Chapter 3 #2
Cap was the first to cross the room to me. “Congrats, Jari. You earned it,” he said, gripping my hand firmly.
Noah fist-bumped me, grin wide. “Awesome.”
Trick clapped a hand on my shoulder, solid and surprising. “Fourth line’s about to scare the shit out of goalies again.”
Then Mules and Becks came over—Mules grinning like a kid at Christmas, Becks less sure but trying.
Mules jabbed a thumb between the three of us. “Our trio of deadly fourth-line snipers is back on the menu, boys.”
Becks snorted. “‘Deadly’? Mules, we’ve scored four combined goals in two seasons.”
“Yeah,” Mules shot back, “but they were important goals. Legendary goals. Historic.”
Becks rolled his eyes. “Two were empty-netters.”
Mules shrugged. “Still counts.”
They both looked at me then—really looked.
“Gonna be good having you with us,” Mules said.
Becks nodded, a little stiff but sincere. “Yeah. Let’s make it a line people notice this year.”
“I'm there for it,” I said, and jeez, my acting skills were on point because I sounded as if I actually meant it would happen and that I’d maybe get to stay with the team.
I showered quickly and had an hour now to kill, as I walked out of the Railers building, and I tugged at my bracelets. Clicked my watch clasp. Grounding myself as I headed for the medical building we shared with the baseball and football teams.
I entered through the front door, took a right at some painting, and was lost—one wrong turn, and suddenly everything seemed different.
The lighting was warmer, the ceiling higher, and the whole place echoed with a sense of history of all the pro teams. Posters lined the walls, large ones—players mid-pitch, skater, celebrating a goal, full of grit and glory, a whole shrine to Tennant Rowe to one side, nearest the trophy cabinet, with polished glass reflecting my anxious expression.
“Calm the fuck down,” I told my worried-looking self. I focused on the baseball photos instead as I tried to find my center.
I never tried out for baseball. Never wanted to, although I watched games here and there when I was a kid, back when my father played for the Arizona Raptors.
I was born to skate and born for ice. Every bone in my body knew that from the first time I touched a rink.
So why was it going so wrong? Why did it feel like no matter how hard I fought to make a name for myself—myself, not the shadow of my father—I kept getting pulled under?
I let out an overly dramatic sigh, realized I'd completely lost my bearings, and broke into a jog to backtrack—only to turn a corner and nearly collide with someone.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Hoodie. Running shoes. Cam Blackburn. He steadied me with a hand on my arm. Gentle. “Oh—sorry,” he said, warm and startled.
I froze, and he stared at me—not through me, not past me, at me. Brown eyes steady.
“You okay?” he asked.
My heart thudded. “Yeah. Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“It happens.” He didn’t step away fully, curiosity in his expression.
“I remember you from that speech I did. With the Railers, right?” He smiled—soft, kind, dangerous—and with that smile came the rest of him: taller than me by a couple of inches, slim but toned as though every part of him was built for precision, dark hair pushed back messily like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times, and lips that were—fuck—ridiculously distracting.
The kind of mouth you noticed, even if you didn’t want to.
Fuck I needed to talk. To say something.
Instead, I turned to gaze at the display as if that was everything right now.
“Angry game,” Cam murmured to fill the awkward silence, and pointed at the one photo I never wanted to see again.
The man wearing it was helmet less, half-turned to the camera, his face drawn into a mask of pure hatred, as he pulled back to throw a punch at Tennant Rowe.
An old photo that was a painful reminder of everything.
My father.
Change the subject.
“And sluggers like you never get angry?” I snapped.
He winced. ”Sure… sorry, I didn't mean anything.” He was placating me, I could tell, and I hated that shit. Then he collected himself, smiled at me, and pointed to the picture I hated and peered closely. “That guy is super angry though, right?”
I closed down, lost my focus, and my breathing was harsh. Fuck. Not a panic attack. Not now. Fuck!
“So, you’re one of my willing victims,” he said to change the subject.
“Huh?”
“Volunteering for the charity event.” Then he grinned. “Or more like voluntold.”
Oh my god, he’s talking to me, and I’m a mess.
“I'm lost,” I blurted, and glanced at my watch. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes.”
“Where? I know this place like the back of my hand.”
“Fourth floor admin,” I said in a non-specific way. He nodded and put a hand to my elbow, guiding me back the way I came to the closest stairs.
“It's quickest this way.”
“Thank you,” I said as we climbed, and finally, the mist of panic began to ease.
I can do this.
“Are you a baseball fan?” Cam asked. “Because I gotta be honest, I don’t watch a lot of hockey. I always watch out for what you guys are doing, but y’know, the season is manic, and then I have downtime just when you’re playing…” He threw me a wry smile.
“I’m a fan of baseball the same way,” I said, glad I had something to add to the conversation. “But I root for the Phoenix Sunriders.”
He hissed and made the sign of a cross, and then huffed a laugh. “Well, we’re not all perfect.”
