The week commenced under a shroud of palpable hostility. My interactions with Scott were strictly minimal inside his house, creating a suffocating atmosphere. Keys in hand one morning, he snapped, “I don't need a babysitter.”
“Yes, you do. Your continued actions prove that necessity,”
I retorted. That friction made navigating the subsequent days of practices at
the arena increasingly challenging.
The morning sessions—which included scrimmages, drills, and
the players teaching me rugby—were all fundamentally modified to accommodate my
healing nose and fading black eyes. Ironically, the integration of the mental
health team—a major, and very expensive, organizational investment—coincided
with an immediate dip in performance; the players seemed to be making more
unforced errors and acting out under the added scrutiny. I made the executive
decision to end the turf practices early, granting the players two and a half
hours to shower, change, and have lunch.
The afternoons were then dedicated to mandatory, small-group
sessions. Players were organized in groups of two to three to meet with a team
of mental health providers, specifically including a psychiatrist, a therapist,
and a psychologist.
"I need to know exactly how the team is managing this
new tension," I stated out loud in the coaches’ office to no one in
particular as I reviewed the constantly changing schedule. The core mandate of
these afternoon sessions was to ensure the team learned their triggers and
understood how to apply professional communication in their words and actions.
While the players and coaches met with the specialists I had retained, I also
scheduled sessions with my own therapist. Everyone was utilizing the new team structure.
"Please feel free to share your notes with the main owners of the All
Blacks," I instructed my therapist, and he immediately complied.
On Friday morning, en route to the turf, the owners called
me to the clubhouse over the announcement system. "I'm going up to the
clubhouse for a meeting with the owners," I informed the Jasons. They
exchanged a grim look and simply nodded. I took the elevator.
When I walked in, the owners greeted me with professional
warmth. Charlie, the main owner, initiated the conversation.
"We were happy to see that you gave your therapist
permission to share his notes from the last few visits, though your
authorization was technically unnecessary as we have complete confidence in
you," Charlie stated. "We remain fully aware of your history with ADHD,
anxiety, depression, and sleep issues from when you first worked with us. We
not only accept this but understand it completely, as many of us are neurodivergent
ourselves. We know and appreciate your ability to remain calm in all
situations. We’ve seen you manage some of the toughest—and strangest—scenarios.
We all genuinely appreciate your transparency and willingness to be open with
us."
“I appreciate that understanding, Charlie,” I replied. “To
be honest, I was rather nervous coming up here for this unofficial official
meeting. However, I am a firm believer in open and honest communication. The
exact purpose of assembling this amazing team of mental health professionals is
to assess each player's capacity to redirect their reactions toward a more
positive and healthier mindset. Fans, sportscasters, and paparazzi won’t
tolerate poor sportsmanship or a well-known sports team retaining players who
chronically lack composure. I am hoping this process helps them, and helps you,
identify those who can effectively take correction and serve as reliable public
role models.”
“We understand,” Barb said. “This gives us clear new rules
and guidelines the players will need to follow moving forward. And yes, we
agree that the occasional joint or drink is acceptable, but excessive use of
either—in public or private—will definitely affect their performance in
practice and in matches.”
I nodded in agreement. Barb, Charlie, the other owners, and
I continued our discussion until we realized I had missed a substantial portion
of the morning practice.
“Sorry, guys,” I said, gathering my belongings. “We got
completely caught up, and I lost track of time. I better get down to the turf!”
I joined the players and coaches on the turf for the final
45 minutes of the morning session, choosing to observe their interactions
closely. I was anticipating the final, confidential reports from the mental
health team, which I intended to review privately in a hotel over the weekend
to ensure Scott couldn't see the sensitive findings concerning him and the
team.
As I leaned down to tie my shoe, the players stopped
mid-drill, the ball dropped, and every eye snapped toward the tunnel entrance.
Before I could even turn, a few chimed in, saying: “Oooooooh, Deppgrl!! Someone
has a secret admirer!”
I immediately turned to see Vic walking toward me, his arms
overflowing with well over three dozen flowers. I was so startled I dropped my
chapstick. The moment he located me, our eyes met, and we both broke into wide
smiles.
I ran toward him. As we embraced, he leaned in to kiss me,
and I kissed him back, momentarily forgetting my professional location and
Scott's immediate presence. When we finally pulled apart, I leaned against his
chest, wrapped tightly in his strong arms. His familiar, compelling scent—a mix
of clean soap, deep sandalwood, musk, and a trace of bonfire—enveloped me. His
kiss carried the warm, complex flavor of coffee layered with whiskey.
“Hola, mi amore,” he murmured in his sexy Spanish accent. “I
heard from Kay that you’ve run into a few hiccups already. I needed to ensure
that you’re truly okay.”
“Hey, Papi,” I replied softly. “Yeah, a few. Nothing I can’t
handle.”
“Can you spend the weekend with me?” he asked hopefully.
“Most of it,” I said honestly. “I have some comprehensive
mental evaluations on the coaches and players that I need to read and integrate
into their official files.”
“Sounds incredibly boring,” he said, flashing that sexy
smirk I loved so much.
“How did your boss and your wife react to this sudden
visit?” I asked, testing the waters.
“The boss is fine; he knows I’ll be back and will pay me
even though I am not physically there,” he said. “The wife? She knows exactly
where I am and hates that I’d rather spend time with you. How does your current
boyfriend feel about my arrival?”
“He doesn’t know anything about our history, Papa,” I said.
“Would you like to meet everyone?”
