10. Sammy

Sammy

Finn is waiting for me in the parking lot when I pull in. The sun has just started coming up over the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink. When I step out of the car, I slide on my shades.

“A train,” I say, reading the sign in the parking lot, which advertises tracks to the top, with breath-taking views. My stomach is already starting to tighten when I see a kid no older than ten skip happily past me, and I feel ridiculous.

Finn stands next to the sign in a fitted blazer and pencil skirt, looking every bit the professional coach she is. Something about her always makes me feel huge and clumsy in comparison.

And something about her here, with the backdrop of the Vermont sunrise, is spectacular. The way the light catches her hair, the rising sun just behind her chest, silhouetting her body. She looks ethereal.

“Yes,” she says, fixing those intense blue eyes on me. “A train that has tracks on the side of a mountain. Very high up.”

“You think I'm afraid of heights?”

“It sure seemed like it.”

I glance up at the mountain looming above us, trying to keep my breathing steady as my chest tightens. The tracks disappear into the distance, winding their way up the steep slope. My stomach tightens.

“Maybe,” I admit, looking back at her. No point in lying—she clearly sees right through me anyway. And I told her I was going to take this seriously. “But that's it? A train ride?”

Based on the skydiving, I thought I might be fighting a bear, or bungee jumping.

Because I’m terrified of heights, and because I spent half the night re-Googling Finn and the other half trying to figure out what she might be planning today. I know that some of her previous clients have done bungee jumping. I also know that bungee jumping is way more dangerous than other thrill-seeking activities.

Maybe I should be grateful for the train.

“Let's board, then we can chat more,” she says, all business. We walk together toward the station, where tourists mill around clutching coffee cups and chattering excitedly. My palms are already starting to sweat.

Finn stops at the cafe counter, and before she can reach for her phone, I step in front of her and tap my card on the reader. She turns, looking ready to argue, but I speak before she can.

“Least I can do,” I say, watching a light pink blush spread over her cheeks. “Consider it a down payment.”

Something flickers across her face—the shadow of a smile?—before she turns quickly back to the counter. It gives me a weird little thrill, catching her off-guard like that.

The attendants guide us into a train car to our seats up front. Plush, comfortable—clearly first class. Finn strides through the aisle like she belongs here, and I get the feeling she hasn’t flown coach in quite a long time. I know Grey made it clear that the Vipers would pay for any expenses associated with her coaching.

“Welcome aboard,” an attendant says, his eyes lingering a bit too long on Finn as he looks her up and down. He has shoulder-length honey-blond hair, and I almost scoff. He’s not her type.

When she smiles at him, my jaw clenches automatically. It’s ridiculous—she's my coach. A business partner. Not anything else. But then she leans into his attention, and something hot and uncomfortable twists in my stomach.

“Well, thank you,” she practically purrs, and I have to look away, focus on taking deep breaths. Slowly, I unfurl each of my fingers, from my palms, forcing myself to relax.

We sink down into the seats, and Finn lets out a little sound that sticks in my brain. I shift, adjusting my position in the chair.

What the hell is wrong with me today?

Of course, I’m not immune to noticing beautiful women, but it never fills my brain like this. I wonder if it’s stress.

When the attendant sets down mimosas, I reach for mine, sighing in relief. A little alcohol might help to smooth out the edges, make me feel less insane when I look at her.

But Finn suddenly springs into action, grabbing mine away, her fingers wrapping elegantly under the swell of the glass as she sets it next to hers. I stare at the liquid as it sloshes, mind still processing that she’s taken it from me.

“I'm sorry,” she says to the server, who also looks confused. Finn leans forward, tucking her hair behind her ear in a way that makes the attendant's eyes go follow the motion. “He doesn't drink. Any chance you can get us some freshly squeezed orange juice?”

“I don't drink?” I ask once he's gone, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Not anymore,” she says matter-of-factly, crossing her legs and taking a delicate sip of her own mimosa. Her smile is amused, mischievous. “I've done all the research on this—there is no amount of alcohol that's safe for an athlete. It degrades your body. It's one step forward, two steps back.”

She's already planning out my whole life, and the crazy thing is…I'm letting her. I want her to. My interest in the mimosa is already gone, replaced with a renewed focus on what we’re doing here. Anxiety rolls through me, and I look out the window to hide my expression.

But looking out the window just reminds me that in a few moments, we’re going to be inch-worming up the side of the mountain, rising into the air, higher and higher…

So I look back to her, saying, “So, no alcohol. What else?”

I’ve been going along with all the testing, getting poked and prodded and evaluated in my free time. When Penny sent over waivers to sign, I saw several comprehensive documents outlining my shortcomings and how to improve them, but it was so convoluted that I decided it was better to wait until I met with Finn.

“We're keeping your trainer and nutritionist, as they've agreed to modify your plans according to our suggestions. My resilience trainer will be doing Zoom sessions with you once a week, and the endocrinologist is going to keep testing your hormones to make sure they’re where we want them. Beyond the physical things—which are important, don’t get me wrong—are the most important elements.”

She pulls out a leather journal and sets it between us on the table. The train sits at a slight incline, so it slides a bit toward me. When I reach out, putting my hand on it, the leather is buttery smooth under my fingers. I eye the book, then raise an eyebrow at her.

“A...book?”

