MADDY
Ijump, like, ten feet at the knock on my office door, my brain still stuck on the phone call I just hung up from. Excitement bubbles in my veins, a feeling of accomplishment settling over me as the conversation plays over and over in my head.
I’m really doing the thing.
I want to throw myself a ticker-tape parade.
“Shit,” I mutter, holding a hand to my racing heart, my office snapping back into focus as my brain is shoved out of excitement mode and back into pay-attention-at-work mode.
“Sorry, Mads.” Brian gives me a smile as he saunters in and drops a kiss on the top of my head before taking a seat on my couch. “Am I interrupting something?”
I shake my head, grabbing my can of orange soda and taking a long sip. “You aren’t. I was just proverbially patting myself on the back and forgot that the rest of the office existed for a minute.”
He chuckles, propping an ankle on his knee and leaning back on the couch, his whole demeanor givingI own this place. Which,mostly true, I guess. “So, what did you do to deserve the pat on the back? Besides everything, obviously?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, reaching into my desk drawer for a couple bags of M&M’s. When I see the note Cam left on my desk with my coffee and Cinnamon Toast Crunch this morning, the one that saysI can’t wait until the next time I get to have my hands all over you, warmth flashes through me, and I wonder if there is a limit to the happiness a single body can hold. I hope not because I’ve been walking on metaphorical air since my breakfast with him and his kids a week ago, and I want to stay right here in this joy for a while.
I toss Brian a bag of M&M’s, leaning back in my own chair. “I just got off the phone with Patrick Mahoney.”
Brian studies me with a conspicuous lack of surprise. “The commissioner of the National Football League?”
I nod, tossing a handful of M&M’s into my mouth and humming happily. “The very same one. I guess he’s been paying pretty close attention to the Renegades this season and noticed how much differently the guys are playing. How the stats are telling a story of a more cohesive team than in past seasons. And apparently when he questioned the front office about it, someone told him it was all because of me. Do you know anything about that?”
Brian grins at me, tearing open his bag of candy. “If I tell you, are you going to start lecturing me about nepotism again?”
Laughing, I prop my feet up on my desk and shake my head. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I earned this particular accolade.”
“No doubt about it. He was surprised because we haven’t made any major changes to the coaching staff in the past three seasons, and the starters have been relatively stable too. When he asked what changed, I told him about our renewed focus on mental health. About how you’ve instituted weekly check-ins with the mental health staff for every player, and how you’re on the sidelines for a lot of the games, working with the coaches inreal time to adjust plays where necessary, and to spot any minor player issues early before they become major ones. To notice where someone might be struggling, physically or otherwise, and help fix the problem.” Brian shrugs. “The team is the healthiest it’s been at the end of December in years. Some of that is just luck, but a lot of it has to do with you. The players are lucky to have you, Mads. We all are. That’s what I told Patrick.”
I will not cry at work.
I will not cry at work.
I will not cry at work because I am a goddamn professional.
“Thanks for that,” I say when I’ve managed to lock down my emotions. “Because of it, Patrick asked me if I would be willing to run some workshops for all the mental health professionals on the various team staffs in the offseason, and he also asked that I write a kind of training manual using what I’m doing here as a blueprint other teams can follow.”
I get a little thrill at the thought of it. Since I was a little kid watching my dad take his first tentative steps back onto the ice after more than a decade away, all I’ve ever wanted to do is make a difference in the mental health of professional athletes. I’m finally getting my chance.
“Fuck yeah, he did!” A grin splits Brian’s face. “As your boss, I feel like I should shake your hand and give you, like, an attagirl or something. But as your uncle, I want to hug you and then yell about this in the family group chat. I’m fucking proud of you, Maddy.”
I grin, getting up and sitting next to him on the couch, pulling a leg up so I’m facing him. “Please never say the word attagirl. It’s weird and gross and condescending as fuck. I give you permission to text the group chat though, only because I’m in a really good mood, and this is a great day. And also because Oliver has been carrying on relentlessly about being on track for a second fifty-goal season in a row, and I think he needs to be taken down a peg.”
Brian holds a hand over his heart. “I would be honored to be the one to knock that cocky little shit off his pedestal.”
Laughing, I open my mouth to say something but am interrupted by my phone ringing. Reaching over, I grab it off my desk and check the display, frowning when I see it’s Riley. At eleven thirty on a Wednesday morning when I’m almost positive she’s supposed to be at school. She texts me all the time, but rarely during the school day, and she has never called before. Confusion morphs into a weird sort of worry that has me swiping to answer the call as fast as I can.
“Hey, Riley, is everything okay?”
“Maddy?” Her voice is quiet and a little thick, like maybe she’s holding back tears, and the helplessness in her tone has my heart cracking.
“Yeah, Ry, I’m here. What’s up?”
“Do you think maybe you can come get me? From school?”
I have a million questions. Ones like,Are you okayandAre you hurtandWhy are you calling me and not your dad, but no force on earth would make me question this vulnerable teen right now. Even so, I remind myself that this isn’t my child, and I choose my words carefully.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, and we can make a plan. Does that sound okay?”
