Page 58 of Shattered On Ice

“Stop.” My voice cracks through the quiet space, a whip strike against his false reality. He blinks, hazel eyes snapping up to me. “Look at the facts, not what you think. Did you throw a punch?”

Westin’s brow scrunches. “Not at first, but I defended myself.”

“Did you attack anyone?” I clarify, since he seems to think that self-defense still warrants what happened to him.

“No,” he answers slowly.

“You kissed a man you cared about,” I state firmly, holding his gaze so he can’t hide from the absolute truth. “Jérémy Benoit made the conscious choice to use violence. He chose to threaten you and the man you cared about. You didn't invite it, Westin. You survived it. The shame belongs entirely to him, not to you. Give it back to him. It’s not yours anymore.”

I watch the words hit him squarely in the chest. I observe as a decade of misplaced, suffocating guilt shatters. His chest expands as he takes his first full, unhindered breath in years.

The chime on my watch breaks the spell, making us both jump. Our hour is up.

Westin slowly runs a hand over his face as he stands. He looks wrung out and exhausted. But there's a new lightness to him that makes me smile gently as I rise. There’s a moment where we stand suspended between our therapist-patient roles, and what we had before that insists we curl into each other and take comfort after the emotional toll of the last hour. Westin’s hand lifts toward my hip, inches from touching me, but he remembers himself and crosses the office with a purposeful stride. He pauses at the doorway, his hand hovering over the brass knob. He doesn't look back, but his voice fills the room.

“See you next time, Doc.”

The door clicks shut. The silence of the house rushes back in, claiming me once again. I stare at the empty leather sofa, the indentation of his weight still visible on the cushion despite his departure. My hands begin to shake. My heart in a million pieces.

It’s working. I’m saving him. And it hurts like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Love has to be the most painful of all the emotions.

I’m still sitting in my empty office, staring at the couch, when the heavy thud of the front door echoes down the hall. The sound is immediately followed by the frantic, scrambling click of Indiana’s claws on the hardwood and her snorting excitement as she races to greet her favorite human. I shut my eyes as my chest tightens so fast I’m left gasping for breath.

Rook is home.

I stand, taking a moment to smooth my hands down my pants and adjust my cuffs to stall, but ultimately know I have to face this confrontation head-on. I lock away the devastated lover and the clinical therapist, and walk out to meet the firing squad, bare except for the repentant brother.

I find Rook in the kitchen, leaning against the island, staring at the tile floor. He’s in his street clothes, but he’s a messy, unkempt disaster, his hair sticking up at odd angles, his shirt rumpled. He looks completely exhausted. The purplish shadows under his green eyes match mine, ironically making us look more like twins than ever.

“Rook,” I finally begin, the word tearing out of my parched throat on a rasp. “I’m so sorry. I promised you in high school that I wouldn't touch a teammate again, and I broke it. I know I tore apart your locker room—”

“Stop,” he says, voice a quiet, gravelly rumble. He pushes off the island without looking at me, opens the fridge, and pulls out two beer bottles. One by one, he lines the caps up with the edge of the counter and smacks them open with a sharp hiss. He slides one across the island to me. It’s a peace offering, but a loaded one.

I hold the cold glass with shaking fingers.

“Westy talked to me at practice yesterday,” Rook says, his gaze finally lifting to meet mine. “He told me everything. About Jean Luc. Benoit and the hospital. And about you.”

I can't hide the involuntary flinch that comes with hearing Benoit’s name or the fresh wave of adrenaline that spikes knowing Westin talked about our hookups, and I see when Rook clocks it. “Rook, you have to understand—”

He holds up a palm, halting me. “What I understand,” he interrupts, his voice thick with betrayal that cuts me deep, “is that the two most important people in my life lied to me every day for months while looking me dead in the eye. Two seasons I bled on the ice for the guy. I share a house with you and have known you my entire life. And neither of you trusted me enough to tell me the truth.”

I take a step closer. “It wasn't about not trusting you,” I plead. “It was about survival. You know what the league is like. What the culture is like. Westin was living in terror of losing everything he’d worked for.”

“I’m not ‘the league’!” he snaps, slamming his bottle on the island, sending beer foaming out the neck. The sound echoes, making Indiana whine from his feet. “I’m his best fucking friend! And I’m your twin brother. Did you honestly think I’d care that he’s gay? Did you think I’d out him? Or did you just think I was too stupid to keep a secret?”

“What? God no, Rook!” I say, reaching out as my voice cracks. My hand lands in empty air as he turns and tears off a strip of paper towels. “I know deep down, Westin understood you’d support him and fight for him. But he was so paralyzed by the past that the thought of anyone knowing would send him into a spiral. And then…well, then you figured out he was shattered on ice, and he’d lose everything if you didn't get him help.”

Rook’s anger falters as his hands still on the mess in front of him, the fight draining out of his big body. He collapses onto his forearms, smacking his forehead with his balled-up fists. “Yeah, I figured it out. I practically dragged him to your office and threw him on your couch.”

“You did the right thing,” I tell him gently. “You saved his career.”

Rook lets out a bitter scoff that’s so unlike him as he pushes up onto his hands and turns his face up to the ceiling, looking for the answers. “I forced you to be his therapist.” He drops his gaze to mine, looking far more vulnerable now. “Westy told me you ended things as soon as I pushed Coach to send him to you. I made you choose between being with him and saving him, didn't I?”

“It wasn't a choice.” The absolute certainty in my voice rings through the kitchen, overshadowing the quiet hum of the refrigerator. “If I didn't agree to it, he would have lost hockey. If he loses hockey, he loses himself. I would do it a thousand times over to ensure he survives.”

Rook lowers his head, looking at the island between us. “He was just here, right? For a session?”

I nod. “Yes.”