Chapter 19 #2
I'm not icy because I'm calm. I'm icy because I've frozen everything else out.
Anger is the only emotion I let myself feel because it's useful.
It gets me through games, through pain, through the empty hours when I'm alone with my thoughts.
Everything else—the fear, the loneliness, the bone-deep exhaustion—I've locked behind walls of ice so thick I sometimes forget they're there.
But they are. And Scout is melting them, crack by crack, whether I want her to or not. I shake my head. "Nothing good happens."
"Can you give me an example?"
"No." The word comes out too sharp, too fast. She doesn't flinch, just waits patiently.
After what feels like an hour but is probably thirty seconds, I cave.
"If I let myself feel scared about my career ending, I can't function.
I can't get up for PT. I don’t know if I will push through the pain.
So I get angry instead. Anger works. It gets me on the ice. "
"I see." Her pen scratches for a moment. "Okay. You've mentioned being injured. How much pain are you in on a typical day?"
The shift in topic gives me whiplash, but maybe that's the point. "Scale of one to ten?"
"However you want to quantify it."
"Six. Sometimes seven. On bad days, eight." The admission comes easier than expected, maybe because it's just numbers. "It's been that way for two years, maybe three. You get used to it."
"Do you think that's sustainable?"
I consider that for a long beat. "It has to be."
"Okay." She makes another note, then looks back up at me. "What do you think your teammates expect of you?"
This one's easier. I've thought about it enough. "I'm supposed to be the enforcer. The guy who takes the hits so they don't have to. I fight when someone goes after our skilled players. I'm reliable, consistent, and tough."
My voice gets quieter on the last word.
Dr. Sable nods. "And what do you expect of yourself?"
"More." The word escapes before I can stop it. "Always more. Tougher, stronger, faster. Play through more pain. Take more hits. Score when it matters. Be better than I was yesterday, even when yesterday was already everything I had."
Dr. Sable sets her pen down entirely and looks at me with something that might be concern. "That sounds exhausting."
"It's hockey."
"Is it? Or is it something else?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Do you have support at home?"
Scout's face flashes through my mind. I push out my cheek with my tongue. "Define support."
"Someone you can talk to. Someone who sees you as more than just a hockey player."
"There's..." I stop, then start again. "My roommate. She's helping with the injury. Making sure I eat and do my PT exercises. That kind of thing."
"She?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "Just one of the physical therapists that works for the team. It's temporary, just until my shoulder heals."
"I see." Dr. Sable's eyebrows rise slightly but she doesn't comment on that. "Who do you talk to when things get hard?"
"I don't."
"Never?"
"What's the point? Talking doesn't change anything. It doesn't heal injuries faster or make the team need me more. It can't make me younger or less broken."
"Broken." She absorbs that, then leans back in her chair. "You used an interesting word there. Need. You want the team to need you." She pauses, watching my face carefully. "You want to be indispensable. What happens if you're not?"
The words land like body blows, one after another. My chest goes tight, breath coming shorter. The room feels smaller suddenly, walls pressing in. "Then I'm replaceable. Expendable. Just another guy who used to play."
"And that terrifies you."
It's not a question but I answer anyway. "Well, yeah."
"What do you do when you're overwhelmed? When everything feels like too much?"
"I hit things." The honesty surprises me. "Usually I have a go with the heavy bag at the gym. Sometimes I drive to the rink at two in the morning and shoot pucks until my arms shake. Other times I just... shut down. I lock myself in my room and stare at game tape until my eyes burn."
"Does that help?"
I shake my head. "No, but it passes the time."
“Thank you for confiding in me, Silas.” She smiles a little. That weird feeling of having met her somewhere before passes over me again. Almost a sense of déjà vu. Dr. Sable glances at the clock on the wall, then back at me.
"We're almost out of time for today, but I want to leave you with something to think about.
" She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, elbows on her knees.
"You've built your entire identity around being useful to other people.
But what if your value isn't tied to what you can do for others?
What if you matter just because you exist? "
The words feel like a foreign language. I stare at her, unable to formulate a response that doesn't sound like complete rejection of the concept.
