E.M.M.A. isn’t just a job—it’s my life. Days blur into nights, code etched behind my eyelids when I finally pop a melatonin to sleep. My neglected houseplants and betta fish have probably started a support group by now.
But it’s not all about me hunched over a keyboard. When I’m not whispering sweet algorithms to my computer, I’m out there captaining the E.M.M.A. evangelism squad. I’ve had to learn the art of the pitch, talking to everyone from skeptical staff to potential investors, explaining how this could revolutionize sports training while my introverted brain screams for the safety of my code.
With each presentation, I’ve learned to stand as tall as my five feet allow, my voice disguising any telltale tremor. The confidence still occasionally feels like an outfit I’m borrowing, but at least it’s better tailored now. During grad school, I’d carefully calibrated myself in every lab meeting and conference—speaking softly, peppering my statements with “maybe” and “just,” trying to take up less space in a field where being one of only a few women often felt like having a spotlight and a target on my back.
My years with Zach were a masterclass in what I didn’t want, even if it took too long to admit it. Sometimes I still can’t believe Mr. Business Strategy actually bullet-pointed his way out of our relationship. But I’ll give him this—that stupid SWOT analysis finally made me confront the truth I’d been avoiding: I wasn’t staying for love but for the sunk costs, for the fear of admitting I’d wasted prime dating years on a bad bet.
Worse, looking back, I see how I made myself smaller in the lab and smaller with him, like being ambitious was something to apologize for. Now, my latest research is breaking new ground, and for the first time, I’m not trying to soften its impact or make anyone else comfortable with my success.
Of course, all that hard-won confidence chooses today to packits bags and desert me. My traitor hands tremble as I retie my low ponytail. I’m hoping the effect is cute—not like I’m training to use a musket in the Revolutionary War. I shouldn’t care what Gale Knight thinks of me. No, that’s not quite right... I don’t care. Okay, fine, Ican’tcare.
Thisfascination—for lack of a better word—ignited five years ago. Gale had just turned twenty, and the Regals had drafted him. Brooke was over the moon, insisting I attend the game. I agreed partly out of loyalty, partly out of curiosity to see the awkward boy who’d always lingered on the edges of our hangouts come good.
Hockey had always been white noise in the Knight house—I practically lived there in high school, watching Gale lug equipment bags to the curb, waiting for whichever teammate’s parent had volunteered to give him a ride that week while their mom worked doubles. Even then, hockey wasn’t just a sport for him—it was oxygen, lifeblood, religion. Once Brooke and I snuck out at midnight, giggling and buzzed on stolen wine coolers, only to find him in the driveway, practicing slap shots with a battered tennis ball, the rhythmic thwack-thwack echoing off the garage door. And always there... his father’s NHL legacy weighing on him as he grew, through championships, scholarships, scouts watching his every move.
But that day in the arena, something changed. The tidal wave of navy and white Regals jerseys crashed over me differently. Suddenly, I wasn’t immune anymore. Silly foam crowns bobbed everywhere like buoys in a sea of devotion. The Puck King mascot did exaggerated pelvic thrusts across the freshly Zambonied ice, and I found myself swept up in the collective frenzy, my heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with hockey.
As we left the arena, my ears still rang from the crowd roaring the chorus to “That’s Right (You’re Not from Texas)” after every goal the Regals scored. But what really echoed in my mind was that moment when the players skated out for the national anthem and there he was—number seven. The determined set of his jaw, the intense focus in his gaze... this wasn’t the goofy kid brother I remembered. He commanded attention, his presence electric. He commanded the rink, his presence magnetic, unavoidable. When his linemate leaned over to murmur something, I caught the transformation on the Jumbotron—his game face cracking into that lopsided smile I’d seen a thousand times across dining tables, but now charged with something new, a flash of earned confidence that sucker punched the air from my lungs. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.
It wasn’t that I’d never noticed him before. I have human eyes. There had been moments since he turned eighteen—doing pull-ups in the garage doorway, or the way his booming laugh would fill up a room. But I’d always pushed those thoughts away, filed them under “Stop It” and “Gross, Best Friend’s Little Brother.” Now, though, watching him command the ice, those old feelings crashed through my carefully constructed walls.
