I tug my coat a little tighter as I let my mind wander in the serene atmosphere. Practice schedules, team meetings, travel, interviews, and press. It’s hard to shut off the chaos that’s trying to take over my zen.
Shaking away my captain status for a moment, I refocus on the garden. My gaze moves over the layout of the paths and the spacing of the shrubs, and I catch myself thinking like I’m on the ice. I look for patterns, anticipate movement, read the space, and surrounding fixtures.
You can put the player into a garden, but she’ll still think about hockey.
A faint floral smell drifts over from the greenhouse, and I get a little closer to peek inside. It’s too dark to see much, but it makes me miss spring. The smells of freshly cut grass and the chaos of yard sale posts on social media. Once we’re done in Italy, I’ll be ready for the warmer weather. You just can’t have the Winter Olympics without the winter part.
The city of Milan is muted beyond the walls of the garden. It’s peaceful in here, almost alarmingly so, but I let it settle around me. A few minutes like this, walking, thinking, noticing, it helps me rest. I’m still the captain, still responsible, still on alert, but for a moment, it’s just me moving through a space, keeping my focus sharp and my head clear.
I try to appreciate where I am standing at this very second and allow the pride to consume me. Inhaling the scents of Milan’s winter is the only thing grounding me, embedding this memory into my mind so I can remain humble.
I’m in Milan as a world-famous hockey player.
I’m in the Olympics.
The door opens to the garden, and a woman walks out, tall and fit, wearing a tight red dress.
“Sorry.” She startles when she sees me, like she’s surprised that someone else is out here. “I’m looking for my friend.”
Her accent is thick, and I can tell she’s local to the area, or at least the country.
Words fail me as I stand and look around the area. As if standing still and glancing around the garden for the hundredth time is in any way going to help find her friend.
I give her a small wave, and she heads back inside without another word.
I really should work on being more approachable. Maybe a good place to start is the hotel bar.
Approachability is not my strong suit.
As soon as the model wearing the red dress from the garden approaches the bar, I give her my best smile, only for her to wince and turn toward the guy who places a hand on her lower back.
Is she recoiling because of my smile or the man?
My internal monologue is always second-guessing me, which reminds me that being social is more work than it’s worth.
My thought train is derailed by the woman four seats down. Another reminder why I despise the public.
Not only is she being loud as she speeds through her tragic love story, but as my eyes linger on her, I can’t help feeling like I know her.
That’s crazy because you wouldn’t know anyone in Milan.
Something just seems familiar.
I toy with the straw in my mocktail as I get comfortable on the barstool. Part of me really wanted something a little stronger, but I couldn't do that after mentally scolding the team for getting wine drunk.
I dial into Drunk Woman's conversation with the bartender, already invested in the story. I have to know what happened after she found her cousin and her now ex-boyfriend together. Did she punch him? Kick him? Burn his clothes on the sidewalk?
That’s how most of my teammates would have handled a cheating bastard, especially if it was with their cousin. Who does that?
“And then he had the audacity to blame me. Saying I’m not home enough,” she continues, stirring the liquor-coated ice in her empty glass. “As if that’s reason enough to dip that low.”
Normally, when I see bartenders listening to a story being told by a customer, they’re nodding along with glazed eyes as if they’re mentally building their grocery list for when their shift ends. This bartender, however, seems fully enveloped by what he’s being told, and has only broken eye contact once when a cute blonde waitress asked for a drink refill for her table. He didn't even flirt with her, which, kudos to him, because I definitely would have.
“That is pretty low.” The bartender shakes his head with sympathy in his eyes.
She slides her glass toward the edge of the bar, and he begins filling it with vodka.
Straight vodka? Damn. This poor broad is going through it.
