Page 50 of Shattered On Ice

Westin begins skating backward along with the drill, clapping his gloves and shouting encouragement at the kids. He jokes with them, taps their sticks, looking lighter and happier than I’ve seen him since Rook returned from Italy. The dark, choking cloud of trauma is dispersing under the bright fluorescent lights of the community rink.

I’m watching him heal in real time. It sends a frisson of warmth through me, thawing the chill that had crept into my bones from the cold air and the fear that I’d lost him forever.

I lower my pen slowly, my cup crunching slightly in my tightening grip. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed, and it’s absolutely destroying me.

With every smile, every inch his shoulders drop as he reconnects with his joy on the ice, it’s a victory for Dr. Stephens. But it’s another nail in the coffin for what we had. For us. I’m successfully fixing the man I love—because that’s what this has become, no matter what rules we set in place, or what we call it. Every step he takes toward being whole is a step closer to the day he’ll no longer need me. I’m curing myself right out of his life with each session, while silently screaming to keep him.

The whistle blows again, the coach prompting the kids to separate into two lines for one-on-one puck retrieval drills along the boards. It’s a basic exercise in taking contact while defending the puck with your body against the opposing player. I take up my pen again, eyes tracking the kids as they cycle through.

That’s when I spot him. A tiny boy swallowed by his jersey, the sleeves rolled up in thick bunches above his gloves. While the other kids shift on their skates, excitedly waiting for their turn, he stands perfectly still at the back of the line, slightly apart. His shoulders meet his helmet. His gloves strangle his stick.

The coach dumps a puck in the corner when it’s his turn, and the kid—Jack, according to the tape on his helmet—skates after it. His speed dramatically slows the moment he gets close to the boards. A much bigger kid from the opposing line is bearing down on him.

The hit won't even be hard, but Jack’s nervous system is screaming at him. I watch it happen in slow motion. Five feet before the kid even makes contact, Jack bails. He turns away, drops his stick, and curls in to protect his head and stomach. The puck is swept away easily by the bigger kid, leaving Jack alone in the corner, looking sad and defeated.

Anticipatory fear response, my brain catalogs. Biological hijacking at work.

It’s exactly what Coach Kennedy said Westin did at practice the other day when he was supposed to check another player along the boards.

My heart sinks into my stomach. I whip my head around to find Westin. Did he see it?

Westin is standing in the face-off circle, watching. He’s no longer laughing and smiling. He’s completely frozen, staring at Jack in the corner. From half a rink away, I can see the tension lock down his spine, his broad shoulders going impossibly stiff.

Panic rises, swift and terrible in my chest. Don't spiral, Wes. Don't let this tow you back under that wave of chaos. I grip the edge of the cold bleacher, fingers aching. I want to jump up and scream for a time-out. Pull him off the ice before the mirror image of his trauma sends him into a debilitating flashback.

But that’s what his lover would do. I’m his therapist, and part of exposure therapy is allowing the patient to confront their triggers. I have to stay here on this cold metal bench and let him sink or swim on his own.

On the ice, Westin takes a slow, deep breath that expands the wide chest I love to lay my head on. Then, he moves. He doesn't skate away from the trigger. He doesn't go to the bench. He skates directly to Jack before he can move to the back of the line, defeated.

I can't stay in my seat any longer. I abandon the gross coffee, taking my notebook and pen with me as I navigate the steep metal stairs until I’m standing along the boards, inches from the plexiglass separating me from the ice.

Westin manages to intercept Jack by the hash marks, directing the boy away from the drill lines and over to the side boards, right in front of me. The acoustics of the rink work in my favor, allowing their voices to carry clearly through the seam in the glass.

I press my shoulder against the divider, looking down at my notebook, pretending not to notice them, and hold my breath.

Westin drops to one knee, so he’s no longer looming over the tiny kid, bringing his much larger frame to eye level with the shaking boy. He leans an arm on his thigh, his stick abandoned on the ice beside him.

“You’re Jack, right?” Westin asks, voice low, lacking the normal booming cadence.

The boy nods and looks at him like he expects to be reprimanded. “I know I messed up the drill.”

“No, you didn't,” Westin says gently. “You're just anticipating the hit. You're watching their shoulders, expecting them to smash you. When you expect to get hurt, you freeze. You drop your stick, right?”

Jack looks up sharply. “Yeah, how’d you know?

“I do it, too,” Westin admits with a shrug.

My heart backflips painfully in my chest as my breathing stutters. He gets it. He said it out loud. Westin Dumont, an All-Star NHL player who built his entire career on being impenetrable, just admitted one of his greatest vulnerabilities to a child.

“You do?” Jack gasps, mouth falling open. “But you’re in the NHL.”

“You're right. I am,” Westin says, as a small, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. “It can be absolutely terrifying. But want to know a secret, Jack?” When the boy nods eagerly, he continues. “You can't control what the other guy does. You can only control your feet and body. Right now, your brain is sending danger signals to your body when the hit hasn't even arrived.”

He’s quoting me to the kid. He’s using my own words. The notebook shakes in my hands.

“How do I stop it?” Jack asks, the stranglehold on his stick finally loosening.

“Where do you feel that fear? In your hands? Your chest?” Westin asks, pointing to the boy.