Page 25 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“This is where you’ll probably spend most of your time,” Marlow says. The space is massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the practice fields. The vibe is luxe but functional. There’s a lounge area with plush seating, a café stocked with every imaginable protein bar and smoothie, and a media room outfitted with big screens for game reviews.
Marlow points out the locker room. “State of the art. And smell-proofed, thank God.”
I grin.
Then the gym—no basic treadmill situation here. We’re talking Olympic lifting platforms, cryo chambers, hyperbaric pods. It’s the type of place I would imagine athletes actuallywantto be.
Hell, I can barely lift a five pound weight but I’d love to spend some time here.
Finally, she stops in front of a wide glass door near the gym. “And this,” she says, swiping her badge, “is your office.”
I step inside and my jaw practically hits the floor.
It’s huge. Way bigger than I expected. Damn near bigger than my first New York City apartment. One entire wall is glass, offering a view of the gym and practice fields. A plush sectional sits in one corner, with a sleek desk positioned front and center—modern, clean lines, high-end everything. Built-in bookshelves, a stocked mini-fridge, even a coffee station.
“Wow,” I breathe, running my hand over the polished wood desk. “This is... incredible.”
Marlow beams. “Told you we take care of our people.”
She’s not kidding. I’m officially blown away.
“Take your time getting settled in. Today is your official first day but since the team is gone for an away match, things will be quiet so you can take your time getting up to speed with everything.”
I nod. “Got it. Thanks.”
“Your laptop’s been loaded with the latest HIPAA-compliant therapy software, and the team’s files are already pre-loaded,” Marlow says as she gestures toward my sleek new setup. “I went ahead and added photos of each player to their profiles, along with some notes on a few... let’s call thembehavioral challengeswe’ve been dealing with. Your job is to figure out why they are the way they are—and help channel that energy back into their game.”
I frown. “Funny. Xavier Darcy made it sound like my job was just to get them to stop screwing around and win more games.”
She laughs, light and knowing. “Spoken like a true man. Please—take your cues from me.”
I nod. “Will do.”
Before I can brace myself, she pulls me into a hug.Oh! Ok.
“Welcome to the Atlanta Strikers. I really hope you love it here!” she says, and her warmth actually feels genuine.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t.”
She starts to head out, but pauses in the doorway. “I mean, I’ll know you’re doing a good job by how well my boys perform on the field.”
“With the world watching,” I mutter under my breath, dread curling in my stomach.
“No pressure, though!” she calls cheerfully over her shoulder, then disappears down the hall.
I settle into the plush leather chair and pull up to the chic, modern desk. The oversized computer monitor flickers to life, prompting me to scan my fingerprints.
“Fancy,” I murmur to no one, pressing my thumb to the reader.
Once I’m logged in, everything is exactly as Marlow promised—files, software, player profiles, all cleanly organized. My curiosity wins out and I click straight into the team files.
The first profile that pops up: Caleb Martinez, right wing. The notes describe him as fiercely competitive—so much so he’s prone to explosive outbursts during practice and matches.
Multiple incidents of yelling at teammates, berating refs, and, on more than one occasion, punching lockers hard enough to break skin. Emotional regulation:major work needed.
Next: Matteo Santos, striker. On paper, he’s a star—lightning fast, instinctual, technically gifted. Off the field? Shy to the point of isolation. Doesn’t bond with the team, refuses to engage in group activities, avoids eye contact in team meetings. Trust and confidence issues flagged.
