Controlled Chaos: Sweat, Strategy, and Impact

I woke up two hours before my alarm went off. Light spilled through the blinds, pale and soft, but there was no chance of going back to sleep. I rolled out of bed carefully—my broken nose still throbbed significantly, and my muscles ached from yesterday’s long practice and the trip to New Zealand’s version of the ER. I dressed in the same clothes I’d worn after showering at Scott’s the night before. I brushed my teeth then slid my contacts into my eyes, blinking to adjust.

I grabbed Scott’s spare key from the kitchen cabinet from above the coffee maker and considered my morning run. I planned to run two miles but exhaling through my nose hurt too much as I ran. I slowed to a walk. Ninety minutes later, I returned to the house, drenched in sweat. I drank about thirty-two ounces of water, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat. A hot shower followed, loosening tight muscles, and I dressed in clothes similar to yesterday but without the padding; leggings, sports bra, socks, sneakers and a loose long sleeved shirt.

Breakfast was deliberate but big: Greek yogurt, scrambled eggs, oatmeal, bacon, and a tall glass of milk. While cleaning up, I brewed enough coffee to fill a 40-ounce tumbler, adding sugar and thin mint Chobani creamer. A second tumbler I filled with ice only, to keep at the ready. I grabbed my phone to text the Jasons.

Me: Hey, can either of you come pick me up? Scott’s still asleep, and I’m waiting on my NZ license. Forgot which one of you lives closer.
Jason Ryan: We’re both close.
Jason Holland: We’ll figure it out.

I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote my note to Scott: Heading to the arena. Meet me there when you decide to wake up, Sleeping Handsome.

With a few minutes left, I packed my tote bag. Both phones and chargers went in, along with my wallet, both passports, and a small packing cube for luggage containing shower shoes, a tiny travel case of toiletries (shampoo, conditioner, comb, toothbrush, toothpaste), and a change of clothes. I wasn't sure if I would need a shower or not but wanted to be prepared. Tote bag slung, tumblers in hand, and Scott’s spare key tucked in my wallet, I stepped outside.

Seconds later, the large neon orange SUV arrived. I laughed so hard. Jason Ryan was behind the wheel and Jason Holland in the front passenger seat. Holland jumped out and moved to the back.

“Front’s yours,” he said.

“Thanks.” I climbed in, placing the tumblers into the cup holders and my bag at my feet. Both Jasons laughed immediately.

Ryan smirked. “Your feet don’t even touch the floor.”
Holland leaned forward. “Seriously, do you need a booster seat?”

“At least I can still walk a two-mile run,” I said sarcastically. “Crap. I forgot my pain meds.”

Holland pulled out his keys. “Where’d you leave them?”

“In the kitchen cabinet with the water glasses.”

“I’ll grab tissues too, just in case your nose starts bleeding.”

"Thanks!" I half-joked, “I’m counting the pain meds when you get back.”

The smile vanished. “You don’t trust me?”

“Not the point,” I said quickly. “I don’t mind sharing over-the-counter meds. Prescription? I don’t mess with it. Even with coaches.”

He nodded. “Understood.”

Three minutes later, Holland returned with the meds and three boxes of tissues. I shoved the tissues into my tote bag and counted the pills—all there.

“Really?” Holland asked.

“Really. Just making it clear.”

Ryan chuckled. “Message received loud and clear.”

On the ten-minute drive to the arena, I told them, “I’m not just working with the players today. All coaches are included too but in the afternoon.”

Both stiffened.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

“I hired teams of psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists specializing in anger management. They had thirty-six hours to meet with each other and read the same reports I did—on all players and my detailed reports on each coach.”

“You’re serious?” Holland asked flatly.

“Completely.”

Ryan laughed nervously. “Shocking. Hurtful too.”

“I understand,” I said calmly. “Coaches are role models. Players will mimic your behavior—fighting with refs and with each other. They’ll take advantage if you act poorly and assume that what you’re doing is fine and they can do it as well.”

Both went quiet.

“You both have kids, right?” I asked.

“Two,” Ryan said.

“Two here as well,” Holland added. “Our four kids are all under seven years old.”

“How do you teach them to behave? Just words?”

“No, we use actions as well so they can see what we mean,” Ryan said.

“Exactly. Players are just older versions of your kids. They need examples of words and actions both on and off the field.”

Holland sighed. “When you put it that way…”

Ryan nodded. “Makes sense.”

At the arena, Ryan parked. Holland jumped out, opened my door, and offered a hand.

“Careful.” He grabbed the tumblers after I got out; Ryan took my bag. I retrieved them all from them

“Independent,” Ryan said with a grin. I smiled back.

By  security, Susan, lead HR, handed me an ID badge. “This will get you in and out without signing in each time. I scanned the photo from your NZ passport for the picture.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“If you ever need peace and quiet, come to my office. I’ll reserve a boardroom and get food sent in.”

“Thanks, Susan,” I said sincerely.

She left. The Jasons introduced me to the security team.

“I don’t always look like this,” I said.

They laughed. “We believe you.”

We headed to the field.

I finally took a sip of coffee as I stretched with the players, modifying movements to avoid stressing my nose. The stretch felt good, loosening muscles that hadn’t fully recovered from yesterday.

“Huddle up,” I called.

No groans. Players circled around me, careful of my face and I.

“I know yesterday's elbow to my nose was an accident,” I said. “Accidents happen, and you move on. You learn from mistakes, knowing it was unintentional, and try not to repeat it. However, I will not tolerate intentional elbows to faces or any other part of a player in practices or matches. If it happens in practice, you will not play for half the next game. If it happens a second time, don’t bother getting dressed—you’ll be sitting in the stands rooting for your teammates. In a match, I will pull you for half the game, and if it happens a second time, you’ll be fined and then sent home at your own expense.”

