“When are you back on the ice? I need something to look forward to.”
“Not sure yet,” he says.
“What? I thought you were fine?” I say as I fix my mascara.
“I’m good, they’re just being extra cautious.”
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“I’m sure.” He chuckles. “Have a good day, Doc.”
We hang up, and I finish putting myself back together.
Straighten my blazer. Look at myself in the mirror and see a woman doing something impossibly hard. A mother surviving the first separation. Then I take one last breath and step out.
By the time I make it back to the hallway, my breathing is even, and my eyes are no longer betraying me. I am steady enough to pretend I have not just had a minor emotional implosion in a very clean, very public restroom.
Trina spots me immediately.
She is leaning against the wall outside the family wing, tablet in hand, suit sharp as always. Her expression softens when she sees me, not with pity, but with the calm understanding of a woman who has seen many versions of people walking into their first day, trying desperately to hold themselves together.
“Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s get you to your space.”
I fall into step beside her, and she gives me that little side glance and quietly asks,“You doing alright?”
“I’m good now.”
She nods once, approving my honesty. “First drop off is brutal. Anyone who says otherwise is lying or trying to impress someone. You did great.”
My chest loosens a little. “It did not feel great.”
“Great never feels like great in the moment,” she says. “It feels like panic, tears, and hoping you do not look like you got mugged by your own emotions. But trust me, it was great.”
We keep walking.
This part of the building is quiet, temperature-controlled, and intentionally insulated from the practice areas.
As we walk, Trina taps the tablet and says, “Your schedule auto-synced. Your onboarding starts this afternoon, but this morning is intentionally light. With the team away, you’ll have a chance to get comfortable before we start tossing players at you.”
“I appreciate the timing.”
We turn down a private hallway, and I start to feel that energy, that excitement I hoped to.
“You have been in the building once before, but not this wing,” she says. “This is where we keep the more sensitive roles. Player development. Legal. Mental health. Player support. Fewer people wandering through means more privacy.”
We stop at a door with my name already engraved in brushed metal, Dr. Claudia Holloway. It’s not taped on. It’s not temporary. It’s permanent.
Trina pushes the door open.
The morning light streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long gold shafts across the deep charcoal rug. The rink is visible below, massive and cold and beautiful, a reminder of the world I am now part of.
My shelves are fully stocked. Books I know, books I want to know. Trauma-informed practice. Performance psychology. Leadership theory. Sports culture. Even a couple of fiction titles that feel suspiciously chosen based on my resume’s side mention of loving nineteenth-century literature.
The seating area features sage-green chairs, a low slate table, and a sofa with clean lines and soft edges that are inviting. Everything here is intentional
The consultation nook feels private yet warm, like a tiny pocket designed for moments when someone needs to say something they have never said aloud. And the desk. God. The desk.
Walnut. Matte black frame. Clean. Strong. Quietly powerful.