We walked the last flight together, Cam matching my pace as though he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. He asked easy questions—nothing sharp, nothing invasive.
“You settling in okay?” he asked.
“I… yeah. Trying to.” I tugged at my bracelet, hoping he didn’t notice.
“You’ll get there. First week’s always chaos.” He grinned, and god, it hit stupidly hard. “Hockey guys and baseball guys share the same building, but we barely cross paths unless someone steals our parking spots.”
“I don’t have a car here yet,” I muttered.
“Good. Then it’s not you.”
Somehow, he made me smile. We reached the top floor—quiet, carpeted, nothing like the echoing sports levels below. A huge 4 was painted beside the admin wing doors.
He stopped, nodding toward it. “You know what room you’re looking for?”
Panic punched straight through my ribs. My mind blanked. “I’ll find it,” I said too fast.
Something in my voice must’ve hit him because he backed off gently, hands raised. “Cool.” He took a step back, smile softening. “Nice to meet you again, Jari. See you soon.”
“‘Soon’?”
He frowned. “For the charity planning.”
“Yeah, sure, of course.” I swallowed, nodded, and reached for the door, but my pulse tripped.
“I don't think I'd be a good fit,” I blurted, imagining the damage my participation could do to a charity focusing on mental freaking health.
One glance at my last name and it would tarnish the entire thing.
“Why’s that?” The way Cam held my gaze made it hard to walk away. I had to, though, because Cap didn't know what he was doing when he asked me to be part of a charity focused on mental health.
“Nothing. Ignore me,” I said, and after a pause, he nodded. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
All too soon, I was on the other side of the door, pulling out the slip of paper with Dr. Hale's room number. I followed the corridor until I reached a door with a brushed-steel plate reading 417. My stomach dropped. I knocked before I could think better of it.
“Come in,” a male voice called—steady, low, nothing as I’d expected.
The room surprised me. Expansive windows stretched across the far wall, looking out over the baseball field below.
The roof was closed today, a curved shell of steel and glass filtering the light, so everything seemed muted and distant.
From up here, the diamond appeared almost unreal—perfect lines, untouched dirt, the entire stadium quiet.
The office was warm. Plants. Soft lighting. Bookshelf. No cold chrome medical bullshit. Just a desk, two comfortable chairs, and framed prints of abstract art that didn’t demand anything from me.
And behind the desk—Dr. Hale.
A man.
For some reason, I’d been expecting a woman. Maybe because every therapist I’d ever been to was one. Maybe because another man would see me as weak, I didn't like it one bit, and I came to a halt just inside the door.
He didn’t seem harsh and judgmental, though. Dark hair threaded with early silver, beard trimmed close, eyes tender but sharp enough to notice things I didn’t want seen. Late forties, maybe. Button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, posture relaxed but confident.
“Jari Lankinen?” he said.
I nodded, throat tight.
“Come in. Sit wherever you feel comfortable.”
Comfortable. Right. I wanted to run. I stepped inside anyway.
Dr. Hale waited until I sat on the edge of the chair with my back to the internal window, too upright, too tense—before he spoke again.
“First things first,” he said, voice steady but not clinical. “I’m Dr. Daniel Hale. But most players call me Dan.”
Dan. That felt… less threatening. Still a man. Still, someone who could cut me open with a question. But softer around the edges. He folded his hands loosely on his knee.
“Coach tells me you made the roster with the Railers. Big congrats on the transition. How’s your head handling all of this?”
My laugh came out wrong—thin, brittle. “Fine.”
Dan’s eyebrows lifted in a way that wasn’t judgmental—more as if he was giving me space to reconsider. “‘Fine’ is a big word,” he said. “Covers a lot of ground. What does it mean for you?”
I picked at one of my bracelets. “Means I’m doing good,” I lied.
“Showing up here counts,” Dan said. “I know you didn't have any choice, but it’s the hardest part.”
I shrugged, eyes darting to the window, the empty stadium beyond it. “Okay.”
He picked up a folder with the Railers logo, my name on the front. JARI LANKINEN. I winced. “So, I've been sent reports from previous teams, three so far, right?” I nodded, and he paused, and I didn't know what to say. “Must be hard, moving so much.”
“I guess,” I said, and I was about to walk, expecting him to start summarizing what they all said, but he opened the folder and showed me that the only thing in there was blank paper. He laid it on the desk, then came around to sit on the chair opposite me, so the desk wasn't between us.
“I never read what others say, and I don't care what anyone else thinks,” he murmured. “So, how about we start from the beginning, and I get to know you so you can stop bracing yourself?” Dan didn’t push. He waited for me to talk as if he had all the time in the world.
My chest clenched. “Does it matter if I just tell you the same things I told them?”
“It matters to you,” he said.
My jaw worked. I glanced down at my hands instead of his face. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“That’s okay,” Dan said, and damn it, he sounded sincere. “We start wherever you want to.”
Fuck.