“If that includes him, then yes, I do, amore,” he said
before kissing me again. “These are for you.”
“Thank you, Papa,” I said. “They truly are beautiful!”
“They’ve got nothing on you, amore,” he whispered. “I’d love
to meet the guys you supposedly ditched me for.”
“Let’s head on over,” I said, taking his hand in mine. “The
scowling blond over there is Scott. He’s the head coach and my designated
‘boyfriend’ while I’m here. The two laughing hysterically are Jason Ryan and
Jason Holland—I call them the Jasons.”
As we walked over, I quickly identified the remaining
coaches and introduced them all. We then approached the players, who
immediately started clamoring over each other to meet Vic. The situation became
loud and disorderly very quickly. I blew the high-pitched whistle hanging from
my ID lanyard, and the players instantly stopped and covered their ears. They
knew that signal meant business.
“All of you are disappointing and embarrassing me right
now,” I stated. “Did you learn absolutely nothing from the professionals I
brought in to help you?”
The players began to talk over each other until they saw me
lift the whistle toward my lips again. Vic muttered, just loud enough for me to
hear, that there was something else he’d like to put to my lips. I shot him a
severe glance, and he responded with his stunning, unapologetic smile.
“I’ve been here a week, and I still don’t remember all your
names. What we’re going to do is have you guys line up in descending order from
practice jersey number… that means highest to lowest number,” I commanded. “I
know we’ve all had a few hits to the head this week—in my case, directly to the
nose. We’re going to demonstrate manners, shake hands, and make eye contact!”
I drew a few relieved chuckles.
“What kind of handshakes are we going to have?” I asked.
“Firm!” was the unanimous, shouted answer. “You hate dead
fish and limp handshakes. Limp handshakes from a man shows exactly how he is in
bed!”
“Exactly!” I grinned.
Vic looked at me, thoroughly amused, and I told him I would
explain the rule later. The players lined up and behaved themselves impeccably
while introducing themselves. Just as the last player finished, Charlie, the
main owner, walked down holding a massive folder—the confidential reports from
the mental health team. I knew a challenging weekend was ahead. Charlie and Vic
shook hands, then stepped aside after Charlie handed me the folder.
I used a call-and-response clap to regain attention and
informed the players that Chinese food was available up in the clubhouse,
provided they showered and changed first. As they started moving, I told them
they were welcome to head home for the weekend after lunch. They looked
genuinely surprised, as coaches typically handle dismissal. I reminded them,
"While I’m here, I outrank the coaches by a small margin, and if the
coaches have an issue with it, they can suck it."
A few minutes later, Charlie and Vic returned.
“Hey, Charlie,” I said. “Thanks for bringing this
information down; you didn’t have to. I appreciate the delivery.”
“Not a problem at all,” he said. “It was nice of you to
order them food and release them early for the weekend.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I used the company credit card,”
I said.
“How did you use it? It’s locked in the office,” he
countered.
“I memorized the information,” I said simply. “Also, I am
still included in the bank account access after all these years.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he remembered. "Look, I helped Vic
secure an upgraded room for you. I have someone there now installing a lock box
to securely store the information I just gave you. Barb also grabbed some of
your personal belongings from Scott’s place, so you won’t need to go back
there. Food, drinks, and everything else is already taken care of.”
“Thanks, Charlie,” I said, glancing toward Scott. “How’s he
taking this surprise visit?”
“Not well, but I explicitly told him to tone his anger down
as he’s still married, and if he fails to, you have the full authorization to
suspend him for as long as you choose… without pay,” he confirmed.
“Thanks, boss man. I genuinely appreciate that backing,” I
said.
Charlie smiled and left. I grabbed my belongings and led Vic
up to the clubhouse for lunch. The players and coaches were already calling Vic
“Uncle Vic,” recalling that I had previously told them to consider me their
aunt.
“¡Besame el culo gordo, pendejo!” I called out to them in
response, a big smile plastered on my face.
A few players responded with: “Si, Jefa (yes, boss)!” while
most of the team responded with: “Si, Ama (yes, mistress)!” Loud laughter
erupted afterward. I loved how something so simple—yet technically an insult,
though meant as a humorous truth—elicited such a lighthearted response.
We grabbed some food and ate with the players for a bit
before we headed to the hotel that Vic booked. When we arrived at the hotel, it
was far fancier than I expected. I knew that he wasn’t made of money and the
original room he booked would cost more for two nights than what he earned in a
month and a half – and he’s well paid. I don’t want to know how much it cost
Charlie and the rest of the owners to upgrade the room but I was thankful that
they stepped in. I unloaded my heavy bag, set up both of my phones to charge and
secured the folder that Charlie handed me inside of the lock box. The instructions
were easy to set up; it was a fingerprint and a key….the box wouldn’t open
without both but I added a six digit code as added security. I knew he wouldn’t
open the lock box but I wanted to stay
onboard with the All Blacks for as long as they needed me. As I turned
around, Vic was putting the flowers he bought me into the different vases and
spread the vases around the room. When he was done, he asked me what I wanted.
“You, sleep, food, shower, a nap, you, some peace and quiet
from the team and more food,” I said. “Not necessarily in that order.”
“How about we both take a shower and then nap,” he whispered
in that sexy Spanish accent. “When we wake up from our nap, we can decide what
to do afterwards.”
“What if I want to ride you, Papa?” I asked with a sly hint
of trouble in my blue green eyes.
He smiled that stunning smile that made me fall in love with
him eleven long years ago.
