Page 67 of Shattered On Ice

Callum: It’s hard to lose access to a part of someone that only you knew. It’s like mourning a loved one, knowing this part of your relationship is over. But it is for the best, and you know it in your heart. Don't sit there chewing your pretty nails and bouncing your knee, beating yourself up over the situation. Plan out how you are going to create the life you want with the man who comes out of the office, because you finally get to have it, and so much more.

I yank my fingers out of my mouth and still my knee, unsure how he could have known I would be doing both things. And then I recognize that Callum took my text incredibly seriously, and wrote back a heartfelt response that was actually helpful, instead of just funny. He’s a really good friend.

Knight: I don't think I tell you enough how grateful I am to have you in my life. You’ve become a wonderful friend, and I couldn't have gotten through the last few months without your support. I can't thank you enough.

Callum: Oh, yes you can. Just hire me to remodel Westin’s house, and we’ll call it even. I bet it’s a pristine and boring-as-hell box. That big, beautiful jock daddy is giving hetero in all the worst ways. We have to fix him. Indoctrinate him into the club. Introduce him to color. *rainbow emoji*

I snort out a soft laugh. There he is.

Knight: I think that can be arranged. I’ll work on him.

The rest of the forty-five minutes pass a little easier after my best friend talked me down, but the last sixty seconds of clock-watching are excruciating. The white noise machine sounds like a rushing waterfall in my ears.

Finally, the door handle turns. I spring from my seat, nearly dizzy with the sudden change in position, my heart galloping into my throat and lodging there. My clinical brain braces for impact, scanning the crack in the door for a rigid spine, a clenched jaw, or the blank, terrifying stare of dissociation.

Westin steps out of the office. He doesn't look panicked, or even like he’s dissociating. He looks massive, broad-shouldered, and completely grounded. He turns back to offer Dr. Glazeau a small wave with a relaxed, easy smile on his face, before the door gently closes between them. Westin turns and locks eyes with me across the waiting room.

The heavy weight in my chest evaporates instantly. I don't have to assess his pupil dilation or evaluate his posture for defensive guarding. I don't have to chart a single damn thing.

“Hey, beautiful,” Westin says, his voice a low, warm rumble as he crosses the room. He reaches out, wrapping his big arms around my waist and pulling me against his chest right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Hey,” I breathe, resting my hands against the hard muscles of his shoulders as I look into his bright hazel eyes. “How was it?”

“It was good,” Westin says, placing a soft kiss against my forehead. “She’s smart. Really knows her stuff. Even hockey, which was a surprise. But mostly we just talked about how much I’m looking forward to going home and having dinner with my boyfriend.”

My breath catches as sunlight blooms in my soul, erasing any dark clouds of doubt and fear that had curled in my chest. The word boyfriend settles into the space between us, shedding the last lingering hint of Dr. Stephens. I don't care that we’re standing in the middle of a clinical waiting room. I don't care if Dr. Glazeau could open the door and catch us. There’s nothing to hide anymore.

I slide my arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes entirely like the future. I successfully handed off my patient, and I finally got my man back.

Twenty-nine

Westin

Early March casts a shadow over the League with the trade deadline looming in the wings, waiting to disrupt lives and send careers careening in opposing directions. I’m lacing up my skates, feeling lighter than I have in a decade despite the uncertainty of this time of year. I know I’ve made an impact on the organization, even with my suspension and missing games back in November and December, and I’m fairly confident the head office wants to keep me on. My goal-scoring record is the best it’s ever been. My hands are steady, and my head is clear. Knight is coming over tonight to make dinner, and any plans we might need for the future should changes be imminent. Life is exceptionally good.

Until Coach Kennedy walks into the locker room with a giant shadowing his steps.

“Listen up,” Coach barks, clapping his big hands together. “The head office made some moves. Traded draft picks for more depth on the blue line. This is Wilder Jameson. The rest of you can stop shitting your pants about getting shipped off. We’re keeping all of you.”

My hands still on my skates. Jameson. I know that name. He’s a big, brute of a punishing defender, and up until yesterday, he wore the crest of the Montreal Monstres.

Wilder stands next to Coach, arms crossed over a chest that rivals mine in size, but he’s taller and broader, the perfect defender build. He has warm, caramel skin, dark hair, and a short beard over a jaw set so tight it looks like it might crack. He doesn't smile or offer a wave. He just radiates a locked-down hostile energy. I stare at him, bracing for the familiar spike of panic in my chest at the reminder of Benoit and my Montreal past, but it doesn't come. My breathing stays even, my hands steady. I only feel a heavy sense of caution. I ended his captain’s career a few months ago, probably while he was on the ice. If anyone is going to have beef with me in this locker room, it’s him.

When Coach leaves, the room bursts back into frenzied noise and kinetic movement.

The Hydras locker room is a loud, living organism. We communicate in a language made entirely of chirps, thrown rolls of tape, flying shoulder pads, and insults that would sound like declarations of war to anyone outside this room. To us, it’s just how we say good morning. But as we gear up for practice today, the organism is awkwardly trying to digest a foreign object.

Wilder Jameson sits at his assigned stall on the other side of Monty like a stone gargoyle. He’s enormous—a bruising, physical defender who built a reputation in Montreal for punishing anyone who crossed his blue line. Here, surrounded by the chaotic golden retriever energy of Rook, the quick-talking jabs of Nico, and Chad trying to turn every piece of equipment into a dirty joke, Wilder looks like he’s bracing for an ambush. He laces his skates in complete silence, eyes fixed firmly on the rubber floor mats. He doesn't intercept the rolls of tape flying past his head. He doesn't even blink when Davy, our Stoic Russian, reaches over and casually smacks a water bottle out of Chad’s hand to shut him up.

Wilder is completely locked down behind a wall of defensive hostility.

I know that wall. I lived behind it for ten years, even if I presented differently.

When we hit the ice, the disconnect only magnifies. The Hydras play a fast, intuitive game built from two seasons of learning exactly where to be without looking, operating on a shared unspoken wavelength. Wilder doesn't know the wavelength, and it’s immediately obvious that Montreal ran a completely different, rigid system.

Coach blows the whistle for a three-on-two breakout drill. I’m leading the rush with Monty and Chad on the wings, speeding into the offensive zone against a pairing of Rook and Wilder. Chad carries the puck down the point into the corner, intending to cycle it behind the net. It’s a standard Hydras play, fluid and fast. But Wilder misreads the flow. He anticipates a rigid, textbook pass to the slot. When Chad drops the puck backward instead, Wilder has to hit the brakes and pivot sharply to recover his angle. He’s a split-second too late.

Rook, incapable of letting a new guy struggle in peace without trying to aggressively fold him into the brotherhood, decides now is the time to initiate him. He skates past Wilder on the rotation, tapping the back of Wilder’s skates with the blade of his stick while flashing a shit-eating grin.