Page 74 of Shattered On Ice

A massive, invisible weight I didn't know I was still carrying evaporates off my shoulders. I let out a shaky breath, a genuine smile pulling at my lips. Leave it to her to settle me when I was expecting the worst.

“Tell me about this guy of yours,” she continues, her voice softening into pure maternal instinct. “Is he treating you right?”

“Mom, he’s absolutely incredible. You will love him. His name is Knight, and he treats me like gold. He’s the best thing to happen to me.”

“Good. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. Hold on, let me get your father. Dave! Pick up the kitchen line, it’s Westin!”

The atmosphere in the dining room instantly shifts. My warm, supportive bubble bursts. Knight’s fingers squeeze my shoulder, a silent brace for impact.

There’s a sharp click, followed by the heavy, gruff breathing of my father. “I’m here. Saw the headlines.”

His tone isn't explosive. He’s not yelling. It’s worse. The flat, emotionless voice of the veteran hockey player disappointed in a rookie’s performance. The heavy, familiar knot of inadequacy forms in my gut like lead.

“Yeah,” I say, voice dropping an octave and losing all the warmth Mom had inspired. “So you know.” I squeeze the edges of the phone case, threatening to break it as I wait for his response.

“I know that you're making yourself a distraction,” he says coldly. “You're a first-line center, Westin. You wear an ‘A’ on your jersey. You're supposed to be focused on another Cup run, not parading around the ice, drawing this kind of attention to the locker room. It’s bad optics.”

“Dad, I’m just living my life,” I argue, my voice sounding defensive and small, stripped of the All-Star confidence I had on the ice for my return a few months ago. “I’m not a distraction. I scored a goal and had an assist that night. I've had my best scoring season ever.”

“There was always that one guy in the league,” Dad sighs, the sound dripping with the old boys’ club disdain that has poisoned hockey for decades. “The guy no one talked about. The guy who made the locker room uncomfortable because he couldn't keep his personal shit to himself. The guys tolerate it to your face because HR tells them to, but they don't respect you.”

I sit with his words ricocheting through my brain, thinking of every instance when I’ve been tolerated.

“Just…keep your head down, Westin,” Dad continues, delivering the final, knockout blow. “Do your job. Play the puck. Don't rub their noses in it, or they’ll ice you out. I gotta meet Chris at the gym in twenty.”

The line disconnects with a hollow beep.

The silence in our sunlit dining room is deafening, but a high-pitched ringing is already starting in my ears. The warm light suddenly feels freezing. My fingers go numb, the phone slipping from my grasp and clattering back to the table. I stare blindly at the black screen, my chest tightening so violently I can barely drag in a breath. My peripheral vision blurs. The walls of the closet I just broke out of are rushing back in to crush me.

They’ll ice you out. You're a distraction.

“He’s right,” I whisper, my voice cracking. My heart hammers a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. The weight of his words threatens to crush me. “The old guard…guys like him, the GMs, owners, hell, even the league commissioner. They still run the league. What if I’ve painted a target on my back? What if the team is just pretending—”

“Westin, look at me.”

Knight moves from behind the chair. He doesn't pull out a notepad, and he doesn't ask me to recite five things I can see. He drops the therapist role entirely. He kneels on the hardwood floor right between my knees, inserting himself directly into my line of sight, and blocking out the rest of the room. He takes both of my shaking, numb hands in his steady ones and presses my palms against the center of his chest. Beneath the soft cotton of his T-shirt, I can feel the strong, rhythmic beating of his heart.

“Breathe with me,” he commands softly, holding my gaze with a fierce, piercing intensity. “You are here. You are with me.”

I drag in a ragged breath, the scent of his skin and the coffee we just drank cutting through the icy static in my brain.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Knight says, voice a solid, immovable anchor in the storm. “That was his league. That was Benoit’s league. It’s not yours. The hockey world your father played in was built on fear, but you don't live there anymore.”

“He said they’ll ice me out,” I choke out, hating how small my voice sounds. “He said they don't respect it. Or me.”

Knight’s jaw tightens, a flash of defensive, protective anger flaring in his green eyes. “Your dad wasn't in the tunnel with us when this all came out, Westin, but you were. Tell me what actually happened. Did Chad ice you out when he made a bad joke about checking your tonsils?”

I blink, fighting through the toxic haze of my father’s disdain. “No,” I whisper, my chest loosening a fraction.

“Did Rook turn his back on you?” Knight presses, his thumb stroking firmly over my knuckles. “Did Nico, or Campbell?”

“No.”

“Wilder Jameson,” Knight continues, driving the final nail in my father’s coffin. “A bruising defenseman traded from the toxic wasteland of Montreal walked into this house the other day. He sat at our table, ate off our plates. He didn't do that because HR told him to. He did it because he respects you, and he trusts you as a leader.”

I stare down at him, the cold dread in my chest finally cracking, melting under the undeniable truth of his words.

Knight shifts his grip, bringing my knuckles up to his lips. He presses a warm, lingering kiss against my skin, his eyes never leaving mine.