Page 8

Two years, three months, and sixteen days. That’s how long I’ve been slowly dying in academia, but who’s counting?

I stare at the stack of papers on my desk—another round of undergraduate attempts at understanding basic statistical analysis—and contemplate setting them on fire.

It would be more productive than what I’m actually doing, which is reading the same email from my father for the fifteenth time while pretending my life hasn’t become a cautionary tale about wasted potential.

Chelsea,

The position is open again. The team needs someone with your expertise. I need someone I can trust.

It’s been years of me trying to get you this position.

This is the last time I’ll ask.

—Chris

Not Dad . Never Dad in professional correspondence. Sometimes I wonder if he would sign my birthday cards with his full name too if he ever sent any.

My office phone rings. It’s probably another student wanting an extension on an assignment they’ve had six weeks to complete. I let it go to voicemail. Everything goes to voicemail these days.

“Dr. Clark?” A knock accompanies the tentative voice. “Are you in there?”

I could pretend I’m not. Wouldn’t be the first time. But Riley’s one of the few students who actually gives a damn, so I wave her in through the glass door.

“What’s up?”

She shifts nervously, clutching a paper that’s bleeding red ink. My red ink. “I was wondering if we could talk about my midterm?”

“You got a B+, Riley. That’s hardly worth a crisis visit.”

“But I need an A to keep my scholarship.”

Of course she does. They all need something—more time, more help, more understanding. And I used to care. Used to stay late explaining concepts, used to believe I was making a difference. Now I just feel like a glorified babysitter with a PhD and a salary that barely covers my student loans.

“I’ll look at it again,” I lie, because that’s easier than explaining that her B+ was generous. “Send me an email reminder.”

After she leaves, I return to my father’s message.

Three months ago, I would have deleted it immediately.

But three months ago, I wasn’t staring down another semester of Statistical Methods for Beginners.

Three months ago, I hadn’t been passed over for promotion again because I “lack seniority.” Three months ago, I still had some fight left.

My phone buzzes. Leah.

Leah : Wine tonight?

Me : Can’t. Grading.

Leah : You’re staring at your father’s email again, aren’t you?

Me : I hate that you know me.

Leah : Take the job, Chelsea. What’s the worst that could happen?

The worst? I could end up under my father’s thumb again, suffocated by his expectations and disappointed sighs. I could fail spectacularly in front of professional athletes who think therapy is for weaklings. I could prove him right. That I’m only successful when riding his coattails.

But I’m already failing here. At least in Chicago, I’d be well-paid for it.

I pull up the Outlaws’ website, scanning through their disaster of a season.

They’re currently sitting at the bottom of their division, bleeding goals and hemorrhaging talent.

The press is brutal, calling for coaching changes, trades, complete rebuilds.

My father’s name features prominently in every article, usually preceded by words like “struggling” and “embattled.”

He needs me. He’d never admit it in those words, but that email reeks of desperation disguised as opportunity.

I close my laptop and look around my shoebox office. Motivational posters I didn’t choose. A dying plant from a well-meaning colleague. Four years of my life reduced to a twelve-by-ten room that smells like disappointment and instant coffee.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, pulling out my phone.

He answers on the first ring. Chris Clark doesn’t do casual.

“Chelsea.”

“I’ll take the job.”

Silence. Then: “Good. I’ll have HR send the paperwork. You start in two weeks.”

“Two weeks? Dad, I have to give notice—”

“I’ve already spoken to your department head. They’re aware of the situation.”

My blood pressure spikes. “You what?”

“I anticipated your decision. Preparation prevents poor performance.”

The same phrase he used to drill into me before every competition, every test, every life choice. I grip the phone tighter, reminding myself that I called him.

“I have conditions,” I say, surprising us both.

“I’m listening.”

“I report to the GM, not you. My recommendations go through proper channels. And you don’t interfere with my methods.”

“Agreed.”

Too easy. He’s definitely desperate.

“And I want double what the university pays me.”

“Triple,” he counters. “The position is demanding. You’ll earn it.”

Jesus. Either NHL mental performance coaches make bank, or he really is in trouble.

“Fine. But I’m not your daughter at work. I’m Dr. Clark, the performance coach. Nothing more.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” There’s something in his voice—relief? Pride? It’s gone before I can analyze it. “The team returns from a road trip Thursday. Be ready.”

He hangs up without saying goodbye. Typical.

I spend the next two weeks in a whirlwind of resignation paperwork and apartment hunting.

The university pretends to be sad to see me go, but we both know they’ll have my office cleared out and filled with some eager PhD candidate before I hit city limits.

My students seem genuinely disappointed, which almost makes me reconsider. Almost.

Leah helps me pack, alternating between excitement and dire warnings.

“Professional athletes are different,” she says, wrapping my diplomas in bubble wrap. “Especially hockey players. They’re basically overgrown children with millions of dollars and ego issues.”

“So, like academics but with better dental insurance?”

She throws a roll of tape at my head. “I’m serious. Don’t sleep with any of them.”

“Please. I’m going to be their therapist, not a puck bunny.”

The look she gives me says she remembers Vegas as well as I do. But Vegas was a lifetime ago. I’m different now—older, wiser, significantly more bitter. The last thing I need is another complication with someone who treats women like defensive strategies.

Chicago welcomes me back with a March snowstorm that makes me question every life choice that led to this moment.

My new apartment is a step up from my academic hovel.

It has exposed brick, actual windows, a kitchen that doesn’t share space with my bed.

The Outlaws’ organization is paying for it, which should probably bother me more than it does.

I spend the first night surrounded by boxes, reading through player files on my laptop.

The team psychologist position has been empty for months, which explains some of the dysfunction.

My father’s notes are meticulous but focus entirely on physical performance metrics.

Nothing about the mental side, the human side.

No wonder they’re failing.

The roster is a mix of aging veterans hanging on too long and young talent being crushed under pressure. I scan through names and stats, making notes on who’ll likely resist help (most of them) and who might be desperate enough to try (precious few).

Dominic Weston, center, team captain. Multiple injury recoveries, going through a very public divorce. Classic overcompensation patterns.

Marcus Williams, defenseman. Rookie last year, sophomore slump hitting hard. Confidence issues written all over his statistics.

Reed Hendrix, right wing. My cursor hovers over his name. High penalty minutes, multiple suspensions for fighting. Clear anger management issues. Recent return from a suspension for boarding. The notes indicate he’s talented but volatile, a “problem child” who needs—

I close the laptop. I’ll deal with each disaster as it comes.

My heart races at the thought of seeing Reed Hendrix after all this time, but I can do this. I will do this. I won’t be affected by my one-night stand that happened over two years ago. I’m more mature than that.