Making a noise under my breath, I send out the response without another thought. I was professional and polite in the message, and I’m sure in her mind, people should fall over themselves to be close to a hockey player.
Gazing around where players are practicing in the stadium’s surplus ice rink, I roll my eyes. My current issue is that I have too many of them around me.
I’m sitting behind the glass, feet up on the bench in front of me, working on editing video clips to upload before the Atlanta game. I’m surprisingly adaptable for an omega since I’ve never been one to make a nest outside of fluffy blankets. I brought my own from home, and I’ve been using them to sleep with.
Dad and I sleep in a different suite each night, and change is becoming my new normal.
I really am an odd omega.
I have earbuds in to block out the background noise, and Rían works around me. A bottle of water is nudged in my direction before he heads off to help the trainers. Pulling out an earbud for safety purposes, I continue working.
I need to be semi conscious of my surroundings. My work tends to consume my every thought, and I’m trying to get better about not blocking out the world anymore.
Picking up the bottle, I notice that the cap’s safety seal is still intact, relaxing slightly as I break it and take a sip. I’m starting to feel hungry, but there’s no time to worry about that outside of eating a snack.
Traveling with the team is busy and often feels both chaotic and organized in an odd way.
Digging in my backpack for a protein bar, I rip it open and eat while I continue to work. Screen recording the process, I edit the clips to create a longer reel, knowing it’ll allow me to record my voice over it later to teach people what I’m doing.
I cleared this with the team owner, and he said I could do this as long as I kept my content away from the team’s secrets. I’m always careful not to reveal too much information when I’m recording things during practice.
Moving onto the next thing, I upload the edited clips into another video editor program and look around. Even though I’ve been half paying attention to my surroundings, it still feels as if I’m pulling myself out of a deep well.
Sighing, I continue working, putting both my earbuds in to silence the world around me so I can record. There's a microphone that will supposedly only pick up what I'm saying, and I’m hoping it works well. It’s the first time I’m using it since I bought it.
I’m discovering that a voiceover about players may help my reach on social media, so I’m going to see how it performs for me.
Hitting record, I begin to speak as the clips run by on the screen. I talk about the newest stats, the energy in stadiums, and how there’s nothing like the scent of ice as it’s torn up during a game. I’m smiling by the end of the voiceover, and pause the recording to listen to how it works with the video.
Something touches my shoulder and I jump with a gasp, my head snapping up to find one of my dad’s assistant coaches next to me. Blowing out a breath, I pull out my earbuds.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “I was completely out of it. I shouldn’t use these at the rink and I know that?—”
“You’re working,” Patrick says, shaking his head. “It’s hard to get shit done when you have a herd of elephants down there practicing.”
My lips twitch in amusement as I nod in agreement.
“I was trying to wait until you came up for air to tell you that we’re taking a break. Your dad wants to make sure you eat before the game,” he explains.
“I was trying to hold out,” I admit, showing him my empty wrapper as I close my laptop.
My heart is still racing, but I can self regulate better than before. I tell myself in my mind that I’m safe, no one is hurting me, and it’s a straight shot down the stairs to my dad. The self-talk is something I’m finding helps me from panicking.
I am finding my coping mechanisms through trial and error, as well as some internet searches for those that are struggling with anxiety.
Packing things away, I raise my brow as I see that Patrick is still standing there.
“Your dad would kick my ass if I didn’t walk you down,” he shrugs. “I don’t see the intern anywhere?—”
“He said he needed to help somewhere else,” I explain. “I wasn’t planning to move from this spot. I’ve been trying to work with one earbud in to hear what’s going on around me, but I couldn’t do that while recording.”
“You know a lot about hockey,” he says. “While I was waiting, I couldn’t help but listen. There’s a fierce appreciation for the sport that I don’t think can be faked when you talk about it.”
“I used to play hockey,” I shrug. “I also grew up around it, so the appreciation for the sport isn’t faked. It’s everything else I dislike.”
Standing, I thread my arms through the straps of my backpack. It’s much more comfortable than my shoulder bag, and I think the change may be permanent. I have too much shit to drag around with me.
“There’s a lot of misogyny in the sport,” Patrick says easily, moving to the stairs as I follow him. “Some of these players believe they’re gods, and that’s how they’re treated.”
