hockey clinics. As if all of that “I’m not reaching my potential” wasn’t angst-inducing enough, Nolan Lund’s comment added another blow to my self-esteem.
I wasn’t looking forward to revisiting that conversation even when I felt relief that Liddy understood those issues had not only become stumbling blocks for me, but were rapidly becoming a wall I couldn’t get past.
Showered, hair combed, clothed, and pepped up from the Red Bull, I exited the bathroom.
Liddy beamed her sunny smile at me. “There’s my lass. Fresh as a motherfecking daisy.” She pointed to the chair across from her. “Have a seat.”
I fought a smile at seeing the “proper” way she’d staged the table. A yellow ceramic teapot was centered between two delicate teacups patterned with sunflowers, which were perched on matching saucers, then placed above and to the left of butter-colored dessert plates that each held a circular scone (no triangular imposters here), loaded with cream and curd. A tiny dish of sugar complete with a miniature spoon, a small silver pitcher of cream and a few lemon curls on another mini-plate rounded out the setting.
I hadn’t owned many pieces of fussy dishware before meeting Liddy. And I could admit, looking at all of this, I felt sophisticated. Like a grown-up.
“Now, while you eat, I’ll dash off a few observations.”
“About?”
“Everything.”
I bit into the scone and moaned. These were nothing like the dry, tasteless cardboard scones I’d had previously.
“First, I think you need something bold on that wall above the loveseat. The room came together so beautifully, it won’t do to have that area look barren. Even mirrored tiles in shades of rose gold would fancy it up.”
Liddy had helped me personalize my space, banishing sports memorabilia to my office. She’d added shades of burgundy and blush pink to the gray, silver and black furnishings I’d chosen. While the room appeared softer, more feminine, it’d retained the comfort factor I wanted. And the best part? We’d done this shabby chic upgrade on a shoestring budget.
She ignored her scone and studied me over the rim of the teacup.
“What?”
“You have great posture.”
I blinked at her. “Uh. Thanks?”
She snickered. “I meant you carry yourself well. And knowing that, I went online and watched some of the interviews you’ve done over the years. You’re very confident with a camera shoved in your face. In fact, you seem more personable, which I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t seen it. Luckily, that widened your scope of options.”
I licked lemon curd off my finger and took a sip of tea. “Options for what?”
“Your career.” Liddy leaned forward. “You’re knowledgeable and you’re intensely devoted to hockey, which are the two biggest plusses. The rest can be learned.”
“What are you talking about, Lids? I’m lost.”
“I’ve realized there are so many paths open that you haven’t considered, that I fully expect you to smack yourself in the head with a ‘why didn’t I think of that?’ when I suggest them.”
I made the “get on with it” gesture as I shoved another bite of scone into my mouth.
“I thought about this—and you—all day Thursday and Thursday night. How to get my talented American friend to a happier place in her professional life. Friday rolled around and I continued to be distracted. I wasn’t really thinking about where my appointment was when I dropped off the requested set samples for an upcoming promotion, until I started yakking with a mother of one of my former students. As she’s conveying her frustration with her daughter Maddie changing her major from performance to journalism . . . it hits me. That’s what Gabi needs to do; leave the performance aspect of hockey behind and get into the broadcasting booth.”
I choked on the scone, quickly grabbing my tea to wash it down. “That dry English humor. I bloody love that about you, Liddy.”
“Gabi, I’m not joking. Not in the slightest.”
“Okay. Let’s back up. This woman you talked to. She indicated she’s upset with her own daughter for wanting to get into broadcast journalism. And yet you somehow took that as a sign I’d be better suited for that kind of job? When I don’t have a degree in journalism or mass communications?”
“Precisely. Because you have life experience. You’re a seasoned hockey veteran. A revered coach. And you do have a bachelor’s degree.”
“In kinesiology,” I retorted. I didn’t tack on that I had a double minor in men’s and women’s coaching because she’d probably consider that irrelevant, as well as the fact I’d never done anything outside of hockey