Page 57 of Shattered On Ice

My stomach knots as the visceral memory overtakes me. Shutting down my reaction to that declaration took every ounce of control I had. I wanted to launch myself into his arms, curl into his lap, and make him repeat it over and over while I kissed his face. But the clinical part of me knew it was an avoidance tactic meant to sway me into giving in, even if he didn't realize it. I knew in that instant that he still had a lot of work to do, and letting him off the hook because he’d admitted his feelings for me would be the worst thing I could do.

Callum claps his hands, the sound jarring to my splitting head. “Yay! See, I knew you would fall in love, and therapy would be good.”

I gawk at him. “How can you say that? It’s been terrible for us, personally, even if it’s been working for him,” I explain, without going into detail. He already knows too much.

“What can I say? I’m an eternal optimist. And I’ve seen the way that man looks at you.” He claps his hands, startling me again. “Now, this simply won't do. We’ve caffeinated you. Now you have fifty-five minutes to shower and get yourself into a smoking hot doctor fit that doesn't look like it came out of a dumpster before you face the big, beautiful jock daddy again.”

By the time the doorbell rings an hour later, Callum is gone, having performed his fairy godbrother duties remarkably, and I feel renewed, looking a million times better than I did when he arrived. My hands shake as I reach for the door handle, but I pull on the therapist mask with a slow, even breath, so it doesn't show on my face. I’m prepared for the wrecked Westin, who left my office an absolute disaster a few days ago. I’m expecting his anger, or his sadness over losing his best friend, and the betrayal he may feel over losing our intimacy.

What I’m not prepared for is the relaxed man with his hands gripping the door frame above his head, a half-smile tugging at his full lips. The dark circles under his eyes have nearly disappeared. The haunted look has been replaced by determination and a flirty irreverence that makes me step back from his arresting presence.

“Westin,” I gasp before I can stop myself.

“Hey, Doc,” he drawls, the sound warm and curling low in my belly without warning. He lets his arms drop and steps inside, crowding our bodies for a fraction of a second before he slips past me with a smile, heading for my office with the confident stride of an All-Star.

I’m left in the open doorway, gaping at the way his broad shoulders fill out his fitted gray Henley and the perfectly broken-in jeans hugging his bitable ass. What the actual hell? Who is this changed man, and what happened? I finally manage to shut the door and hurry after him, sliding into my office just as he takes his usual seat on the leather sofa with a contented sigh. There’s no trace of the typical discomfort he has in this office. He’s completely at ease.

“How are you, Westin?” I ask breathlessly as I settle into the wingback chair, fumbling with my notebook.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m ready to do the work,” he tells me, voice even and warm. He’s determined.

“I know you had practice with Rook yesterday. If we need to pivot today’s session to addressing the fallout, that’s perfectly—”

“Rook and I are good,” he interrupts, his tone assured. “You don't have to worry about us.”

My pen freezes in midair. “Things seemed fraught when you left here. What changed?” I ask as my mind spins, cataloging this new information.

“I told him everything. He knows what happened to me ten years ago and why I couldn't tell him about anything for so long. He’s on my side now, and he’s going to help me get through all this,” Westin says, hazel eyes fierce and focused entirely on me.

I lower my pen to the notebook and grip the edges, anchoring myself with the bite of the firm cardboard through every new revelation Westin is throwing at me so nonchalantly. “And Rook was okay with…everything?” I ask, desperately pushing down the hope that’s rising in my soul. Even if Rook is okay with us, there’s still no way we can be together. I’m duty-bound as his therapist. There’s an ethical boundary I can no longer cross. I can't get any sort of ideas. I’m strictly here to ensure his psychological well-being.

Westin nods slowly as he leans forward, cutting through the professional distance I’ve managed to keep between us. “I’ll do every exercise you assign me. Talk through all the trauma. I’ll get past the yips and the ghosts of my past,” he says with the sheer willpower of an NHL All-Star radiating from him.

The breath catches in my throat as the pen falls from my hand, hitting the soft rug with barely a sound while Westin holds my gaze. This is exactly what therapy is meant to achieve: building an external support system, transferring dependency, and empowering the patient. He’s no longer looking at me as a crutch, but now as the finish line. I’m succeeding at becoming clinically obsolete in Westin’s life. This is what I sacrificed our relationship for. And as I force a smile and flip a page in my notebook, I realize once again that success feels absolutely, unfathomably devastating.

Westin bends and retrieves my pen, handing it to me. When I reach for it, he holds on to the end as he slams me with his final proclamation. “Because when this is all over, and the second I no longer need you as my therapist…I’m coming back for you. You're going to be mine.”

He releases the pen. My fingers tremble as I pull it back onto my lap. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to drop the notebook, fling myself into his arms, and let him claim me right now. But I’m a therapist, and the man sitting across from me is fighting for his life, no matter how confident he plays it.

I swallow the enormous, barbed lump in my throat and click my pen. “Then let’s earn it.” My voice is a marvel of clinical detachment, not a hint of my inner turmoil. “Take me back to Montreal. Tell me about Jean Luc.”

I watch Westin fight his own instinct to shut down, to mask up, and hide. Instead, he catches himself, blinking at me and leaning back into the supportive safety of the couch.

“Now I know why therapists have these in their offices. You fucking need them when you’re knocked on your ass,” he jokes. The humor ebbs, and he grows serious, blowing out a shaking breath.

For the next forty minutes, the air in my office is thick with emotion. Westin tells me the story he’s kept locked away for ten years. He talks about discovering himself, his secret happiness with Jean Luc, the high of winning the championship, and the horrifying, violent reality of being caught in the locker room by Benoit and his friends.

As he describes the sound of his ribs cracking, Westin’s hands begin to shake. His broad shoulders hunch inward, becoming smaller as he braces for a kick that happened a decade ago. Go to him, my heart screams. Hold him. My palms sweat, and my muscles twitch with the all-consuming urge to cross the liminal space and pull him into my arms. I grip the armrests of my chair until my knuckles whiten. I can't touch him. That would only validate that he needs me to save him. I have to teach him how to save himself.

“Where do you feel the panic right now, Wes?” I ask, voice far steadier than I feel. It’s low and anchoring, not triggering. “Identify it.”

“My chest,” he gasps, his hands flying to his sternum and ribs. “It’s crushing me.”

“You're in my office,” I remind him, pushing every ounce of love I have for him into my clinical tone. “You're safe here. Feel the leather. The floor under your feet. Breathe with me.”

He moves one shaking hand to the couch, gripping the leather edge until it groans under his fingers. He slides his boots against the plush rug, and finally drags in a halting breath that grounds him in the present. I murmur encouragement as he slowly descends out of the panicky spiral that threatened his progress. Finally, he opens his eyes and nods at me before wiping the sweat off his forehead with fingers that are perfectly still once more.

“Benoit said I shat on the sport,” Westin mutters, voice monotone and quiet as he stares unseeing at the rug. “It was my fault. I got greedy. I brought my secret into the locker room. I deserved what happened.”