Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
But I simplify it down. “Because he wouldn’t have given me anything otherwise. He’s not someone you can forcibly extract things from, and I had to make it worth his while to hand them over. The carrot I dangled in front of him was limited sessions.”
There’s something uneasy in Patrick’s expression. Not displeasure, but I can see he’s not fully buying into what I’m saying. “And two sessions in, what have you gotten?”
“More than I expected,” I say honestly. “His family background, his childhood, formative relational dynamics. Enough to start piecing the puzzle together of his volatility.”
“And what’s driving it?”
I hold his gaze. “I’d prefer to keep the content of those sessions between Locke and myself. For the same reason you’d want that—if players think anything they say to me ends up at this table, nobody says anything real.”
Patrick inclines his head. “Fair point.”
“What I can tell you is that the on-ice improvement is real and not incidental. He’s doing the work.” Which is true, but as I told him the other night, there’s the threat of him blowing again if the underlying issues aren’t dealt with. “And the team trust piece is moving. Slowly, but it’s moving. He’s integrating with the others.”
Patrick sits with that. “You have one session left.”
“Yes.”
“What happens after that?”
The question produces a pit in my stomach, which is why I’ve been turning it over for days without landing on an answer I’m comfortable with. “I’m not entirely sure yet, but I’m hoping the third session gives me enough to build a longer-term voluntary framework with him.”
“And if he doesn’t opt in?”
“Then I’ll have done what I can do.” I meet his eyes. “And it will be solely on Donovan to keep his job with this team.”
Patrick smiles at me. “Thank you, Livia. Sounds like you’re doing a great job.”
I wonder if he’d say the same thing if he knew I was sleeping with Locke. Probably not.
I exhale carefully through my nose, pick up my pen, and jot a note on my legal pad that means nothing, just to have somewhere to look.
From the corner of my eye, I can see the camera has moved. Evan has angled slightly, the lens no longer on Patrick but back on me. I make myself stay very still and my expression professional, as it should be when in a staff meeting discussing a player with whom everything is completely appropriate.
The meeting wraps at the two-hour mark. Everyone gathers their things before filing out of the room. I’m stacking my notes and capping my pen when Juno appears at my elbow.
“Walk with me for a second,” she says.
It isn’t really a question and I note Evan’s there with the camera on his shoulder.
We fall into step in the corridor outside the conference room.
“You’ve been working with Locke Donovan for a few weeks now,” she says, coming right out like the opening of an interview, which it is.
“That’s right.”
“He came in with a significant disciplinary history. Penalty minutes, on-ice incidents, the like.” She pauses, glances over at me. “And your read after two sessions is that he’s improving?”
“I think everyone can see that for themselves.”
“What’s your sense of him as a person? Not the player. The man.”
Evan moves around to catch my face and I try to ignore the camera.
“He’s—” I start, but then I stop.
The camera is right there and Juno’s staring at me. I can tell by the look on her face that she suspects I might have a deeper story.
My eyes cut to Evan and no words come out.
Juno looks at Evan. “Give us a minute.”
He lowers the camera without comment and gives me a small smile before heading down the hallway.
Juno turns back to me, and I can’t meet her gaze.
“Do you want to go somewhere and talk?” she murmurs. “Just me and you.”
Off the record, she means.
“Yeah… that would be great.”
I follow Juno to her office in the east wing. It’s not much—a small room with a desk and corkboard covered in index cards. I drop into one of the chairs and she closes the door before hopping onto her desk with her palms on the edge.
She looks at me without an agenda and waits.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“I figured.”
“It can’t leave this room.”
“It won’t.”
I look down at my clasped hands, then back up to her. “I crossed a line,” I say out on a long breath.
Juno’s expression remains open and nonjudgmental. “I assume we’re talking about Locke?”
“Yeah,” I admit, weirdly without shame. Concern over my own judgment and whether it’s sound, yes, but not shame. “The professional boundary that I very clearly established and very clearly needed to maintain for too many reasons to count… well, I crossed it.” I pause. “We crossed it. It was mutual, but that doesn’t make it better.”
She’s quiet. “How bad is it?”