Chapter 10
BENNETT
Iwake up before my alarm, the night with Tori still fresh in my mind — and my dick. I adjust the situation one-handed, reaching for my phone with the other.
I blink hard, as if the letters might rearrange into something else. Something better.
What the fuck?
Therapy wasn’t on my calendar yesterday.
Fully awake now, I launch out of bed and text Tori.
Bennett: What the hell is this calendar invite?
Her reply’s instant. Like she was waiting.
Sunshine: Counseling session
Bennett: Yeah, we established I can read. Not going
Sunshine: Mandatory. League mandated. They track attendance
Bennett: Pass
Sunshine: It’s your career, Steele. This wasn’t my rule
Dammit.
There goes the ‘charm my way out’ option. I won’t be able to finesse this therapy thing. Not if it’s coming from the top.
A pit yawns wide open in my empty stomach. I fucking hate talking about feelings. Especially mine.
Feelings are bullshit.
I’m an action guy. I do things. I don’t sit in a room and talk about doing them.
But if the league wants me to dance? Fine, I’ll fucking dance.
I need this job. I need hockey.
And I can’t afford another penalty right now.
Resigned, I change into a pair of joggers and a T-shirt and head to the rink for practice.
I’m fired up from that text exchange. I move fast, skate hard. Sweating feels good — and helps me avoid thinking.
I have one of the greatest practices I’ve had in a while. Coach Keller notices, pulling me aside.
“Steele, you’re leaning into training and it shows.”
“Thanks, Coach. I’ve been putting in the extra reps. Working on my focus.”
He slaps me on the back. “Keep it up and you’ll be ready to hit the ice as soon as the league clears you.”
“Yeah, about that…” I spin my stick, tiny flurries of ice popping off the blade. “I only have one game left on the suspension, right?”
“Far as I know.”
“So you haven’t heard anything else?”
He frowns, a deeply etched furrow running between his brows. “Nothing new. Why?”
I shrug, playing it cooler than I feel. “I’m ready to be back on the ice.”
“Understood.” He levels his gaze at me. The unspoken ‘and’ hovering between us.
“The league’s mandating counseling sessions with Dr. Sparks. I was wondering if you had any pull. You know — to get me out of it. Seems like a waste of time, laying on a couch when I could be in the gym or running drills.”
He sucks his teeth, adjusting the papers on his clipboard. “Unfortunately, not my call, Steele.”
What little hope I had deflates.
“Even if I agree with you.”
Shit.
Coach Keller can’t even get me out of the therapy dungeon.
“My advice? Play nice. This is the league making sure you don’t become a franchise-killing headline. Don’t make things harder on yourself.” He pats my shoulder, then strolls away toward his office.
Looks like I’m going to therapy whether I want to or not.
I shoot a quick wave at Bishop in the stands, then retreat to the locker room for a shower.
Fine. The league can make me go to counseling. But they can’t make me talk.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting alone in an all-white waiting room.
Unlike the coaching offices, there’s no fluorescent lighting here, only the soft glow of decorative rattan lamps.
I pick up a magazine from the glass table beside me and thumb through the glossy pages, skimming articles on sports performance and athletic achievement.
A clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second crawling by.
Tori would love this place. Quiet, controlled. Perfectly planned.
Finally, a door opens, and Dr. Sparks pops her head out. She’s probably five-foot-seven, dressed in navy slacks and a crisp white button-down shirt. Her chestnut’s hair pulled into a loose bun.
“Bennett Steele?” She peers at me over dark-rimmed plastic frames.
I rise, swiping my now-sweaty palms down the front of my joggers.
“Reporting for duty.”
And not happy about it in the least.
“Come on in.” She waves me into her office, stepping aside so I can enter the next all-white space.
The room’s small and cozy, with a white sofa, and a matching chair beside it, a perfectly organized desk sitting against the wall. There are no windows—just more white walls and an oversized painting of waves behind the desk.
“Have a seat.” Dr. Sparks motions at the sofa and I drop down onto the white fabric cushion. Spreading my legs wide, I brace my hands between my knees and stare directly at her.
This is such bullshit.
Dr. Sparks takes the chair across from me and whips out a legal pad and pen.
“Bennett, we’ll be meeting once a week for the next ten weeks, per the league mandate.
Anything you say to me will be kept confidential, unless you tell me you’re thinking about hurting yourself or others — in which case I’m obligated to report that information.
