We started in the public areas, the sleek hallways lined with photos of past championships, a wall of retired jerseys, the faint scent of popcorn ghosting from the concession stands. I’ve been here before. But the moment we passed through the frosted glass doors markedStaff Only, the atmosphere changed.
Dana’s tone dropped from peppy to professional as she guided me through the players’ wing: a gym that looked morelike a science lab, therapy rooms humming with specialized equipment, and a lounge that could’ve doubled as a luxury hotel suite.
“Each player has a personal locker bay and private access to their recovery pods,” she explained, gesturing to a sleek row of chrome-trimmed doors. “The organization invests heavily in physical and mental wellness—something you’ll be part of, of course.”
I nodded, half-distracted by the sheer magnitude of it all. The walls were covered in framed motivational quotes, the kind that could sound trite anywhere else but here feels like gospel.
We continue down another corridor until Dana stops in front of a glass door etched with cheerful lettering:Little Bears Care Center.
“This,” she said, swipes her badge, “is where the magic happens for our smallest team members.”
The door opened to a sunlit suite that looks like something out of an architectural digest spread—soft neutral tones, low lighting, handmade mobiles, shelves of Montessori toys, and air that smells faintly of lavender and clean cotton. It is… over-the-top perfection.
Two women were inside. The first, a brunette in her thirties wearing a beige cardigan and calm like a superpower, smiled warmly. “You must be Claudia. I’m Marlene, head of the infant room. And this is Jo, my assistant.”
Jo waves, setting down a pastel teething ring. “We only have two littles right now,” she said. “Both under eighteen months. It keeps things peaceful.”
“Peaceful,” I repeat, glancing around. “That’s one word for it. I’m not sure Savannah will know what to do with all this serenity.”
They laugh, and Marlene gestures toward a cozy corner framed by soundproof glass. “You’ll love the privacy pods forfeeding and naptime. Everything’s hypoallergenic, all products are organic. We’ve even got sound machines tuned to mimic a parent’s heartbeat.”
I smile, both impressed and slightly overwhelmed. “It’s… beautiful. Like baby heaven.”
“Exactly what we were going for,” Jo grins.
Marlene points up, “We have cameras and handheld monitors that parents can take to check in on their little bears.”
“We had an app,” Jo adds, “But for privacy reasons, we only want the parents to have access while their children are here.”
“As a parent, I appreciate that.”
After thanking them, Dana leads me through another set of corridors into the administrative wing, where the hum of voices replaces the hush of the nursery.
“This last stop is Human Resources,” she said. “You’ll meet Trina Lawson, the department head.”
Trina Lawson looked like she’d been carved out of composure itself. Mid-forties, her hair cut in a sleek bob, in a crisp navy suit. She stands when I enter and offers a hand.
“Claudia Holloway,” her tone is even and warm in that practiced HR way. “Welcome to the Bears.”
“Thank you,” I said, matching her handshake. “You run quite the operation here.”
Trina smiles, eyes glinting. “That’s one way to put it. I keep the machine running and the fires contained. Some days, I’m a therapist. Others, a referee. Most days? Both.”
I laugh, which earns me a knowing look.
“I hear you’re joining us as the staff psychologist,” she continues, motioning for me to sit. “Good timing. The team needed someone with a fresh perspective. Our last in-house psychologist left to start her own practice in Denver, but is now going back to school.”
“I’ve heard,” I say. “I’m looking forward to helping however I can.”
Trina leans back slightly, assessing me the way only a woman who’s seen every kind of crisis could. “When the men are home, your schedule’s full—team sessions, check-ins, performance evaluations. When they’re on the road, you’re only here if an employee has requested an appointment. We prioritize flexibility. Family, sanity, that kind of thing. Mrs. Costello mentioned you may be considering a small private practice as well.”
Mrs. Costello had told me I should consider it, but it really wasn’t discussed; I’m not about to mention that, as her name is on the arena itself.
“If the team supports the idea of me having a small private practice, I may further explore that, but I would prefer to have my feet firmly planted here before making plans for that.”
Trina nods approvingly. “Perfect. You’re only required here three to four days a week when the men are in town. We encourage balance, and having a side practice keeps your skills sharp. As long as it doesn’t conflict with the team’s needs, we’ll even help coordinate scheduling.”
“That’s more than generous,” I say, genuinely surprised.
