Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Silas
While we were on Vashon Island, Coach texted me a third time, demanding a date for my appointment with the sports therapist. A therapist is just going to dig into my past and drag up a bunch of memories that are better off forgotten.
I already know that my childhood was screwed up.
My mom was all the Huxley boys’ agents for years, stole a bunch of money from all of us, then disappeared.
If it weren’t for Mom blackmailing Hunter to get more money, I doubt that I’d have ever heard from her again.
So yeah, I have some issues. And while I’m perfectly content to hold my feelings in until the end of time and die repressed, Coach Cross is going to lose his shit if he has to ask me again when my appointment is.
I finally text Dr. Sable's number late at night, explaining who I am and that I need to schedule an appointment. Scheduling sounds better than actually seeing a shrink, somehow. I've never been so glad to put my phone on silent and head to bed.
Hell, maybe Dr. Sable doesn't even get texts on that number. A guy can hope, right?
Unfortunately, when I wake up, there is a text waiting for me.
Dr. Sable
Silas, I have a last-minute cancellation this morning. Any chance you can make it?
Fuuuuuuck. I can't say no. I text the doctor that I'll be there in an hour, then hurry through showering and getting dressed. Scout isn't up yet as I stealthily sneak out of the condo.
Good. I don’t want her realizing what a basketcase I am.
Soon enough, I'm sitting on the couch in Dr. Sable's office, my palms sweating.
The office is too warm. There are two low bookshelves full of books dedicated to sports.
The Complete Athlete: Mind and Body. 1042 Races: How I Conquered the Sport of Running.
Psychoanalysis and the Professional Athlete. Life After Sports.
They should make me feel some sort of confidence, like Dr. Sable knows what I’m going through. Instead the titles batter me, making me feel raw and brittle. I feel perspiration begin to dot my forehead.
"I'm so glad that you were able to make it here on such short notice.
" Dr. Sable sits down across from me and crosses her legs, notepad balanced in her lap.
She's professional and calm in her stylish white button up and black pencil skirt.
On the tall side for a woman, she has a heart-shaped face, green eyes, and long blonde hair.
She looks sort of familiar, though I have no idea why. Maybe it's because she's hot, in a buttoned up, corporate suit kind of way. Shit, if I wasn't so averse to therapy, I might actually think about asking her out.
Well, I’m also obsessed with my roommate. So there’s that. I have enough on my plate.
“Uh, yeah.” That’s all I can manage to say. Dr. Sable is going to see right through me, pin me like a butterfly in a case.
"Thanks for coming in, Silas." Dr. Sable's voice is warm without being patronizing. "I know this isn't easy."
I grunt and shift on the couch. The leather squeaks under my weight.
She uncaps a pen and smiles at me. "Why don't we start simple. What brought you here today?"
"Coach Cross gave me your card. He said I needed to talk to someone.
" I cross my arms over my chest. "I've been hurt a few times over the past seasons, bad enough that it's looking like I'll have maybe three more seasons if I get super lucky. So Coach sent me here to talk about my career and figure out a plan for... whatever comes next.”
“And how do you feel about having your coach ask you to see me?”
I break eye contact. “Shit makes me angry. He should know that I’m fine."
"You mention your temper." She writes something down. "Tell me about that."
Silence reigns for a moment as I struggle to decide how to phrase it. "I take bad penalties. Sometimes I get baited into scrums. I can't seem to stop myself even when I know better. It... costs my team games."
"And that frustrates you."
"Yeah. And like… hurts me. Physically, I mean."
She nods slowly and waits. The silence stretches between us, heavy and expectant. I hate silence in rooms like this. It feels like a trap designed to make me fill it with things I shouldn't say.
I supply, "Mostly, Coach Cross sent me here to figure out an exit strategy from hockey."
Dr. Sable nods and scribbles another note. "Can you tell me more?"
"Not really." I rub the back of my neck. "Like I said, I've had a lot of injuries. I play defense on a hockey team, so the hits just keep stacking up. A couple of weeks ago, I tore my labrum and had to have surgery on it."
"That's a tough injury. How is it feeling? How's the PT?"
"Rough." I lean my head back against the couch, looking at the ceiling. "I've tried so hard to do everything right. My sleep schedule is on point. My diet is mind-numbing, but I hit every macro I set. I fucking live in the gym." I pause. "Sorry, can I curse?"
