Page 51 of Shattered On Ice

“In my tummy. It gets all tight,” Jack answers, placing a gloved hand over the sensitive area.

Westin nods, all business. “Okay, the next time you go into the corner, you're not going to brace for the hit. I want you to feel the ice under your skates. It’s solid, holding you up. Squeeze your stick, bend your knees, feel your edges, and brace against the ice, not for the player. Got it?”

Jack nods slowly, determination pulling his small shoulders back as his fear slowly ebbs.

“We’re going to practice it,” Westin says, rising in a fluid motion. He kicks his stick up into his hand as Jack looks on in awe. “I’ll dump the puck. You’ll go after it, and I’ll bump you. It’ll feel scary because I’m so much bigger. But you're going to feel your edges and hold your ground, got it?”

When the boy nods resolutely, Westin lightly tosses the puck into the corner, sending him after it. Westin follows. As Jack digs the puck off the boards, Westin skates in and gives a gentle, controlled bump to Jack’s shoulder. It’s enough to test his balance without knocking him down. Jack’s skates dig into the ice against the hit. His knees stay bent, and his stick remains in his hands. He takes the hit while protecting the puck, and then skates out of the corner.

“Heck yeah, that’s it! Way to go, man. Look at that edge work!” Westin shouts, his voice bouncing off the rafters with a loud echo. He taps his stick against the ice in celebration, his grin huge and unshadowed.

The All-Star is back, but it’s not a mask. This time, it’s real. The pure, unadulterated joy of the game shines through him, burning away the haze and shadows that have haunted him. He high-fives a beaming Jack and sends him back to the line-up for drills. Westin turns toward me at the boards, his face flushed with unchecked happiness. Our eyes meet through the plexiglass as his radiant smile widens. His hazel eyes are burning with gratitude, success, and a desperate, agonizing love that he isn't allowed to put into words.

I nod, allowing myself to show my pride with a smile. It’s small and professional when I wish I could be screaming from the rooftops.

He’s doing it. He’s healing.

I squeeze the notebook, letting the edge dig into the creases of my fingers, using the physical pain to ground myself. I’m a therapist. I’m fixing my patient. And I’ve never been more fundamentally and utterly heartbroken in my whole life.

The cold November air hits us as we push the doors open to the parking lot. It actually feels warmer out here than inside the rink, but fall has descended on Atlanta, and the humidity means the chill seeps through your clothes and attaches to your soul. I reach into my pocket, fumbling for my keys with numb fingers. My body aches, every muscle tight and weary with exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with holding myself back from touching this man for hours.

Westin walks beside me, close enough to reach out and take his hand if I wanted, but I refrain. Our breath plumes in the air under the amber streetlights, shrouding us in puffs of fog that dissipate with each step. He turns with me toward my small sedan rather than heading toward his sleek SUV. When we get to the driver’s side door, he drops his heavy hockey bag with a muffled thud and steps closer, boxing me in against the side of the car with his massive body.

The high of the breakthrough has faded, leaving him desperately raw and stripped down. Damp tendrils of hair fall across his forehead. My fingers twitch to reach up and brush them away. The heat radiating off his body issues a magnetic pull, and I’m just another metallic satellite that can't resist as he yanks at my fraying restraint.

“Usually, this is the part where we’d debate sushi or burgers,” he says, his voice a seductive, gravelly rasp in the dark parking lot. “We’d go back to my place, and you’d join me in the shower.”

“Normally, yes,” I stammer, my calm and collected therapist voice deserting me. I’m simply a man bleeding out with no hope of rescue, and it shows.

Westin steps even closer. I can smell the sweat on his skin, faint traces of his body wash, and the metallic ozone scent of the rink still clinging to his clothes. His head lowers until he’s hovering just inches from my neck. He inhales, breathing me in with his eyes closed as he survives on the bare minimum of proximity that we can allow.

“I don't want to go back to an empty house,” he admits, voice cracking in a rumbling vibration against my skin. “I just want to come home.”

Hot tears prick the back of my throat, stinging and sharp. I want to unlock the car, shove him into the passenger seat, and drive us to my house. I want to lock us in and set my diplomas on fire. But if I do that, his condition will never improve, and the yips will come back. The panic will drown him. The sport that sustains him will uncaringly expel him, all because I was too selfish to do my job.

“You did incredible work today, Westin,” I say, voice trembling as I force myself to lean away from him, shoulder blades pressing into the cold metal of the car door just to get an inch between us. “Your brain is making huge strides, but your nervous system is exhausted. You have to let it process. You need to go home and sleep.”

Westin’s head lifts, meeting my eyes through my glasses as he stares at me. He clocks the agony I’m in and registers that I’m not rejecting him. I’m saving him.

He nods slowly, jaw clenched tightly. “Sure, Doc.”

“I’ll tell Coach Kennedy that you can begin practicing again if he’ll allow it.” It’s an olive branch, something to make him feel better about his incredible progress, but it tears me apart all the same.

He nods as he takes a step back, breaking the magnetic pull as cold air rushes into the spot he vacated. He picks up his hockey bag and turns, walking away from me across the dark parking lot.

I don't open my door and huddle inside my car, hoping for warmth. I stand in the freezing parking lot and watch as his taillights fade into the Atlanta night, taking the best part of me with him.

Twenty

Westin

Ihad a phenomenal practice today. Nico pinned me against the boards as we battled for the puck. I didn't flinch. I didn't freeze. I remembered what Knight taught me, and I effortlessly spun out of his grip and sent a tape-to-tape pass to Monty.

Coach Kennedy nodded in approval. Rook tapped my shins with his stick. The All-Star was back. But when I grabbed my phone in the locker room after practice to message the only person I wanted to celebrate with, there wasn't a black heart emoji waiting for me, no new messages from Knight at all. The mental block in my brain may be gone, but the silence from Knight has become a living, breathing thing that is actively suffocating me. I managed to get my career back, but I lost my home in the process.

So now I’m at his house, ready to get it back, too.

Knight looks surprised to see me when he opens the door. “Westin, what are you doing here? We don't have a session scheduled for two more days.”