ofyou to assume this is a good time for a team session.
Yeah, well, something tells me that my father’s handling of the situation will be…less than delicate.
Maybe a proper ass-chewing will get them in line.
Or maybe it’ll push them further apart.
They just dropped gloves in the middle of a game. I’d say that’s as far apart as it gets.
Oh, for god’s sake. Why am I arguing with myself?
I raise my hand to knock again, but the locker room door is yanked open.
“What?” Adam’s face softens when he sees me.
“Hey, Coach. Rough night.”
He rakes his fingers through his hair, looking spent. “I’ve certainly had better.”
It’s as good of an opening as I’m going to get. “I figured you might need a hand.”
“What gave you that idea?” He turns to glare back into the locker room, and when his attention returns to me, his features remain stony. I’ve only known him for a few months, butI’ve never seen him this angry before. “Look, I appreciate you stopping by, but this is beyond the scope of mental performance coaching.”
The comment stings, but I try not to take it personally. He’s had a crap night, and the team has put him in a crap position. Anyone would feel defensive in his situation.
“What happened on the ice tonight sucks. Addressing it now, in real-time, while the emotions are still raw, will prevent it from festering.” I meet his steely gaze, willing him to trust me. “With any luck, I might actually be able to break through and find out what’s really going on with this team.”
“Ava, you’ve been working with these knuckleheads for weeks, and look at them…” He crosses his arms and sighs. “They’re no better off than when we started. Hell, they might be worse.”
His words land hard, but even more devastating is the disappointment in his voice. Does he really think so little of my work? Of me?
It’s bad enough having Banks’s words hanging over my head, but to know my own father doesn’t believe in me? It might just be the knockout blow.
You are so much more than the work you do.
I’ve always struggled to separate my worth from my work. Growing up, I assumed it was an environmental trait, but staring at my father, I can’t help but wonder if I was wrong.
It doesn’t matter. What matters is the guys in that locker room. I know I can get through to them. Iamgetting through to them.
Just this week, Lindholm came to me for relaxation techniques because he’s stressed about his wife’s pregnancy, and Johnson revealed he’s apprehensive about in-game contact after a nasty concussion at the end of last season.
We’re making progress, even if it’s slow.
I can’t give up now.
Remembering what Emerson said about hockey players, I square my shoulders and pull myself up to my full height. “If that’s truly how you feel, then it can’t hurt to try. It’s not like things can get any worse.”
“Fine.” Adam throws his hands up in defeat. “You deal with them. I’m going to take a walk before I say something I regret, and then I have to go fend off the media.”
He stalks down the hall, and I do my best to push our conversation from my mind. I can deal with my own feelings later. Right now, I need to focus on the team, and my feelings have no place in that conversation.
I slip into the locker room to find the assistant coaches hovering by the door. They look as uncertain as I feel, and I dismiss them with a confidence that is entirely manufactured.