“Think of it as your own personal Cyrano de Bergerac,” Harriet finished. “Whispering sweet nothings of strategy into your ear. Except, you know, less romantic and more mathematical.”
“Cyrano who?” He frowned.
“You don’t know Cyra—? Never mind. Sorry, that sounded judgmental. Ignore that. We can start easy with some personality profiling.”
“Is your AI gonna want to know my sign and how I like my eggs? Because I can tell you now that I’m a Leo who likes ’em scrambled with a side of salsa.”
“Good to know, but sadly not relevant. E.M.M.A. will be looking at how your mind works under pressure, your decision-making style, even how you process information. This helps it tailor its advice to your specific psychological makeup.”
“Will there be mood lighting?” He couldn’t help it... a little flirting slipped out.
“Only the dulcet glow of computer screens, I’m afraid. But once we have all this information, E.M.M.A. will crunch the numbers and spit out optimization tips so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
Gale hesitated. “If this works... I don’t have to worry about E.M.M.A. becoming self-aware and deciding it wants to be some sort of overlord, right?”
Harriet’s laugh was genuine. “I promise, your job on the rink is safe from it. The rest is up to you.”
“So when do we start?”
“How’s your tomorrow looking? You can come by the TrainTech office to sign the paperwork and NDAs and then we can dive in on personality protocols.”
“So getting right into it.” Gale nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see him. “Yeah, okay, I’m down. Should be interesting to see how this plays out.”
“Interesting? Sure, I guess. If you’re into understatements,” Harriet replied. “I believe in E.M.M.A. and appreciate you helping me out here—I’ll make it worth your while.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, letting that one go too—did she always make accidental double entendres these days? Because it was pretty damn cute.
As Harriet’s voice faded with a final “see you tomorrow,” Gale lowered the phone from his ear. His fingers hovered over the screen, not quite ready to end the call. The corner of his mouth twitched upward—a ghost of a grin. He stood, stretching muscles that suddenly felt loose, limber. Maybe this AI thing would crash and burn like everything else in his life lately. But maybe, just maybe, it was the assist he needed to bury the puck in the back of the net again.
A knock at the door startled him.
Right, food.
He padded over, opening it to find a delivery guy holding a bag that smelled like curry heaven.
The teen’s jaw dropped, nearly fumbling the order. “Holy shit, Gale Knight!” His voice cracked with excitement. “Bro, I saw you get a hat trick against the Hellions during my first ever game. I’ve been repping your jersey since I was ten. No matter what any hater says, I know you’re coming back stronger than ever.”
Gale gaped, caught off guard by the genuine enthusiasm. “Thanks, buddy,” he managed. “I’m working on it.”
“I don’t want to make it weird.” The delivery driver carefully handed the bag to Gale. “Would you mind... think I could grab a quick selfie?”
“Sure, no problem, kid.” Gale shifted closer to the doorway as the teen pulled out his phone with trembling hands. He snapped the photo, beaming.
“Thanks, man. Seriously.” Adjusting his cap, the driver backed toward his car, still grinning. “Good luck with everything.”
Gale nodded, managing a small smile before closing the door. But as he walked back to his living room and sank into the couch, a thought itched at the back of his mind. If this AI was as effective as Harriet claimed—if it could really crawl inside his brain and supercharge his game—what other dirty little secrets might it uncover? Was he ready to see himself—the raw, unfiltered Gale—laid bare in a sea of cold, hard data?
He caught a glimpse of himself in the darkened flat-screen across the room. The man looking back might as well be a stranger—one he wasn’t all that sure that he was ready to meet.
Chapter Three
I pace past the hissing sprinklers on the TrainTech lawn, breathing in the scent of damp grass. Cool droplets speckle my bare ankles as I make yet another round of the mostly empty parking lot. In the pale morning light, long shadows stretch across the sidewalk.
I glance at my watch for the hundredth time as electricity zips beneath my skin. Gale should be here any second. I deliberately scheduled him early, before the office gets underway for the day. The last thing I need to witness is my coworkers leaving puddles of drool on the carpet as they trip over themselves for a glimpse of hockey’s fallen golden boy.
We can’t look desperate. Sure, pro athletes aren’t exactly lining up to try our program, but I won’t let him think we need this more than he does.
I take a deep breath and smooth down my silk blouse—the aquamarine one I definitely didn’t spend forty-five minutes picking out this morning. Time to put on my game face. My reflection in the tinted office windows shows a composed professional. He’s just a client, I remind myself. A ridiculously hot client who I absolutely cannot think about in that way. Not about how he’s grown into those shoulders that used to be all awkward angles, or how his smile still gets crooked on one side when he’s truly happy, revealing those two infuriating dimples that always made my stomach flip. Nope. Not thinking about any of that.
