All in on You

Chapter One

Okay. Hold the damn phone.

There's a mistake. That's the only conclusion I can accept because there's no chance in hell Dr. Wennberg did this on purpose.

The problem isn't that I've been assigned to a professional hockey team. Well, okay, it sort of is. It's a problem because a professional hockey team so clearly isn't Canada's figure skating darling, Vanessa Woodward. Dr. Wennberg knows that I even went so far as to personally chat with Woodward's manager. It was supposed to be a done deal. I was supposed to intern with Woodward, damn it!

"You doing okay?" Rebecca asks from the seat next to mine.

I must have either uttered a sound of pure discontent or sent out bad vibes from the very core of me, because until this point, she had been focused on her own laptop, with her email from Wennberg up on her screen.

"No! I'm kind of stressing over here! I didn't get Vanessa Woodward. Who'd you get?"

She got her first choice, naturally. A competitive badminton team.

"That sucks about Vanessa. So, who did Wennberg assign you to?"

"The freaking Toronto Saints!"

Rebecca's lips part into a near perfect 'O'. Jules and Elise, who are sitting in the row in front of us, turn around. I swear a trio of guys that I've barely spoken a few words to in the entire year and a half of the program stop talking as well. Was I that loud? Usually, my voice is so soft I have to project from my diaphragm to be heard a few feet ahead. Considering we're in a classroom right now, this isn't the best place for me to channel my inner Adele and proudly belt out my emotions for all to hear.

"Harlow," Elise says. "The Toronto Saints? Holy crap, that's huge."

I know that. I know that. My heart rate has been pitter-pattering 500 beats per minute since Dr. Wennberg ended her lecture and sent out our internship assignments five minutes ago. And still, my dominant emotion is disappointment. That, and anxiety stomach. So not ideal right now.

"I wanted someone else," I tell my friends as if that explanation is at all adequate.

"I get that, but you have to realize that probably every student in this room wishes they were in your spot," Jules says.

"I don't know about that."

I'm being a bit of a suck, feeling unnecessarily sorry for myself, but I can't help it. This final semester internship is the corner stone of the Master of Arts in Sport Psychology. It's meant to be an opportunity to show what we have learned and what we can do by working with an athlete of some sort. Who we work with is supposed to be tailored to our interests. Elise, who is a kickass social justice warrior, is going to work with an inner-city youth basketball team. I told Wennberg my first choice was Vanessa Woodward because I wanted the highest performing female athlete in the country. Instead, I wind up with a roster of Saints. What an ironic name.

My friends are chatting amongst themselves now; they know me well enough to see that I'm shifting into action mode. Trying not to look like a total creep, I focus my gaze on Dr. Wennberg and give her a close-lipped smile. She sees me and nods, with a look in her eyes that says, Why yes, Harlow, please do approach me at the end of lecture. I'm expecting you.

According to the clock at the front of the lecture hall, our class time is officially up.

"Harlow? We're going to hit the library. Want to join us?" Rebecca asks as she stuffs her notebook into her filled-to-the-brim backpack.

The corners of Jules' lips turn upwards. "I have a feeling she's going to meet us there." To me, she says, "Just text us when you're at the library and I'll tell you where we're sitting."