Chapter 16
BENNETT
Bishop’s standing guard outside the arena doors when I shove out into the daylight. He doesn’t speak, just hovers. Observing.
I hate his eyes constantly on me, that blank stare tracking my every move.
Fucking annoying.
I shoot him a two-finger salute and he nods. Probably clocking my aggravation, ready to report back to Tori.
Tori.
I have no right to be pissed at her. But I still am.
She did the professional thing, pulling away and holding a firm boundary.
Doesn’t matter.
It still stings.
That kiss felt… different. Special.
And then she clapped back with this never happened ten seconds later.
Stabbing me straight in the gut and twisting.
I climb into my car, fire up the engine. I’d love to go somewhere, do something. But I’m a hostage here in this stupid small town with nothing to do besides train.
Resigned, I hit my blinker, make a right into traffic, and drive straight home.
The second I pull into the condo parking lot, I automatically scan for Tori’s Range Rover. Then I hate myself for it.
Pathetic.
This probation thing’s taken more out of me than I thought.
Back in my condo, I mix up a protein shake and chug half of it in one gulp. Instant indigestion.
I burp, swiping my hand across my mouth.
Fuck.
Her perfume’s on my fingertips. The intoxicating floral scent lingers beneath the chalky vanilla of the shake.
God, her lips were perfect.
Sweet and soft. Slightly desperate.
Needy.
That kiss wasn’t one-sided. I fucking felt it.
But the way she went cold. Acted like nothing happened. Like she didn’t feel a thing.
My chest tightens and I grip the island. Try to ground myself, even though inside I’m reeling.
Tori’s got me off my game.
And I don’t like it.
I catch a glimpse of the black-and-white therapy journal buried under the stack of mail. Dr. Sparks gave me homework at our last session and I haven’t done it yet.
FML.
Snatching up my phone, I scroll through the calendar. Shit. I have another mandatory session with her tomorrow, right after morning ice time.
I stare at that notebook, willing it to disappear.
No dice.
The stupid journal’s still there, taunting me.
If I walk into the session without the homework, I risk Dr. Sparks ratting me out to Prince or Coach, or worse—the league. I can’t afford to break the terms Prince set. I want to be off the bench for good, playing hockey with the team again.
Grabbing the notebook and a pencil off the counter, I crash down onto the sofa. I open the notebook and copy down the prompt:
What’s the one thing you’re most afraid will ruin your career?
I gnaw at the pencil, hard enough to make small indentations in the wood.
After a few minutes, I scrawl one word:
TORI.
My heart thumps hard in my chest.
She’s hijacked my fucking brain.
What if I can’t concentrate on the ice? Right now all I’m thinking about is that kiss. The way her fingers found my shirt, curled into the fabric and held me tight. And I don’t do out of control.
I can’t write that shit down.
Tori made it clear. That kiss was a one-time deal. A mistake. Instant regret.
Less than nothing.
I sure as fuck am not admitting that to Dr. Sparks.
I scribble through her name, dark slashes cutting through the letters. Squinting at the paper, I can still make out the word.
I rip out the first sheet of paper and rewrite the prompt on page two:
What’s the one thing you’re most afraid will ruin your career?
Minutes tick by. I dust the eraser shavings off my joggers, stretch my arms out and think.
Finally, I put my pencil to the paper and write.
Tori.
Fuck.
Same damn answer.
I scratch her name out again and then rip that sheet of paper out too, crumpling it into a tight ball. I aim for the trashcan at the end of the island and shoot my shot.
Miss.
The paper falls to the ground.
Air fucking ball.
I tip my head back and stare up at the ceiling.
Dr. Sparks is going to analyze anything I write down on this sheet of paper. She’ll read what’s there—and what’s not.
I scribble another word: ANGER.
Then I come up with a reasonable story. Something that makes sense.
I detail my anger issues all the way back to grade school. Throw in sibling rivalry just for fun. Talk about how my dad was a professional hockey player and pushed us hard on the ice. How I’m the easygoing brother no one takes seriously. How good it feels to solve problems with my hands, my body.
Three paragraphs later, I’m satisfied.
I’m pretty sure Dr. Sparks will buy this bullshit.
Tossing the notebook on the coffee table, I hit the shower. Maybe I can wash this Tori obsession away.
I’m toweling off when my shattered phone screen lights up.
Sunshine: Check-in. Are you home?
I pick up the phone and text her back.
Bennett: Yep
Sunshine: Sober?
Shit. She has no faith in me.
Bennett: Yes
Sunshine: Get some sleep
Bennett: Will do
Sunshine: Night, Bennett
Bennett: Night
I plug my phone in for the night and hop on Call of Duty, trying my hardest to forget about Tori and that kiss.
After practice, I head over to Dr. Sparks’s office, notebook in hand. I sit in the waiting room and chug a bottle of water, trying to drown out my nerves.
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to sit on her white sofa, in her all-white office, and talk about the past.
Or even worse—the present and my feelings about it.
With any luck, we can stick to the stupid journal assignment and then I’ll be on my way.
“Bennett?” Dr. Sparks leans her head out of her office.
I stand, ready to walk into the line of fire.
She motions me in, closing the door behind us. The click is ominous, echoing in the cozy space. Not waiting for an invitation, I plop onto the sofa. The red numbers on the clock taunt me from the desk.
Dr. Sparks settles into her seat, the same place she sat last session. She crosses her ankles, pen poised above her legal pad.
“I see you have your journal. Very good.” She tips her chin at the notebook.
I swallow hard, nerves jumping.
