All in on You

Chapter Sixteen

Not that I have much to compare it to, but the Saints home locker room in the Maille Arena is seriously impressive.

Guessing square footage—or even appreciating the number of square footage when it's told to me—has never been my forte, but this room is big, okay? Just take my word for it.

The walls are adorned with inspirational mottos and the floor is covered in a deep navy-blue carpet that has the Saints logo dominantly in the centre. Right now, the capital S is under my boots.

Just like for most people, speaking in front of people gives me butterflies. Usually, it's nothing too major. But this morning's venture is a lot, even for me. The more intense than usual jitters are partly because I'm speaking in front of a full crowd. Literally. Every single stall—individual seats where each player changes, sits during intermissions, and stores their equipment—is occupied by the rightful owner. But I've addressed the full team before, so that's not new. What are new, though, are all the other faces here simultaneously: the coaching staff, all the way from the head coach to the equipment guy to Glen the trainer, along with Faulkner and Callahan.

So yeah, lots of faces. I nearly stammer over my words when my eyes fall on one in particular. There's the number 10 over his stall. Okay, so not only do I almost stumble over my words, but I also almost stumble over my own two feet. And that's saying something, because I'm standing still right now.

Morning skate ended thirty minutes ago. That's exactly what it sounds like—a skate the team partakes in on the morning of a game. A Florida team is visiting the Saints tonight, and they've been a formidable division rival for the last few seasons. That's why the entire team was out on the ice this morning, rather than it being optional, like they usually are.

All that is to explain why Angelo is currently looking at me from his stall with a Saints cap backwards over his wet hair, half-dressed. He's changed out of most of his hockey gear, but is wearing his undergarments. Material that is black and tight and all intimate with the curves of the body. Most of the players are in a better state of dress, but Angelo and Keith and a few others spoke to the media, so they're delayed in the process.

Angelo shoots me an almost imperceptible nod and grin, encouraging me to continue.

I'm running the team through a problem-focused relaxation technique. Like I said, Florida has tended to have Toronto's number lately. Tonight's game will be just as mental as it will be physical. The coach is responsible for the physical stuff. With this exercise, I'm helping them to prepare to deal with the pressure.

My eyes scan the room to all the receptive faces, engaging in my instructions. I swear, every time I see the head coach, I think of Elise finding him attractive when she saw his photo online. He doesn't look too thrilled right now, but he also seems perpetually stressed, so I'll give him a pass. It's tough to be behind the Saints bench, win or lose. There's always something the media or fans can complain about with this team.

"Okay, everyone," I say, brining my hands together. "I think that's good for now. But remember, you can always revisit these tools at any time, leading up to the game. Even if you need a moment on the bench, you know what to do. Thank you for your attention."

A buzz steadily fills the room as everyone reengages in their conversations and activities. Adam catches my gaze, and gives me a two-finger wave, gesturing for me to follow him out of the room.

"Great session, Harlow," he says, smiling, once we're out in the hall. "You did well. And I have to admit, I'm pleasantly surprised by the focus our players demonstrated throughout. Well, for most of it, anyways."

Right. Mac Johnson took it upon himself to scoff during some of my instructions. I was about to say something, but Angelo beat me to it, barking Hey! It was simple, but effective. Not a peep from anyone after that.