“A journal,” she corrects, launching into an explanation. “It’s important for processing, as well as tracking your progress. Of course, we’ll be using metrics to quantify the progress, but this is a more intuitive way for you to look back and see exactly what’s changing with you. How you approach your daily life, practice, games—it’s all going to shift. Not only will the journal help you see that change, but it’s also essential for working through your emotional blockages.”

“Emotional blockages,” I repeat flatly, meeting her eyes. She rolls hers in response.

I don’t have any emotional blockages. What I have is a lack of skill—some major deficit in ability that I don’t know how to make up for. Clearly, all the extra practice isn’t working.

“It sounds ridiculous. Hippy-dippy, sure,” Finn says, her eyes skipping down to her drink. “But it works. Think of Brett Ratcliff.”

“He doesn't journal, I can tell you that.”

I know for a fact Brett's idea of processing emotions is hitting people on the ice. Taking all that frustration and dropping his shoulder into it.

“Sure, but he had some emotional baggage, right? If I remember correctly, there was a brawl with his family. A quick marriage and baby situation? And before that, he had the whole broken legs thing. Then his performance was okay, then there was this moment that everything clicked into place. I’d be willing to bet anything that he broke through an emotional blockage to get to that point. Whether he acknowledged it or not.”

I chew on my lip, thinking about that. While it was happening, Brett was pretty hush-hush, but now that it’s over, he’s told me the whole story. Marrying a girl to help her get her inheritance so she could take care of her little sister, adopting that baby. All because he was in love with her. Maybe that helped him work through something with his family. Maybe it helped him grow up.

“Good morning, everyone!” The conductor's voice crackles through the speakers, way too cheerful for this early. “Welcome aboard the Mount Mansfield Scenic Railway. We'll be climbing to an elevation of 4,393 feet today, which will take approximately forty minutes. On our journey, you'll experience some of the most spectacular views in New England—”

My hands tighten on the armrests. 4,393 feet.

“—and if you look to your left about fifteen minutes in, you might catch sight of some local wildlife, including white-tailed deer and black bears—”

“Focus on me,” Finn says quietly, noticing my tension. “Not the numbers.”

“—in the event of an emergency, remain calm and follow crew instructions. All exits are clearly marked—”

“They have to say that,” Finn adds, crossing her legs and taking another sip of her mimosa. She’s the picture of unbothered. I wonder if there’s anything that truly scares her, or if she just analyzes and dissects every situation before it can. “Standard procedure.”

“Right,” I manage, trying to match her relaxed posture. “Standard procedure.”

“And now,” the conductor concludes, “sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride to the top of Vermont!”

The train lurches forward, and I grip the armrests tighter, my knuckles going white. Finn notices—of course she does—but doesn't comment.

Instead, she leans forward and taps her fingers on the journal, returning to our conversation. “So, write in this. Penny has already sent you some prompts, or you can do the tried-and-true writing what I did today method. Try stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes it takes a little time to ease into the practice, especially for men.

“You might hear a voice in your head telling you that it’s not manly to write in a journal, but I’m telling you right now that almost every athlete I’ve ever worked with has benefited from this. So, just put the pen to paper and do it until it starts to feel natural. I won’t read it, but I’ll check to make sure there’s something in there.”

“You’re like an English teacher,” I say, laughing through my fear as the train chugs slowly up. Finn rises, not even wobbly on her feet, and opens the window a crack, letting in a cool stream of fresh mountain air. Just outside the window, we can hear the tinkling of water running alongside the tracks. Finn sinks back down into her chair and sighs. The deep mahogany wood behind her shines in the early morning light, and I glance around the cabin for the first time since we walked in.

It’s definitely a first-class experience, like I originally thought. Plush leather seating, antique wood panels, and a little button on my chair I discover activates a heated massage element. I switch it on, and we ride in silence for a few minutes.

I’m just starting to relax in my seat, eyes shut, when she speaks again.

“The view is incredible,” Finn says softly. “You’re missing it.”

“Oh,” I laugh, fingers shaking as I grip the armrest, “I’m good.”

The strangest thing about this experience is that if anyone asked, I never would have said I was afraid of heights. But as the train continues to chug along and my ears pop, and I think about my car down below, getting smaller and smaller, I feel sick.

I realize that through the years, I’ve just casually avoided anything with heights, rather than acknowledging something was wrong. Too busy to go to the amusement park. Tired and grouchy, not wanting to hike in the foothills. Taking sleep meds and conking out on every flight to an away game so I could “arrive ready.”

“You know,” Finn says, her voice quiet, “The whole point of the exercise is to face your fear, Sammy. Small steps.”

The whole point of the exercise is to face my fear.

But I don’t want to.

Once again, I can’t help wondering what the hell being on this train, and feeling this sick about the height, has to do with getting better at hockey. Seems like a needless exercise in feeling like shit, rather than doing something that will actually help me improve.

What I need is more practice. Someone to critique my form. Maybe even focus on nutrition and hormones, and whatever else they’ve been looking for when they’ve testing my blood and hair.

Finn is looking right at me when I open my eyes, and it’s like all those thoughts flicker in and out of my head in an instant.

I want to see if she really can do what she says. If she can make me into something great. And I need to trust her, to go along with what she says, to know that I’ve given this thing an honest shot.

But more than anything, I don’t want her to leave. I don’t want her to get on a flight and fly back to California. The realization washes over me—as little as I know about her, I like her, and I want her to stay.

“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat and pushing to my feet. Finn’s eyes widen as I move to the window, forcing myself to look out. “Small steps.”