Otherwise, our sessions will remain private. Any questions?”
Her eyes are a crystal-clear blue behind her glasses. She tips her head to the side and waits for my response.
I swallow hard and focus on the ocean painting behind her.
“No, ma’am.”
“Wonderful. Is there any particular place you’d like to start?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, debating how to answer.
“This therapy deal wasn’t my idea. You tell me.”
Dr. Sparks blinks once, twice. Then she tucks a stray hair behind her ear and smiles like I’m a kid who just told her I hate vegetables.
“This is your session, Bennett. In here, you’re in a safe space, and you’re the leader of the conversation. How about this — start by telling me about your hockey career.”
Hockey. I can talk about hockey. All day long.
I kick my feet out, tapping my heel against the decorative rug.
“I’ve been in the league for a little over ten years and this is my only team. I’m sure you already know I’m one of the triplets. My brothers, Weston and Callum, also play for the team. We’ve always played hockey together.”
“Great start.” She scribbles on her notepad. “And your position is…?”
I’m positive she knows I play winger. But I humor her.
“I play winger. First string.” My jaw tightens. “As you know, I’m benched right now. Which is complete bullshit. No charges were brought against me. And I was doing the right thing.”
I lean back against the sofa cushion, my chest tight for reasons I don’t want to unpack.
Dr. Sparks presses her lips together. She doesn’t respond — just leaves space. Silence.
A digital clock on the desk glows red, the numbers big and bold. My mouth goes dry and I’m suddenly too warm.
“You know what happened, right?”
“I’d like to hear your version of events.” She taps the tip of her pen against the notepad, and I take a deep inhale.
“We threw a party in the preseason. Me and my brothers. At our rental house. People showed up — teammates, locals, a few of the staff. You know, the standard.”
I clasp my hands together, resting my elbows on my knees.
“The party was going fine. Harbor Hayes and her sister showed up. Harbor does PR for the team and is dating my brother, Weston. I saw a guy manhandling her, and she looked upset. She told the dude to stop and he didn’t.” My voice goes flat. “So I broke up his little party with my fist.”
Dr. Sparks again says nothing. The silence stretches. The clock ticks louder and louder. I scrub the back of my neck.
“Anyway, somebody called the cops and I spent the night in jail. The lawyer got me off because I was defending Harbor from a potential sexual assault.” Hot anger rises in my chest, burning my face.
“The whole thing’s bullshit. The league needed a scapegoat.
I was it. There wasn’t really a scandal.
If anything, I prevented something bad from happening. ”
Dr. Sparks jots something down, then levels her gaze at me, her expression blank.
“So what I’m hearing is: from your perspective, you prevented a sexual assault. You got into a physical altercation with a local bar owner, and the incident unfortunately spiraled beyond your control. Is that right?”
My knee bounces double time.
“Yeah. That’s mostly accurate.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “What, exactly, is inaccurate in that statement?”
I exhale hard.
“I mean… I did the right thing. I’m not sure why the league came down so hard on me. And I definitely don’t need bogus therapy sessions.” I cut my eyes to her. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
Clasping and unclasping my hands, I wish I were literally anywhere else right now.
“What I’m hearing is that you don’t believe you need therapy.”
“Correct. My time would be better spent in the gym, to be honest.”
“You believe you’d get more from time in the gym than time spent in therapy.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Absolutely.”
Dr. Sparks nods once. “Tell me, Bennett. How has the suspension affected you?”
I let out a heavy sigh and stare up at the ceiling, my mind whirling.
Where do I even start?
“Well, for starters, I’ve missed two games so far. One left to go, then I should be off the bench. I’m training harder than ever, and I’ll be back out on the ice better than before. Stronger.”
She takes notes and nods but stays quiet. The silence is killing me. So I keep talking just to keep the air moving.
“And Prince has me on full lockdown. Which — again — is bullshit. I’m a grown-ass man and don’t need a damn babysitter.” My knuckles flex and my voice tips up in irritation.
Dr. Sparks remains expressionless. “When you say ‘babysitter,’ what do you mean?”
“Prince’s daughter. Tori.” My jaw flexes and I break eye contact, staring at the waves in the painting.
Trying to get my nervous system back under control.
“He moved me into the condo next to hers, and I’m on full twenty-four-seven supervision.
Which sucks. I have a curfew, a whole bunch of stupid rules… ”
And I can’t get her out of my mind.
“Tori Prince is your neighbor and she’s supervising you. Is that accurate?”
