Page 66 of Shattered On Ice

The room falls dead silent. Beside me, Monty shifts forward, his jaw locking, ready to pull rank as captain and take action to shut down the rude reporter.

My heart stutters, a cold, conditioned spike of adrenaline hitting my veins. My fingers twitch toward the edge of the table, ready to curl into defensive fists. The insidious, phantom voice of Benoit tries to whisper in my ear, telling me I’m a joke, a shit-stain on the league, not worth the space, a distraction, an outcast.

I reach under the table and tap Monty’s knee, signaling him to hold off. I take a deep breath, pulling air into my lungs and taking control of my thoughts and reactions. I flatten my hands on the table, the solid wood grounding me as I lean into the microphone, keeping my eyes deadlocked on Garren. I let Benoit’s ghost pass through me like water over a stone.

“My focus,” I say, voice a low, unwavering rumble that echoes through the speakers. “Has never been sharper, Garren. If you watched the last game, you saw a perfectly executed, legal check that forced a turnover and led to a game-winning assist. That’s my focus.”

Garren scowls, opening his mouth to interrupt, but I don’t give him the oxygen or the opening.

“As for my ‘lifestyle’ being a distraction,” I continue, letting the absolute certainty of my recovery bleed into my words. “The only thing distracting me the last ten years was the energy it took to hide who I am to appease an outdated, toxic standard in this sport. My locker room is fine. My team has my back. If anyone has a problem with a gay man dominating center ice, they're welcome to lace up a pair of skates and try to take the puck from me themselves. Next question.”

A ripple of low chuckles runs through the back of the press assembly. Monty lets out a quiet, proud snort of amusement next to me. Garren sits down, face a furious, mottled red. Serves him fucking right.

“Lilah,” McKenna calls out quickly, a fiercely satisfied smirk dancing on her lips. “Last one.”

Lilah Williams stands up in the front row, sending me a slow wink when she makes eye contact. She’s been covering the organization since our beginning two years ago, and has been at every media session we’ve held. She’s a familiar, friendly face that practically embedded herself with the team back when Ryder was going through his own gauntlet—including some head-butting between the two. She doesn't hold a recording device like a weapon, but her notebook is in hand, and she casually looks up like we’re having a conversation.

“Lilah Williams, Atlanta Free Press,” she says, offering her trademark warm, red lipstick smile. “Westin, let’s set the hockey logistics aside for a moment. You looked incredibly free out there on the ice. It looked like you were finally having fun. How much would you say this new chapter is about taking your joy back and rediscovering your love of the sport?”

The defensive armor I had pulled up for Garren instantly melts away. I look past Lilah to the back of the room. Knight is standing in the shadows by the door. His tortoiseshell glasses sparkle in the dim light, and he’s wearing one of my Hydras’ pullovers with his arms crossed over his chest. He isn't shrinking back. He isn't calculating the distance to the nearest exit to protect my reputation. Even from this distance, I can see the proud, overwhelming love lighting up his green eyes.

I look back at Lilah and offer her a small, devastatingly honest smile. “It’s all about the joy, Lilah,” I finally answer, my voice softening. “I spent a long time playing in the dark. I’m incredibly grateful to be playing in the light now.”

I meet Knight’s eyes again, and he blows me a kiss as he places a hand over his heart.

This is what it’s all about.

Twenty-eight

Knight

The heavy wooden door clicks shut, and the sound echoes in my chest like a cannon explosion. I’m left standing on the outside in the waiting room.

The office of Dr. Victoria Glazeau, a premier LGBTQ+ sports psychologist, is objectively well-appointed. The walls are a calming dusty blue, a white noise machine hums in the corner, and a row of plush, mid-century modern chairs that Callum would be screaming over are lined up against the wall. I drop into one of the chairs, planting my elbows on my knees, and bury my face in my hands.

This is excruciating.

For the last few months, I have been the only person allowed inside the darkest, most terrifying corners of Westin’s mind. I mapped the minefield. I created the grounding techniques. I fought back-to-back with him and held him together when the ghosts of Montreal nearly tore him apart.

And just ten minutes ago, I handed a meticulously documented, three-inch-thick manila file over to a complete stranger, effectively signing away my clearance and right to be inside Westin’s mind.

My heart hammers a frantic rhythm in my chest and pulse points, pounding in my ears until it drowns out even the while noise machine. A sickening, possessive wave of jealousy twists in my gut. What if Dr. Glazeau doesn't know to look for the subtle tightening of his jaw, or the way his right hand balls into a fist? What if he needs to drop the anchor and Dr. Glazeau doesn't know how to catch it?

I dig my fingers into my hair and force myself to take a slow, deep breath.

Compartmentalize, Knight. Get it together!

I’m experiencing a massive loss of clinical intimacy. It’s a natural, expected psychological response to the termination of a dual relationship. Fundamentally, I know this. I’ve read the textbooks and case studies. But reading about the ethical warm hand-off is drastically different than sitting in a silent waiting room, painfully aware that the man I love is bleeding his trauma onto someone else’s couch, and letting a stranger in to help him find comfort and closure.

I stare at the thick wooden door as the white noise mocks me. Every protective instinct I have is screaming at me to yank the door open, pull rank, and tell Dr. Glazeau that I am the only one equipped to keep Westin safe.

But I can't. Because if I’m his therapist, I can never truly be his partner. I can’t be the man who walks him through the dark, and wakes up wrapped in the sheets with him in the light.

I force my hands into my lap, clasping them tightly into a fist. It doesn't last long. I reach for my phone and text Callum.

Knight: I did it. Westin is seeing another therapist. Right now. And I’m dying inside having to share this part of him with someone else. What is wrong with me? I wanted this. It’s what’s best for us. But I am so insanely jealous and torn up about it. I’m sick.

Callum begins typing back immediately, the gray dots bouncing for a minute before his reply comes through.