Murmurs of understanding rippled through the players.

“You never know who’s watching—fans, local news, paparazzi. Your reputation matters,” I added.

After a pause, I dropped the heavier news. “After practice of drills and plays, you’ll shower and enjoy catered lunch – which I’m providing and paying for - you’ll meet with psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists specializing in anger management.”

Grumbling began.

“We’re not crazy,” one muttered.

“I hear you,” I said. “I can’t officially diagnose anyone—I’m not licensed to practice in New Zealand—but I hired specialists to help you identify triggers and work through all emotions, not just anger.”

“Even the coaches?” one asked.

“Yes, all coaches will work with their individual team too,” I added. “They need to work on their own shit as well."

A long pause. “Makes sense,” one said quietly.

Another added, “If they’re doing it too… fair’s fair.”

“Exactly. This isn’t punishment—it’s about making you stronger on and off the field.”

We moved into practice drills. Players demonstrated positions and techniques, explaining plays as they went. I participated with modified drills—no full contact—so I could fully understand each play.

“Like this,” one player said, demonstrating a scrum. “Push together, communicate, stay low.”

I mimicked carefully. “Coordination, not force.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Keep your head up and watch the ball.”

“Got it,” I said. “How about lineouts?”

They laughed and demonstrated in pairs. “See how timing matters,” one explained. “If you jump too early or too late, the other team steals it.”

I called a water and snack break two hours in. Interns brought cut fruit that the nutrition team worked on while we were practicing.

“You know,” I said, handing out fruit, “many of you are away from your families. Think of me as your surrogate aunt who loves you.”

They laughed.

I dropped strawberries into my tumbler—ice and water now from the melted ice. They stared.

The team doctors and nutritionists approached. “Adding fruit gives flavor and some nutrients without manufactured powders,” one explained. "Those powders have too many chemicals and we want you to be at your peak. While Deppgrl is hear, she'll have us meet with you guys a few times a week to help you guys out."

“What fruits do you like?” they asked me.

“Strawberries, blackberries, raspberries,” I said.

A few players teased, “Kiwi?” referencing my sexual relationship Scott. I laughed. The doctors and nutritionists looked uncomfortable.

“You can also add fruit to hot or cold teas,” I said. “Guava can replace sweeteners, but just a little; too much will ruin the drink.”

I finally sat and finished my coffee. Players sprinted to the bathroom, returned, re-stretched, and practiced for several more hours with me doing modified drills, calling out plays and walking me through scenarios.

Later, the Jasons called the end of this part of practice. Players showered and headed to the clubhouse for soup, sandwiches, soul food, and salad for lunch.

I turned to the coaches. “Dig in.”

After everyone had three plates each, I grabbed food and sat in a corner. I ate a bit, then took my pain meds from my tote bag. I knew taking both would make me foggy and tired, but the pain needed to be managed.

Players kept going back for more. “There’s plenty of food,” I texted Susan. “Call all departments—HR, IT, everyone—down so they can eat too.”

As players cleared tables from their plates and utensils, I handed half the group cleaning supplies. “Work as a team. Respect the space and others around you.”

No complaints. Minutes later, tables and the benches were spotless. I returned the supplies to custodial staff.

I asked the Jasons to split players into mixed groups – putting players together that normally don’t get along. Psychologists, psychiatrists, and therapists took the groups.

Heading to the coach’s main office, Scott intercepted me.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he demanded, livid.

“It’s not my job,” I said. “You’re a grown adult – you’re more than capable to handle yourself. There’s a psychiatrist, psychologist, and therapist in your private office.”

“Why?”

“All players and coaches are working with a team. What I see now shows you need it too. I’ve got the most experienced ones for you.”

I turned down a hallway to HR as I turned to say “Refuse, and I’ll know. Susan and the owners gave me authority to suspend you without pay until you participate.”

He stormed into his office as I continued to HR.

Susan met me at HR doorway and led me to a boardroom she’d prepared with a futon. “Here you go,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, taking out my contacts. She left. I locked the door, climbed onto the futon, set my alarm, and immediately fell asleep.

Ninety minutes later, I woke, went around to the bathroom around the corner to brush my teeth and I put my contacts back in, returned, cleaned up and gathered my stuff. On my way out, I texted Susan “Thanks!” and met the team and coaches in the clubhouse.

“Are the players ready to go home?” Holland asked.

“Yes, they can,” I said. “I expect them same time tomorrow morning, and I don’t know what I have planned for tomorrow afternoon.”

The Jasons and the other coaches sent the players home as Scott returned. He looked ragged, mad from being forced to meet with the specialists, though he knew it was necessary. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m too mad at you to even go back to my place,” he muttered.

“I don’t give a shit,” I said. “No coach or player is authorized to stay at the arena, especially without my OK. You can either sleep in your bed or on your deck, but you’re not allowed to stay here.”

The Jasons came over, asking if I needed a ride home. “Yes,” I said, and they happily drove me back. As I got out of the SUV at Scott’s house, they made sure I had a few to-go boxes of catered lunch saved just for me—mac and cheese, buttered green beans, and chicken and dumplings. I hugged them both tightly.

Once inside Scott’s house, I put the food away, showered, and came downstairs in just a T-shirt that barely covered what needed to be covered. The food was still mostly hot, so I didn’t bother reheating it. I ate directly from the to-go containers, drank more water, and put the tumblers in the dishwasher. I left a note for Scott, letting him know I was sleeping in the guest bedroom again and that he was fending for himself for dinner.

I went upstairs, took out my contacts, set my alarm, and went to bed. Hours later, I heard the door squeak open and then squeak closed. I immediately fell asleep, remaining in deep sleep until my alarm woke me up the next day.