As you have requested, E.M.M.A. responds in an upper-class British accent.
“I love watching BBC costume dramas,” I admit. “So this option is my favorite.”
“Ah,thoseballroom shows,” he mutters in a knowing tone. “Tuck—that’s our goalie—is down some deep-ass rabbit hole with Jane Austen. Bro won’t shut up about the Regency if you catch him in the right mood.”
“Wow—you know the term Regency?” I tease. “Color me impressed.”
“Look—it’s all credit due to T. Sometimes I like to wind him up on the subject and watch him pop off about how those old bookswere secretly calling out stuff like rich people being snobs and women getting the short end of the stick.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Isn’t that an odd passion project for a goalie?”
“Nah, it fits the stereotype. Goalies and their special interests.” Gale shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s like they’re playing their own game out there, all alone in the net. Must do something to their brain.”
“Or maybe it’s the quirky ones who are drawn to being goalies,” I suggest.
Gale nods. “Chicken or the egg, right? Anyway, I’m cool with this Duchess version. Let’s pull the trigger and send it.”
“Take a seat,” I say with a gesture. “Strap on those wrist cuffs—they’re wireless monitors that will report back to E.M.M.A.”
“How will it know how I’m feeling?”
E.M.M.A. chimes in with its posh British voice,My dear, I implore you to trust in my ingenious design.
“Dang.” His pupils dilate like ink spilled on damp paper. “I’m not sure if I should be impressed or creeped out.”
“Are you kidding? Definitely the former,” I shoot back. “Please continue, E.M.M.A.”
Rest assured, as you embark upon this journey, I shall stand as your steadfast ally, keenly attuned to the subtlest shifts in your spirits. Might I inquire, are you prepared to begin?
I get Gale situated and the session progresses, with E.M.M.A. asking Gale about his pregame routines and his relationship with his teammates. The conversation flows cautiously but seminaturally until E.M.M.A. asks:I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence, sir, but I cannot help but wonder about your paternal relation. Might we speak of your father?
The temperature of the room seems to drop twenty degrees. “What?”
Crap. I worry my lip between my teeth. I didn’t expect E.M.M.A. to dredge up Jim Knight. Their father’s story isn’t exactly a secret: NHL superstar turned cautionary tale, who ditched his family for the party lifestyle before a drunk driving accident left him with permanent brain damage and killed two people. But it’s still not something either Brooke or Gale ever talk about.
E.M.M.A. continues:Your playing style shows remarkable parallels to his historical footage, as does your physical composition. Losing such an influential figure during those developmental years must have shaped not just your technique, but your entire emotional approach to the game. Do you ever feel his presence when you’re on the ice?
My whole body tenses. Even with all her sophisticated language parsing, E.M.M.A. hasn’t mastered the art of delicacy.
“No.” Gale erupts from his seat like a volcano, ripping off the wrist cuffs. “This is messed up.” His frown deepens the faint lines around his eyes. “That’s it. I’m done, calling it right now.”
“Yikes, yeah, okay, that was unexpected,” I blurt out, hands rising to soothe him like he’s a spooked horse. “But as you know, we’re just starting beta testing and have to work out the kinks—”
“Nah, I’m good.” Gale gives me a wide berth as he goes around the other side of the table. “I’ve been off my game, and I gotta find my way through. But not like this. I don’t want to be some lab rat, and I’m not going to talk abouthim.”
His fingers close around the doorknob as I order, “Stop.”
There’s enough authority in my tone that he freezes, but doesn’t turn around. “What?”
I walk up to stand beside him. “If you bulldoze out of here, people are going to notice, and then the whole office is going to talk. I don’t want that. My guess is you don’t either.”
“No, not really.” His voice is level, but for a flash, I saw right through the tough guy act to the vulnerable kid underneath—the same one who tried so hard to play it cool duringThe Cabin in the Woodsone Halloween years ago. Back then, I could practically feel the panic radiating off him as he white-knuckled the armrest, determined not to let his sister or our friends see how terrified he was as college students got systematically dismembered on-screen.
Back then, he’d been easy to figure out. These days... well, somewhere along the way that teenage kid transformed into a twenty-something man, and I’d lost my ability to read him so clearly. Maybe it had to do with how I’d suddenly noticed him that summer after his twentieth birthday—caught myself watching his T-shirt stretch across his shoulders at Brooke’s barbecues doing something as simple as reaching for a beer, or how he’d show up early to her backyard just to help set up without being asked. Hard to stay objective when you’re trying so hard not to stare, harder still to remember all the reasons you shouldn’t.
“Then slooooow down. If you really can’t do this, I need you to go out and take a hard left, it will go toward a side exit. I’ll walk beside you. If anyone asks, you got called away for something. No one will question you.”
There’s a long pause before he responds. “Fine.”