By the end of the night, I’d lost most of my mind, except for one small corner of truth. Gale wasn’t just playing a game; he owned the ice, and everyone there knew it. Including me.
Beside me, Brooke had chatted excitedly about his performance. I nodded along, making the right noises at the right times, but my brain was a jumbled mess. Some things were better left unsaid, tucked away in the corners of my mind where they couldn’t complicate friendships or cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
My phone pings with my daily horoscope. I don’t really believe orbiting balls of gas and dust dictate my life, but with the insane work pressure lately and being fairly freshly single, I guess I’m grasping at any cosmic phone-a-friend that I can get.
I pause in checking the update when I hear the rumble of an approaching truck. My gaze flicks to the entrance of the parking lot as the black Ford F-150 turns in. So he’s still driving the Beast.I put my phone back in my purse as he pulls into an open space and bounds out.
No gray sweatpants today—it’s somehow even worse. He’s wearing faded denim that hugs his athletic frame just right, and a white button-up rolled over his muscular forearms. I swallow, hard, trying to ignore the way my heart flutters like a bird in a box when his deep-set eyes lock on mine.
It’s just a physiological reaction, nothing to overthink.
“Hey, so good to see you.” I start to give a wave but change my mind and go in for a handshake. The brief contact sends an electric spark through my arm, his large, calloused hand engulfing mine. Just another physiological reaction. Sure. They happen.
“Whoa, Smythe, fancy moves you got there.” His voice is warm and teasing. The hint of a boyish grin plays at the corners of his wide mouth, softening that knife-edge jawline.
“Aw, thanks, you know me! More where that came from.” My smile is so frozen that my mouth could get stuck, nevertheless I push on. “Welcome to TrainTech.”
He glances at the beige building. The morning sun catches in his tousled dark hair as he pushes a wavy lock off his forehead.
“This is where you make robots do your bidding, Dr. Evil?” he asks with his intense focus now entirely centered on me. There’s always been something about the way he looks when we talk about my work—like I’m some kind of genius, not just his sister’s nerdy friend who happens to be good with computers.
I gesture toward the front entrance with what I hope passes for casual professionalism. “Someone has to keep the machines in line before they stage an uprising.” His laugh—low and genuine—sends heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks, but I bulldoze forward, launching into TrainTech’s mission as we push through the glass doors.
The further I dive into our latest breakthroughs in machine-learning algorithms and coaching support, the more his expression transforms. Polite interest gives way to genuine curiosity, his eyebrows lifting slightly as I explain how the E.M.M.A. can identify athletes’ biomechanical patterns. Thank God for my brain—the one part of me that can be counted on to perform under pressure when the rest of my body stages a mutiny. The familiar territory of data models and optimization metrics slowly steadies my pulse, even as I become traitorously aware of the cedar and bergamot notes of his cologne each time he leans closer to hear me over the lobby’s ambient chatter.
As we enter the building, my shoulders relax slightly, tension I was holding melting away. Thank god—no Chads in sight, my nickname for the dude-bro pack who spend their days chugging protein shakes between meetings, debating crypto strategies, and calling themselves “thought leaders” on LinkedIn. The familiar hum of computers and the occasional tapping of keyboards fills the air, a comforting backdrop to our tour.
As we approach my team’s area, I feel a surge of pride. “Hey, everyone, this is Gale, our first beta tester,” I announce. “And Gale, this is where the magic happens.” In my little kingdom, the walls are festooned with whiteboards scrawled with equations and flowcharts.
I gesture toward a corner where a large man with thick curly hair glances from his screen. “This is Amir Kahn, our data scientist,” I begin. “The superstar who sifts through massive amounts of data trying to find patterns and hidden gems of information. He’s the mastermind behind making E.M.M.A. smarter.”
Amir toasts him with his Marvel-logo coffee mug.
“Over here,” I continue, leading Gale to a standing desk cluttered with fidget gadgets, soda cans, and multiple monitors, “is Karl Becker, our full-stack developer.” Karl swivels in his chair, his thick-rimmed glasses slightly askew. “He makes E.M.M.A.work in the real world—the go-to guy for getting different programs talking to each other, ensuring E.M.M.A. can play nice with other software.”
Karl gives a slight bow from his seat.
