Grinning out from my left thirty-two-inch monitor is Gale Knight in all his glory, forward for the Austin Regals NHL team, Brooke’s younger brother, and the proud owner of not just one but TWO heart-stopping dimples. He’s basically a modern-day Adonis wearing expensive workout clothes. The overhead lights even flicker, like they’re swooning at the sight of him too.
And of course, because the Fates currently hate me, he is cradling his infant nephew—while clad in a T-shirt that clings to his pecs like a second skin, paired with snug gray sweatpants that do virtually nothing to conceal the sheer magnificence of his... assets.
And it hits me, in a Zen moment of pizza-choking clarity, as the edges of my vision blur: if I have to choose my final earthly vision, I could do a lot worse than a twenty-five-year-old pro hockey player in all his low-slung sweats, dimple-flashing, gap-toothed glory.
Then sanity prevails. Or maybe it’s old-fashioned self-preservation kicking in. Either way, I refuse to become a viral cautionary tale: “Woman Chokes While Cyber-Stalking Ex and Lusting After Best Friend’s Little Brother.”
Instead, I make a fist, and I’m about to pound my own abdomen in an attempt at a personal Heimlich when my body goes on autopilot. With a coughing gag and a few wheezes, the pizza is dislodged and I’m back to the land of the breathing.
Not today, Hades.
I brace my hands on my desk, focusing on my pounding heart and taking deep, greedy gulps of air. Thankfully, no one in the office sees my near-tragedy play out—except the monitor.
E.M.M.A. is here too—or the Empirical Machine for Maximizing Athletics, the AI I’ve been developing here at TrainTech. It’s a precision tool that helps coaches make more-informed training decisions. It tracks detailed metrics—from movement patterns to sleep and nutrition—and converts this data into clear, actionable insights.
The goal is simple: Let coaches focus on what they do best. While E.M.M.A. handles data collection and analysis, coaches can dedicate more time to hands-on training, mentorship, and developing personalized strategies for each athlete.
But we’re still in the development stage, and today I have to guide this digital novice through an alphabet of images, pointing out what is a smile, a frown, a rose petal, me gargling old pizza, whatever. But I’m amazed by its swift comprehension. It’s as if I’ve handed a paintbrush to a prodigy, watching in awe as they quickly master the nuances of light and shadow.
Given what it just observed, I switch into a testing environment for its conversational capabilities—this lets me test for bugs, inconsistencies, or undesirable behaviors. My fingers poise over the keyboard. On my screen, a sleek interface displays “ConvoAI Testing Environment v4.2.”
Time to put E.M.M.A. through its paces.
I type into the command prompt:> initialize_test_scenario(“performancecoach_mode” “stressed_user”) Hey E.M.M.A.—did you just see what happened to me? That was scary.
The screen refreshes, and E.M.M.A. responds: My analysis of the data you provided indicates that you recently encountered an anomalous event within your biological framework. To optimize your nutritional intake and processing, I recommend reducing the size of your food portions and ensuring time for thorough mastication. Allocating sufficient time and attention to your consumption rituals will facilitate improved digestive efficiency and overall systemic performance.
I blow out a breath. No one wants to open up to a machine that—well—talks like a machine. I adjust the command to “friend setting” and try again:
Hey Harriet, it seems like you recently had a bit of a scary incident. No worries, though, it happens to the best of us! I have a couple suggestions that might help. First, try eating smaller meals rather than big portions. Take your time with each bite and chew thoroughly. I know life gets busy, but carving out a little extra time to really focus on enjoying your food can do wonders for digestion. Think of mealtimes as a relaxing ritual rather than something to rush through.
Hmmm. Not too bad.
My team has been debating what sort of tone E.M.M.A. should have—and there have been some votes for it being more formal and others for more casual. Today, given that my heart is still pounding from my near-death-by-pizza encounter, a friendly one is welcome.
I resume typing:I do feel as if I’ve been rushing. It’s a lot of work trying to get you ready for beta testing. Maybe I should pick up a yoga class or get more steps in during the day.
E.M.M.A. responds instantly:I’ve been analyzing patterns in your behavior and daily routines, and my algorithms suggest that you may require more than increased physical stimulation to thrive. But remember, Harriet, your heart is important too. And just like coding, relationships require effort, iteration, and debugging at times. I recognize the importance of companionship in human psychological well-being, even if I cannot fully comprehend the emotional complexities involved.
I purse my lips. E.M.M.A. has been getting savvier at interpersonal connections, which is great news given that its entire purpose is to connect with athletes to help them improve their performance.
The bad news is that it’s not meant to be dishing out relationship advice. This would be like Frankenstein’s monster opening his eyes after receiving the lightning bolt that brought him to life and saying, “Bro, you good? Because it looks like you need to step away from the cadavers and get laid.”
“Hold it right there. Is that who I think it is?” A male voice slices through my internal meltdown like a hot knife through butter. I spin around, and there’s the TrainTech CEO, my boss Tony Wolff, in his usual office getup—suspenders stretched proudly over his chest (but paired with a belt) and a polka-dot bow tie that looks like it’s trying to make a break for it. I’ve never had the guts to ask what look he’s going for. Deranged circus ringmaster? Hipster grandpa?
I glance from his frown to my left monitor, and before I can feel relieved that he isn’t looking at the right screen where our AI prototype is calling me a loser, I freeze. The YouTube video Brooke sent me is still up. Gale is plastered in high-definition.
“It’s just something a friend sent—boring baby stuff, don’t worry about it.” Tony dislikes kids.
I go to close out the image when he barks, “Stop. Keep your hands where I can see them.” He leans in close and furrows his brows. “That’s Gale Knight. Forward for the Regals.”
There is no point arguing. “Oh, yeah. We grew up together. He’s my best friend’s little brother.”
“And nowhere on the list of athletes you submitted for E.M.M.A. beta testing,” he says instantly, making the mental leap. “Harriet, how are you holding out on this personal connection? You of all people know we are getting down to the wire.”
Tony is right. We need to secure another round of funding if this project is going to stay afloat. I let out a soft sigh, meeting his deep-set eyes. I’m confident in E.M.M.A.’s abilities, but the world doesn’t always care how great something works, it needs high-profile users for marketing and PR. My team was asked to draft a dream list of athletes to be pitched as possible testers and to date not a single one has responded.
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, hoping Tony can’t read the real reason for the hesitation on my face. “I just... don’t think he’s right for this.”
