I’m standing in the bedroom of my presidential suite at The Four Seasons Hotel in Milan, and the imposter syndrome is hitting hard. My team decided that staying in a five-star hotel would give us a better experience of the city than staying in the Olympic Village. Hopefully, they’re right.
Either way, I’m here.
I was facetiming with Keisha this morning since I didn’t get to spend a lot of time there last night, and now I’m preparing to play hockey in Milan, Italy.
How is this my life?
I was a little girl hitting pucks in the streets of my mom’s neighborhood as a child, and now I’m at the Olympics.
Skye Callahan, captain of the women’s Olympic hockey team.
I shiver and look at myself in the mirror as I come to a quick realization.
I’m a stranger in a foreign country filled with other strangers. I have a famous face, but people wear disguises all the time. What are the chances I can put that mirror to good use and watch myself do things I’ve always wanted to do?
“Fuck that,” I hiss at my reflection.
There’s no way I’m ever putting myself in that position again. Not after I almost lost everything.
The bedroom sits just off the seating area and has a balcony that overlooks the garden.
This place is breathtaking. Though I suppose it should be for a five-star hotel in Milan, right?
I check my watch and see that it’s nine o’clock here in Italy. Doing quick math, I realize it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon back home, which is why I feel wide awake. I told the team not to sleep on the plane because we would need to try to rest a little when we landed. We got to Italy a day early to give ourselves a little wiggle room in case we struggled with jet lag or the time difference.
So far, I’m not tired. Problematic, but not the end of the world.
I leave the bedroom and head back into the seating area to look around. The furniture is cream-colored with dark throw pillows, adding a nice contrast to the dark wood flooring. It faces a giant wall-mounted television, and behind the couch is a sleek marble dining room table and eight red leather chairs surrounding it.
Too bad I don’t see myself inviting the team over to put those chairs to good use.
A full bar sits farther back with lights that glow under the shelves of bottles. If I had the motivation, I’d make myself a drink, but I’d rather explore the rest of the artistic hotel and pay the top-tier bartender to mix up a little something.
I walk through the kitchen space and into a giant marble bathroom. The walls, floor, and sinks are all marble. I feel like I’m on drugs, like everything is too bright to be real.
Pressing my hand to the wall to keep myself from swaying, I turn off the light and head back toward the seating area. I can’t help my curiosity about the garden escape I’ve heard so much about on the plane. Everyone who was staying at the Four Seasons Milan was describing the secret garden area. Or at least that’s what they called it. To me, it’s not a secret if you keep talking about it, but I’m just a hockey player, so what do I know?
Checking my watch again, I decide that I have time to check out the garden and still grab a drink at the bar. Get a taste of the cool air before I sip at an expensive mocktail. I can’t be irresponsible, but also, “When in Rome”, ya know? Or I guess, “When in Milan.”.
I’m tapping the hotel room key in my pocket to make sure it doesn’t magically disappear. The last thing I need is to tell the people at the counter I’ve managed to lock myself out of my room after only being here for an hour.
I walk down the hall and take the elevator to the lobby. The Zelo restaurant around the corner seems to command this entire floor. Signs and photos of food, drinks, and their famous bar are posted on every available wall. My nose is assaulted with the delicious smells of food I can’t wait to try.
So many carbs.
Hockey players consume way more calories than a normal person, but I don’t think I can justify a full meal this late in the evening. Maybe the bar will have appetizers. Do five-star hotel bars do that, or is that strictly for the little dive bars back home?
Maybe I’m way out of my league here. I wonder if the Olympic Village has this many options.
I find the doors that lead to the historic garden and look around as if I’ll be denied access.
I’m the team captain of the hockey team. I think I’m allowed to explore the hotel, right?
One way to find out.
Pushing the doors open, I step into the garden and immediately notice how quiet it is. Bare trees, trimmed hedges, stone paths. Like someone planned it almost too perfectly.
The fountains aren’t running full blast, only a trickle of water catching the subtle surrounding lights. February in Milan isn’t exactly garden weather, but there’s something about it. An immediate calm that allows my attention to land on every small detail in the garden.