Dr. Sable waves a hand. "Of course."
"Thanks. Yeah, I basically eat, sleep, and play hockey. For years, I have been so focused on that. I don't have hobbies. Music? Movies? I haven't seen or heard anything. All I know is hockey. It's the only thing I'm good at."
"It sounds like you've really put all your eggs in one basket, huh?"
I snort. "Yeah. And now Coach is telling me to like... prepare myself for leaving the Havoc. What the fuck? What am I supposed to do?"
The doctor writes a note and then looks up at me, her expression thoughtful. She taps her pen against the notepad once, twice, then sets it down completely.
"Silas, I want you to try something with me. A thought experiment." She leans forward slightly. "If you weren't a hockey player for a year, who would you be?"
The question hits like a slap shot straight to the sternum. I stare at her for several seconds, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. "I don't... that's not... I am a hockey player."
"I understand that. But imagine, just for a moment, that you couldn't play. Maybe you're injured. Maybe you're taking a sabbatical. For one full year, no hockey. Who are you then?"
My hands clench into fists on my thighs. The leather couch creaks as I shift forward, then back, unable to find a comfortable position. "Nobody. I'd be nobody."
She writes that down, her face neutral. "Nobody?"
"Look, hockey isn't just what I do. It's who I am.
Without it..." My voice trails off because finishing that sentence feels like admitting something I can't take back.
"My dad played. My brothers play. It's the family business.
Take that away and I'm just some guy with no skills, no purpose, no fucking point. "
"What about a team outside the NHL? Have you considered that?"
Another gut punch disguised as a question. My shoulder throbs as if responding to the thought. "That would mean I'm done. Washed up. It feels like all those years of sacrifice were for nothing."
"Sacrifice," she repeats, latching onto the word. "Tell me about those sacrifices."
"College relationships that never went anywhere because hockey came first." My neck heats, because of course I'm talking about Scout. "Really one relationship in particular that could've been a thing. But I was worried that if I didn't focus on hockey a hundred percent, I'd lose my shot."
Dr. Sable's pen stills against her notepad. Something flickers across her face, too quick for me to read, before her professional mask slides back into place.
"One relationship in particular," she repeats carefully. "That sounds like it still weighs on you."
"Sometimes." The admission burns coming out. "It was eight years ago. I should be over it by now."
"Should is an interesting word choice." She sets her pen down entirely, giving me her full attention. "There's no timeline for processing regret, Silas. Especially when it represents a pattern that might still be active in your life."
"What do you mean?"
"You chose hockey over this relationship because you were afraid of losing your shot. Are you still making that same choice? Still sacrificing connections for the game?"
My jaw tightens. "Hockey demands everything. That's just how it is."
"Is it? Or is that the story you tell yourself to avoid taking risks?" She leans back slightly, studying me. "What if that person, that particular relationship, could have existed alongside hockey? What if it wasn't actually an either-or situation?"
Bitterness fills my tone. "You don't understand. I had to be completely focused. Any distraction could have cost me everything."
"And did that total focus get you everything you wanted?"
The question sits heavy between us.
"I'm in the NHL," I say finally.
"That's not what I asked." Her voice stays gentle but doesn't let me off the hook. "You're in the NHL, yes. But are you happy? Fulfilled? It doesn’t sound like you are.”
Scrubbing my neck, I can't help but picture Scout again. Her scent, her warmth, the way she touches me and makes me feel like I'm not some broken robot.
"I don't know." I peek up at the doctor. "Can I skip that for now?"
"Of course. This is only our first session. I'm just trying to find your baseline." Dr. Sable shifts in her chair, recrossing her legs. "You mentioned anger earlier. That it's been an issue on the ice. What happens if you let yourself feel anything besides anger?"
The question catches me off guard. I've been ready to talk about fighting, about penalties, about the rage that sometimes takes over when an opponent goes after one of my teammates. This is different.
"I don't understand the question."
"Anger is often what we call a secondary emotion. It usually covers something else. Fear, hurt, disappointment. What happens when you let those other feelings surface?"
My throat goes tight. People call me Ice Man. The nickname's supposed to be about my icy feelings in the face of chirping. But the truth is darker than that.