"I'd like to see you again in the next couple of weeks," she continues, standing up. "I'll reach out to you for scheduling."
"Sure." I stand too, grateful for the excuse to move. "Coach says I have to, so I'll be here."
"Silas." Her voice stops me at the door. "This is hard work. What you're doing, coming here, being honest. That takes courage. Real courage, not the kind that throws punches on the ice."
Something in my chest cracks. I scrub at the back of my neck as I mutter, "See you around, Dr. Sable."
The hallway feels too bright after the warm dimness of her office. The elevator ride down stretches forever. By the time I push through the building's front door, my hands are shaking. Seattle's gray morning air hits my face, cool and damp, and I gulp it like I've been underwater.
My truck sits where I left it. I climb in and just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave marks. The session replays in fragments.
Nobody. Replaceable. What if you matter just because you exist?
Those are heavy questions.
My phone buzzes. As if he knew I was already in a tailspin, there's a text from Enzo.
Enzo: Got your contract numbers from the Havoc. Call me.
I dial before I can think better of it, already bracing for whatever manipulation he's about to try.
"Huxley!" His voice is too bright, too cheerful. He sounds as though he's won something. "I've got some news about your contract negotiations."
I need to rush him off the phone. "Let's hear it."
"The Havoc's offering two years, but the numbers are lower than we initially projected." He rattles off a figure that's nearly forty percent less than what I'm worth. I know what players with my stats and experience typically get.
My jaw locks. "That's insulting."
"I know, I know. But the market's tight right now. Your age, your injury history, the questions about your shoulder..." He trails off, letting the implications hang there like a noose. "I can push back hard, but I'm not sure how much wiggle room we have here."
"You're my agent. That's your job. Push back."
"I will, I will. Just managing expectations, you know?" He sounds too pleased about all this. I'm pretty sure he's enjoying delivering bad news.
Something clicks in my brain, a pattern I should have seen before.
My voice goes frosty. "Why do you sound happy about this?"
"What? I'm not happy. I'm just being realistic about market conditions..."
"You want me to take less money. Why?"
"Silas, that's ridiculous. I make more when you make more..."
"Do you?" I grip the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles go white. "Or is there another reason you want my contract value lower? Something you're not telling me?"
Silence. It stretches on, too long and heavy.
"I'll call you back when I have more information." He hangs up before I can respond.
I sit there in my truck with my pulse pounding in my ears, pieces falling into place like a puzzle I should have solved months ago. Enzo's been sabotaging me. Feeding the organization doubts about my age, my injuries, my value as a player. Driving my price down deliberately.
But why? What does he gain from lowering my contract value when his commission goes down too?
I don't know yet. But I will. I'll figure it out and then I'll burn him for it.
When I finally drive home, Scout's in the kitchen when I walk in.
She's wearing black yoga pants and an oversized gray Havoc sweatshirt, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup.
Those dark blonde curls escape in soft tendrils around her face, making her look younger somehow.
Her green eyes are soft, unguarded in the quiet of the morning.
The gray sweatshirt hangs off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin and that delicate collarbone I want to trace with my fingers.
Her lips are bare, pink and full without any gloss.
She's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
Comfortable and real and completely unaware of what seeing her like this does to me.
She looks comfortable, like she belongs here in my space. Glancing up when I walk in, she smiles. "Hey. How was your day?"
"Fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Her smile fades. Those green eyes see too much. "You don't look fine."
"I'm handling it."
She sets her mug down carefully on the counter. That look she gets when she's trying to figure out an injury crosses her face. "Silas. Talk to me."
I shrug a shoulder. "There's nothing to talk about."
"That's bullshit. You've been wound tight since we came back from Vashon. Something's wrong and you won't tell me what it is."
I should walk away. Work through it myself until I have a solution or at least a plan. But I'm tired. So fucking tired of carrying everything by myself.
"Enzo's screwing me on my contract." The words come out rougher than I intend. "Deliberately driving my value down with the organization. I don't know why yet, but he is."
Scout's face hardens. "That bastard."
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do?"