Page 45 of Shattered On Ice

The words hit me like a baseball bat to the gut. He’s scratching me. My heart sinks as my mind spins, looking for any argument. But I fucked up the easy shit in a no-pressure environment. What’s going to happen during a game when the crowd is screaming, and I’m seeing Benoit’s unmoving form at every face-off?

“Coach, no. The team shrinks are basically spies for management,” Rook interjects, stepping into the office. He must have been standing at the door like a loyal guard dog since Coach called me in here. I didn't even notice him follow us and eavesdrop. My head is so messed up, I’m not paying attention to anything around me. “Westy can't open up to someone on the payroll. Let my brother treat him.”

My blood runs cold, ice accumulating in my bones. The roaring in my ears, the same white noise that’s been drowning me since Benoit connected with the boards, hits a deafening crescendo. I grip my jeans to still my hands, balling my fingers into the material. A bead of sweat traces down my scalp, warring with the frost inside me. This can't be happening. Another thread is pulled, and my life unravels further.

“Your brother, Knight?” Coach Kennedy asks, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. “I’m sure he’s great at his job, but isn't he clinical, not sports-focused?”

“He’s a trauma specialist,” Rook argues fervently, oblivious to the fact that he’s completely dismantling my life. “And he knows the hockey world inside and out. Westin wouldn't have to explain the pressure to him. Besides, Westin trusts him already.”

“Rook, no,” I rasp. My throat is sandpaper, and each word out of my mouth grates painfully. Panic claws up my windpipe, choking me. “He’s your family. It’s a…conflict of interest or something. I need someone impartial, right?”

Rook drops his heavy, comforting hand on my shoulder as he smiles reassuringly. It feels like a brand, marking me for slaughter. He means well, but he’s fucking everything up.

“That’s exactly why you need him,” he insists. “Knight keeps everything locked down. He’s a vault. He’s not going to report back to the front office. He’ll be on your side. You know him, trust him, and like him. It’s perfect.”

My mouth drops open, desperately looking for an excuse, a lie, anything to put a stop to this. But I come up empty-handed. I have nothing. If I keep pushing, Rook will want to know why. Coach Kennedy is already staring at me with assessing, narrowed eyes. I’m boxed in without an exit, and I know I’ve lost.

My jaw clicks shut. The fight goes out of me, leaving me paralyzed as the walls of the closet close in around me with suffocating speed.

“Okay, fine, we’ll try it your way, but if this gets weird, we do it my way,” Coach reasons, already pulling his phone out of his pocket and sending my heart rate skittering into the atmosphere again. “I’ll call his practice now to get him on retainer for the team. We’ll expedite the intake as much as we can. I want you in sessions immediately.”

I sink back in my chair, staring blankly at the wall as Coach dials the number Rook supplies. With every second he’s on the phone, another impenetrable, ethical wall is slammed in place, brick by brick, separating Knight and me. The man I’ve been fucking and falling for is about to become my therapist. The one person I could be my complete self with is now morally and legally forbidden from touching me.

I didn't just lose my edge on the ice. I’ve lost my only safe harbor.

Seventeen

Knight

My phone rings with a call from my practice, which is unusual for a Wednesday afternoon, and even more so when I realize it’s my boss. I stop writing up my case notes and answer it.

“Hey, Rachel,” I answer mildly, not sure what she could be calling about. Our team meetings are on Mondays, and she leaves me to see to my patients however I like the rest of the time.

“Knight, hi. I’m sorry to bother you, but it looked like your schedule was free from sessions,” she says, sounding a bit breathless, but as professional as always.

“It’s all good, I’m free,” I say.

“We have kind of an unusual situation. I have the coach of the Hydras professional hockey team on the other line. He’s asked to put you on retainer for the team to treat a player,” Rachel finishes.

“The Hydras organization wants me to treat a player?” I ask, not following. We have sports psychologists on our team. I’m not usually tapped for this kind of thing. Is this about my brother? What did he do now?

“Yes, he requested you by name. He actually wants to speak with you directly about the situation, confidentially. Are you comfortable with that?” Rachel probes, her voice calm and soothing, even with this revelation.

“Of course. I’ll hear him out and determine what’s going on.” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and squeeze my temples, wondering how to handle whatever my brother has done.

“I’m not attempting to influence you in any way, but this is a unique opportunity to connect with a major organization. He’s offered a substantial retainer, and it would be a great partnership for our practice. You would be well compensated, of course,” Rachel says. I murmur a goodbye before she connects the call.

A gravelly voice greets me. “Is this Knight Stephens?”

“Hi, yes, this is Dr. Stephens,” I correct, knowing he’s calling me in a professional capacity.

“Good. I’m Coach Lyle Kennedy from the Hydras hockey team. Listen, I have a player that I’m told you're familiar with, Westin Dumont, who requires your services. He requested you specifically because of the rapport he’s built with you as his teammate’s brother. That’s the only reason I’m entertaining this. I need him playing at the top of his game as soon as possible, so I’m willing to break protocol to make this happen.”

In an instant, my world shatters like glass, the pieces falling around me with every word the coach utters. Westin wants me to be his therapist? Why would he do that to us?

“Coach Kennedy, can you provide a little context, please? I’d like to understand the request better,” I say, swallowing past the horrible lump in my throat and shutting my eyes against the sudden migraine building in my temples. I press my palm flat against my desk to stem the tremors.

“Westin is suffering from something we call the yips. It’s a loss of control and difficulty performing familiar, fine-motor skills like passing or shooting due to overthinking the process, or after things like injuries and emotional distress. In this case, I believe it was due to an injury that Westin caused to another player, which sent him to the hospital and ultimately ended his career. I’m just guessing here. I’ll leave the diagnosis and treatment to you,” Coach Kennedy explains.