Page 61 of Shattered On Ice

“Good night, Wes.”

The heavy door clicks shut with a solid thud. I exhale the pent-up breath I’ve been holding in. I remain on the couch for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen. I don't panic or pace. My training kicks in, wrapping my spinning thoughts in a layer of clinical detachment to keep me grounded.

I look down at my left hand resting empty on my thigh, and flex my fingers. They’re still warm from Westin’s large hand.

I run through the ethical flowchart in my head. Did I jeopardize his treatment? No. We were no longer engaging in the exposure therapy. We were just two men sitting on a couch together, watching a movie we both love. It was a normal, human moment, just a scrap of the relationship we used to have before the ghosts of Montreal demanded my professional intervention.

It was just holding hands, I rationalize, pressing my thumb into my other palm. How can something that feels so innocent and good, so inherently safe for him, be wrong?

I sigh, the sound filling the empty house with heavy, exhausted noise. I know the answer, even if I don't want to acknowledge it. It’s wrong because the lines are blurred, and blurred lines are dangerous for a mind trying to heal from trauma. I can't be his therapist during the hockey game, and his lover during the rom-com. I can't expect him to navigate the whiplash of my changing roles without any fallout.

I drag myself off the couch and plod down the hall to my office. I flip on the small brass desk lamp, casting a soft pool of light on the mahogany surface as I pull Westin’s patient file from the locked desk drawer. I click my pen.

Patient completed a two-hour exposure exercise to an NHL broadcast, I write, my handwriting flowing in neat, even lines. Vitals remained stable. Patient demonstrated strong emotional regulation and did not exhibit anticipatory anxiety or somatic triggers.

I stare at the words drying on the page. It’s a completely accurate, factual therapy note. And it’s the biggest lie of omission I’ve ever told.

My pen hovers over the page, shaking in my grip. What I want to write, what’s screaming to be documented as the most vital, significant breakthrough of the entire night, has nothing to do with hockey.

Patient’s pulse steadied because our shoulders touched. Patient conquered his deepest fears because I held his hand. I’m in love with him, and his reciprocal affection is the very thing anchoring him to the present.

I squeeze my eyes shut, the dull aching throb in my temples forcing my fingers to prod the tender flesh. I can't write that. I have to strip away all the warmth, the romance, the profound intimacy we shared, and reduce the man I love to a set of reactions and triggers. It hurts. It hurts worse than the discipline of keeping my distance, because it feels like I’m actively erasing our beautiful love story to satisfy a medical board.

I set the pen down and lean back in my chair, looking up at the framed diplomas on the wall that I worked so hard for. I never could have imagined this scenario while in school, reading about dual relationships and ethics.

I’ve been telling Westin during sessions that we have to compartmentalize. That we have to do the work. But as I sit here in my quiet office, the cognitive dissonance finally catches up to me and becomes too loud to ignore. I once told Westin that he couldn't keep splitting himself in two, being the All-Star for the hockey world while hiding who he really was. Yet, here I am, fracturing my own identity trying to be Dr. Stephens, his savior, and Knight, his lover, all at once, and it isn't fair to either of us.

A quiet, crystalline clarity settles over me, cooling the lingering guilt. I have to get him to the finish line. That’s the objective. I need to guide Westin through the acute trauma of Jérémy Benoit. I need to help him dismantle the mental block that caused the yips in the first place so his career is secure. But the second we cross the threshold, the very minute his hands remain steady on the ice through all his triggers, and he’s no longer in active crisis, I’m done.

I reach for a fresh notebook and begin drafting a new, highly confidential plan of attack, complete with a to-do list that soothes my type A brain.

I’ll research colleagues. I’ll find a sports psychologist in Atlanta with impeccable credentials, someone who specializes in long-term maintenance and LGBTQIA+ athletes. I’ll orchestrate a seamless, ethical warm hand-off to transfer his long-term care so he doesn't regress. I will successfully make myself his former therapist.

And then, just as Westin promised, I’m going to get my man back.

Two weeks later, the sterile quiet and soft light of my office is replaced by the vibrating, bass-heavy concrete and fluorescent lights of the Hydras’ home arena.

I signed the preliminary release this morning. It’s a trial run—a controlled test of Westin’s trauma responses in a live-game scenario. Coach Kennedy, who knows enough to realize this is a fragile return, requested I remain ice-side in the tunnel. If Westin spirals, I’m the emergency rip cord.

Right now, Westin and I are in the small medical exam room off the main locker room, isolated from the chaotic pre-game rituals of his teammates. He’s fully dressed in his home uniform, looking impossibly broad and indestructible in his navy blue and neon green jersey. He’s practically vibrating with adrenaline, pacing the short length of the linoleum floor as he tosses a roll of athletic tape from one hand to the other.

“I feel good, Doc,” he says, rolling his massive shoulders. “I’m ready. I’m going out there to play my game and score some goals.”

“Sit down, Wes,” I say gently, leaning back against the door to ensure our privacy.

He stops pacing, looking at me for a long moment, the tape dropping from his palm before the bravado slips with it. He sits heavily on the edge of the exam table, the crinkle of the paper loud in the small room.

I bury my hands deep in my trouser pockets to keep from reaching out to touch him, to smooth the tension from his clenched jaw. I need to be his therapist right now.

“You may feel physically indestructible tonight,” I begin, keeping my voice calm, steady, anchoring. “But trauma isn’t logical. It doesn't care how big you are, or how much you practiced this week, or how flawlessly it went. A trigger can come out of nowhere. It can be the sound of a stick breaking, a hit against the glass in your blind spot, or even a flash of the Montreal colors in the stands. I need you to understand that your nervous system may still try to hijack your body despite all of the hard work you’ve put in.”

Westin looks over at his taped stick leaning against the wall. The All-Star mask slips away, revealing the vulnerable man I love laid bare under the harsh lights in this crowded room.

“It’s so fucking frustrating,” he admits, voice grating out in a quiet, rough rasp. “I feel so strong right now. My body knows exactly what to do. But inside, I know I'm still…broken.” He lets out a shuddering sigh with the admission. “I feel like I’m walking out onto a minefield, and I don't want to step on the wrong patch of ice.”

It’s a beautiful and agonizing acceptance that makes my heart ache for him. This is a breakthrough. He’s not fighting me, and he’s not trying to overlay the toxic grit of the locker room to cover his fear. He’s letting down his guard and accepting the reality of his condition.

I take a calculated step forward, closing some of the clinical distance without encroaching on lover territory. It’s just enough that he feels my presence without crossing the ethical boundary I’m sworn to uphold.