All in on You

Chapter Three

Adam Faulkner should not be this good-looking. Or this kind. And—I'm guessing by the way he's dressed and the Armani logo on his glasses—this rich. As the General Manager of the Toronto Saints, he's younger than I thought he would be. I was picturing an old, grouchy man in a stuffy suit, but Adam—that's what he told me to call him—is sporting fresh skin and trendy threads.

I'm sitting on a lavish couch in a lavish room. I'm not sure what the purpose of this room typically is—it essentially looks like a meeting room-slash-swanky lounge—but right now it's being used to orient me to my duties with the team as a junior sport psychologist. That's the title we're going with. Fancy.

The task in front of me is daunting. On the surface, it seems straightforward. My role is to motivate the team, help alleviate any mental blocks the players have, and get them into "fight" mode rather than "flight" mode. This is all standard action in my field. What's daunting is that my success may be measured in whether I can lead this team to do what's lately been impossible, which is make it past the first round of the playoffs. Based on my careful research—I'm nothing if not thorough—the Saints haven't accomplished that feat in over twenty years. At one point during that drought, the team was god-awful and finished dead last in the league, which enabled them to pick Angelo Bradford first overall about six years ago. He was a highly scouted player since his early teens and it was a given that whoever won the NHL's draft lottery (it ended up being Toronto) would choose him. So far, the scouts have been right, and Bradford has been just as good as advertised if not better. Since he joined the team, the Saints have made the playoffs each year. But that's as far as they've gotten. And considering you need to win four rounds of playoff hockey to win the championship, the Stanley Cup, that's nowhere near good enough.

Thanks, Wikipedia.

"Do you have any questions at this point, Harlow?" Adam asks.

He's just finished walking me through a hefty binder labelled Toronto Saints Rules and Procedures. "Some light reading," Adam had quipped. When I say that this binder has weight to it, I mean it. How many rules could a professional hockey team have?

I look between him and the handsome older gentleman who is the President of the Saints, Robert Callahan.

"No, everything sounds good so far." I sound more confident than I feel.

"Great, just let us know of any questions that come up once you have had a chance to look at our policies more thoroughly. I know the rules may seem like a lot, and we do value authenticity here, even if it doesn't seem like it. But the Saints is a historic organization, and we do expect everyone to represent it with the pride it deserves."

Well damn. I nod.

Adam shifts his weight from foot to foot and checks his Rolex. "Now is a good time to give you a tour of the facilities."

I place the binder and my notebook into my tote bag and follow Adam and Robert out of the room.

"You'll see that this is a world class facility, and there's so much we can show you, but if it's okay with you, we'll skip the tour of the concession stands." Robert laughs at his joke and I give that awkward I'm just trying to be polite because I'm pretty sure you're sort of my new boss smile. Adam winks at me conspiratorially and my grin turns genuine.

I follow them into the hallway, self-conscious of the way my kitten heels clack against the marble floor. I'm five-foot-nine, and while a good pair of heels are a good friend of mine, I wanted a more demure look for this Tuesday morning meeting. Still, I made the effort to give myself a blowout and tightline my eyes and apply blush. Simple steps that make me like what I see when I look in the mirror.