“Yep.”
I hand the journal to her. She flips to the first page and glances at my assignment. I sit and wait, the numbers on the clock beaming at me.
After several minutes, Dr. Sparks sets the journal on the desk and sits back, folding her hands in her lap. “Walk me through what you wrote.”
I shrug. “What more do you want to know? You read it.”
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I did. I’m interested in how you understand it.”
Well, this is dumb. Why the fuck did I do the assignment?
I drag in a shaky breath, try to mask my aggravation. I crack my knuckles with a loud pop.
Dr. Sparks waits patiently.
“My answer’s anger.”
She presses her glossy lips together. “Anger?” Her finger runs along the lined paper. “Talk to me about that, then.”
Seems pretty fucking obvious.
“I was on probation because I punched a guy. Do the math.” I sit back, folding my arms across my chest.
Dr. Sparks sits motionless, staring at me. I shift on the sofa, antsy.
Finally, she speaks.
“From your retelling last session, you punched a man to protect a woman, possibly preventing a sexual assault. Some might see that as a defensive move.”
“Well, yeah. It was.”
“And while I agree that there may have been other, more appropriate ways to handle the situation, I’m not sure anger was the motivation.”
I frown, narrowing my eyes at her.
“So what—you don’t think I have anger issues?”
“Do you have anger issues?”
“You’re the shrink—you tell me.” I throw my hands out wide, frustration simmering in my gut. “This whole therapy thing’s annoying as hell.”
“Therapy is annoying to you. What part?” She holds my gaze and waits for a response.
“I don’t like being analyzed. And I don’t want to sit around and talk about my feelings. I have better shit to do.”
“You’re too busy for therapy.” Dr. Sparks tips her head and I nod.
“Yeah, I am. And now I’m off probation, so I’ll be back on the ice tomorrow night.”
“And you feel good about that?”
“Yeah, great. Fantastic. It’s my job and I love it.”
“So from your perspective, things are back to normal and you’re feeling good.”
I run a hand through my hair, blow out a breath.
“You paused. Am I wrong in that assessment?”
“Yes and no.”
“Tell me more.”
“Well, things aren’t exactly back to normal.”
“How so?”
“Prince has me on a tight leash. Tori’s still supposed to be supervising me.”
“And that’s what…”
I link my fingers together, stretching my arms out in front of me. “Aggravating, I guess.”
“Aggravating?”
“Yeah. She’s aggravating.”
“Oh.” Dr. Sparks pauses mid-scribble. “Something changed when you brought up Tori.”
Fuck.
This is exactly what I’m not supposed to be getting into.
“We talked about this last time. I’m a grown-ass man. I don’t need a damn babysitter.”
“Is this more about the rules? Or who’s enforcing them?”
Heat flames my face, my neck burning. Dr. Sparks just called me out.
“Um…the rules. Yeah. Definitely.” I punch up that last word, hammering the point.
“I notice our sessions keep coming back to Tori and the tension between the two of you.”
“How do you know there’s tension?”
She waves her hand through the air, as if she’s circling my face on a sketchpad or something.
“Your body language. The constant bouncing of your knee, the cracking of your knuckles. The tone of your voice when you say her name.”
I low-key want to melt into the sofa cushion right now. Disappear from her way-too-perceptive sight.
Instead, I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t say her name any special way.”
Dr. Sparks levels her gaze at me, conveying a silent uh-huh.
No way is she buying what I’m selling.
“Does it bother you that Tori challenges you?”
Hell yeah it does.
“What are you talking about? She doesn’t challenge me.”
“You admitted you don’t like being supervised, following rules. Specifically, rules enforced by her. Is that not challenging to you?”
Dammit.
Dr. Sparks has no idea exactly how challenged I am right now.
Trapped, I shrug. “I guess.”
“You’re used to being in control. Of the puck, of your life. With Tori, that control slips.”
Fuck me.
I stare at the blue-and-white area rug on the floor, unwilling to meet the therapist’s gaze.
Because she’s one hundred percent correct.
Tori makes me crazy.
I want to touch her, taste her, tease her until she’s screaming my name and begging for more.
Watch her unravel beneath me, gazing up at me through lowered lashes like she did in the elevator.
Wanting.
Needing.
“Nah.” I kick my feet out and rest my arm along the back of the sofa. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Possibly the biggest lie I’ve ever told in my life.
“Interesting.” Dr. Sparks scribbles another note on the legal pad and I swallow hard, my mouth dry.
Glancing over at the clock, she picks the journal up from the desk. I lean forward to take it from her but she pulls back, opening the notebook. She runs a finger over the spine, the torn edges making a soft ticking noise.
“What did you write about first?”
“What?”
“What was your initial answer? You tore at least one page out of the journal.” She peers at me and my stomach churns.
No fucking way am I answering this honestly.
“Same thing. Anger. I just didn’t like how it sounded. I rewrote it.”
Dr. Sparks doesn’t respond. She smooths her finger over the page, squinting.
“You write hard. Leaves deep impressions.”
My chest squeezes, air sucked from my lungs as she traces over the indentation with her manicured fingertip.
“Anger isn’t the first word you wrote, Bennett. And anger doesn’t start with a ‘T’.”
Blood rushes out of my face and the room spins a little. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
“You have to be honest with yourself. That’s the only way through this.”
I close my gaping mouth, suck in a breath.
“Which one’s the bigger liability—anger…or ‘T’?” She sets the journal down, giving me space to answer.
I don’t.
“Name it, Bennett. So it doesn’t blindside you on the ice.”