Page 47 of Shattered On Ice

If only it were that easy.

I take a deep breath and open the door for Westin. It’s strange to see him here during the day, not having to hide that he’s here to see me. But I’ve never seen him look this awful. He’s disheveled, his hair in his face, shirt inside out, clutching the hockey bag that’s slung over his shoulder like he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

His face visibly lightens when he sees me, and he takes a deep breath that raises his shoulders. Poor guy is struggling just to make it through the moment.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and coarse, soothing the scrapes it leaves along my skin.

“Come in,” I urge, stepping out of his way and letting him follow me inside. This time I don't direct him to the couch or the kitchen for a drink. Instead, we walk to a part of the house he’s never seen—my office.

I close the door behind him, and he drops his bag on the floor, taking two steps to push me up against it and touch his forehead to mine tenderly.

“I’ve needed this so much,” he rasps, gripping my waist and holding onto me like he’ll drift away into his anxiety if he doesn't.

It feels far too good to be in his arms, and to be the one he’s taking comfort from, but I know I can't let it happen. I gently slide out from between him and the door, removing his hold.

“We can't do that. In here, I’m Dr. Stephens.” I hate the words as I say them, sounding clinical and cold when all I want is to wrap him in my arms and never let go.

Westin looks stunned, his mouth dropping as he watches me back away and put the desk between us.

“What do you mean, we can't do that? This is all for show to make Coach Kennedy happy. We don't actually have to go through with anything,” he says, throwing his arm out to indicate the couch and chair I have tucked in the corner, ready for us to use.

“Westin, whether we like it or not, when you asked for me to be your therapist, it created a hard line that I can't cross. I’m now duty-bound to provide care and treat you as a patient. Ethically, I can no longer engage in any kind of relationship with you outside of this office.” The words taste like broken glass, cutting my tongue as I methodically explain the situation and my ethical obligation. The metallic taste of blood is a phantom fiend as I stare at the beautiful and broken man in front of me. The ache in my heart is potent, nearly pressing me into the ground where I stand.

He gapes, hardly comprehending what I’ve said. “I didn't request you. Rook fucking walked in the office and all but forced Coach to make the call to have you treat me,” he says, anger reddening his face and catching in his voice. “I tried to stop him, but he was adamant that I’d be better off seeing you than the sports psychologists on staff who report back to management.”

Oh, no, Rook, what have you done?

My chest caves in along with the walls around me as I realize the severity of the situation. It makes far more sense now how this came about. I fight my own rising hysteria and panic, breathing through the discomfort and numbness as my heart races and my fingers lose feeling. My well-meaning brother stuck his nose into a situation he couldn't begin to understand and, like a wasp nest vibrating with concealed violence, kicked it into chaos. He thought he was being helpful without knowing the true nature of our arrangement. Instead, he signed the death certificate for the best thing that’s ever been mine.

“That changes things. I didn't know…” My words fade as I admit the crushing truth. I would have pushed back more had I understood where the request was coming from. I could have found something else to use as an excuse not to take Westin on as a patient. But even with this new information, I know I would still be here now, because he needs an entirely different side of me to help him overcome whatever he’s going through.

Westin paces and I grip the edge of my chair to keep from tumbling into a panic attack or rising to reach for him. I wish I had a bag of sour candy in here, but that would be unprofessional. Just imagining the sweet-tart tang of the Sour Patch watermelons in my pantry floods my mouth with saliva, eliciting the same response as if I had eaten a handful.

“What, and now you’re just going to turn it off? You can flip a switch and look at me like I’m just another stranger on your fucking schedule?” he explodes. “We’ve spent the last five months sneaking into each other's beds and lives. I learned every part of your body and know you inside and out. How can you not want me to touch you, when we know how good it feels to be together?” Westin asks, his voice catching and tripping over his anger that’s slowly dissolving into abject pain.

I shake my head. This is going worse than I could have even imagined. I want so badly to rise and go to him, to hold him as his world crumbles even more than it already has. To whisper that it sucks right now, but we’ll find a way through it.

I stay rooted in place, clutching the chair to keep the professional distance I’ve slid between us like a knife. I don't argue or tell him this is necessary. I can't fight him. We both know the truth of it, and it won't have any effect on him other than to spiral him higher into his desperation.

He collapses onto the couch across from me, burying his face in his hands. “I don't know how to fucking do this,” he mumbles, the sound muffled by his hands. “I’m losing my mind. I couldn't do what I’ve trained my whole life for, turning into a bumbling idiot on the ice. The only thing that made the panic stop was knowing I have you. But if that’s taken away…fuck, Knight, I’ll drown in it.”

My heart cracks, the pain a violent shattering that reverberates through my bones as I silently gasp under the weight of the ethical boundaries suffocating me. All I want is to throw my arms around him and reassure him that he has me, heart and soul. But instead, I pick up the only armor at my disposal, a blank notebook that I clutch to my aching chest as I work to swallow my pain.

Eighteen

Westin

Knight moves to the chair next to the couch I’m sitting stiffly on, carrying his notebook like a shield. I track his every movement, hungry for any scrap of attention he’ll throw me, but he keeps his eyes cast down, the light glinting off his tortoiseshell glasses. The leather creaks in protest every time I drag in a ragged breath. The sound ricochets off the walls of the quiet office, reminding me how clinical this all is. I’m too big for the furniture, too broken for the soft, neutral colors of the walls and decor, and I’m playing patient instead of lover. I’m sure it’s all meant to be calming, but I’m climbing the walls of my mind as the physical walls close in on me, inch by inch.

Knight—no, it’s Dr. Stephens in here—looks up from the notebook poised on his knee, his heavy pen balanced perfectly in his hand as he holds it above a fresh page. I don't know how he can be this cold. Composed. Completely closed off to me when we used to breathe in sync. He’s unreachable now. My ribs crack under the weight of that realization, squeezing my heart until I gasp from the pain.

The distance between us is minimal, maybe three feet, but it might as well be Lake Ontario for how removed I feel from him. I can't take it.

I lean back, letting my knees spread, forcing a relaxed posture despite feeling like a coiled spring. “Do you want me to lie back and tell you my life story, or is that just in the movies?” I ask, trying for my most charming grin that can get me anything. “Should I start by telling you about my father’s expectations and my mother’s inability to see past the surface that ultimately set me up for failure? Because my mother is a lovely woman, despite her need to redecorate every season.”

I watch for a crack in his armor, a smile, or an eye roll. A soft chuckle that usually means I’ve won him over.

Nothing.