“Yes. But she’s extremely busy with her actual job — which she’s constantly reminding me about — so she hired two bodyguards to clock my every move.”
That gets the faintest tug of a smile from Dr. Sparks.
“So not only is Tori supervising you, you also have bodyguards.”
I nod.
“Yes. And it’s fucking annoying.”
“I hear that you’re frustrated with the situation. Tell me about that.”
What part of this is she not understanding? It’s pretty self-explanatory.
“I’m a professional hockey player. I don’t need two bodyguards watching my every move.”
And I certainly don’t need Tori supervising everything I say and do either… even if I don’t hate her being around.
Dr. Sparks sets her pen down, smoothing a hand over the silky navy fabric.
“When you talk about Tori, I notice you’re very animated.”
She’s got me there. That’s one way to put it.
“Because I’m pissed off.”
“So Tori’s presence pisses you off?” She echoes my phrasing back at me.
I swallow and stare just over her shoulder, refusing to meet her gaze.
Because that’s not exactly accurate.
“I mean, sure — being supervised pisses me off. By her or anyone. It’s kind of less about Tori, if I’m being honest.”
Dr. Sparks waits, her pen poised above the paper.
I tap my foot faster, wondering how much longer this is going to drag on.
“I don’t like being managed.”
“Do you have trouble following rules?”
“Not if they make sense.”
She scribbles more notes. “So rules are only a problem if they don’t make sense.”
“Yeah.”
“So this isn’t about Tori.”
“I would have a problem with anyone babysitting me.”
Dr. Sparks sets her notepad on her lap and locks eyes with me.
“Bennett, I see you’re very agitated.”
“No, I’m not. I’m fine.” I run my hand through my hair, straighten my shoulders.
She picks up her pen again. “Your foot keeps bouncing. Your coloring’s increased, as has your rate of breathing.”
Damn. She’s got me.
“I told you — I don’t do therapy.”
“I see.”
She sits back, folding her hands calmly across her lap.
And waits.
The red minutes tick by.
I will not crack.
Won’t tell her I’ve taken hits from guys twice my size, but one arched brow from Tori Prince and I fucking fold.
More silence.
Finally, I mutter, “I don’t like talking about my feelings.”
“We don’t have to talk about feelings.”
I laugh, the sound jarring in the small space.
“Then what the hell do I talk about in here?”
“Whatever you want,” she says. “It’s your session.”
“So I can come in here and talk about the weather?”
Dr. Sparks nods. “If that’s what you want to talk about, sure.
However, I don’t believe that would be in your personal best interest.” She tilts her head slightly.
“I’m a sports psychologist and performance coach.
I’m here to help you become the best version of yourself — athletically, professionally, and personally.
I don’t think discussion of the weather would be the best use of our time together. ”
I scoff. “I’m not sure how sitting on this couch for the next ten weeks is going to help my hockey game.”
“It’s a process, Bennett. You have to trust the process.”
“I don’t have to trust anything.”
“Fair.” She doesn’t flinch. “The process is up to you.”
This entire thing is bullshit.
Dr. Sparks stays quiet, her gaze never faltering as the minutes crawl by.
“The only reason I’m here is because I love hockey,” I finally say. “I love my job. And I want to stay.”
She writes more on her pad, head bobbing as if she’s noting something critical.
“You love hockey, you love your job, and you want to stay with the team.” She echoes my words back to me. “Therefore, you’re willing to do the work required of you by the league.”
“I guess.”
“Our time is almost up for today.” She glances at the clock. “For homework this week, I’d like you to journal.”
“Journal?”
Is she fucking kidding me?
She wants me to write in a damn journal. That’s somehow worse than talking about my feelings.
“I’m pretty busy, Doc.”
“I heard you say you want to stay, and you want to continue to play hockey.” Her tone stays even. “Journaling could help you unlock your potential.”
I don’t fucking think so.
I grind my molars, debating my options.
Not too many.
“Fine.” I grind the word out. “I’ll write in a journal. What do you want me to write about?”
“Journal about the thing you’re most afraid will ruin your career.”
My gut clenches and I instantly regret asking the question.
Because the league thinks it’s viral Tiktoks and bad publicity.
But I’m starting to think it’s her.
“Fine. See you next week.”
Rising from the couch, I stomp out of her office more pissed off than when I walked in.
Because I already know the truth bomb on the page — and I haven’t even opened the damn journal yet.