Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Silas
My phone buzzes while I'm icing my shoulder on the couch. Scout's at work, the condo is quiet, and I'm supposed to be resting before tonight's game. Instead I've been staring at the ceiling for the past hour, thinking about therapy and Dr. Sable and how badly I fucked up that last session.
The text is from a number I don't recognize.
Unknown
Hi Silas, this is Sable Nash. Do you have a few minutes to talk?
My stomach drops. Scout's sister. The therapist I bolted from like a complete psycho three weeks ago.
Me
Yeah.
Three dots appear, disappear, reappear. My phone rings.
"Hello?" I answer, probably sounding as uncomfortable as I feel.
"Hi Silas." Her voice is warm, professional, the same tone she used in our sessions. "Thanks for picking up. I wanted to talk to you about something important."
"Look, I'm sorry about leaving like that. It was unprofessional and I shouldn't have..."
"That's actually what I wanted to discuss." She cuts me off gently. "I've been thinking about our last session, and I need to be honest with you. I can't be your therapist."
The words land differently than I expect. Relief mixed with something that might be disappointment. "Because of Scout."
"Because of Scout," she confirms. "It's a conflict of interest. You're dating my sister, and that makes it impossible for me to maintain the professional boundaries necessary for effective therapy. I should have referred you to someone else the moment you mentioned her name."
"So that's it? I'm just supposed to find someone else?"
"Actually, I already have someone in mind." Papers rustle in the background. "His name is Dr. Max Liehrstahl. He's a sports psychologist who specializes in working with professional athletes. I've referred several clients to him over the years and the feedback has been excellent."
I shift the ice pack on my shoulder. "You think he'll take me?"
"I already spoke with him. He has an opening tomorrow afternoon if you're interested.
" Her voice softens slightly. "Silas, I know switching therapists isn't ideal.
You were starting to open up in our sessions, and that's hard work.
But Dr. Max is really good at what he does. I think you'll click with him."
"What did you tell him about me?"
"Just the basics. That you're a professional hockey player dealing with career transition anxiety and some intimacy issues. Nothing specific about our sessions. That stays confidential."
The tightness in my chest eases slightly. "Does Scout know you're calling me?"
"No. This is between us. Patient confidentiality applies even after termination." She pauses. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing good work. Don't let this setback stop you from continuing therapy. You deserve support, Silas."
The kindness in her voice makes my throat tight. "Thanks. I'll call Dr. Max."
"Good. I'll text you his contact information." Another pause. "And Silas? Take care of my sister. She's been through enough."
"I will. I am."
"I know." I can hear the smile in her voice. "That's why I'm rooting for you both."
After we hang up, I stare at my phone for a long minute. Sable could have written me off as a lost cause. Could have told Scout I'm too fucked up to be worth the effort. Instead she's handing me off to another therapist and wishing me well.
I don't deserve the Nash sisters, but I'm going to try like hell to be worthy of them anyway.
The text comes through with Dr. Max's information. I dial before I can talk myself out of it.
"Dr. Liehrstahl's office, this is Max speaking."
The voice is deep, casual, not at all what I expected from a therapist. "Uh, hi. This is Silas Huxley. Dr. Nash referred me?"
"Silas! Yeah, Sable mentioned you might call. Got time to talk now or you want to schedule something?"
"I can talk now."
"Perfect. Give me two seconds." I hear a door close, footsteps, then the creak of a chair. "Okay, I'm settled. So Sable told me you're a defenseman for the Havoc, dealing with some transition stuff. Want to fill me in on what's going on?"
The casual approach throws me off balance. Dr. Sable was professional, careful, measured. This guy sounds like he's talking to a friend over beers.
"I'm worried about my career ending," I say bluntly. "My shoulder's fucked and I don't know who I am without hockey."
"That's heavy shit." No judgment in his voice, just acknowledgment. "How long you been playing?"
"Since I was four."
"So hockey's not just your job, it's your identity."
"Yeah. Exactly that."
"Makes sense you'd be freaking out." Papers shuffle. "Sable said you've got some relationship stuff going on too. Want to talk about that?"
I think about Scout, about how badly I want to marry her and how terrified I am that she'll realize I'm not worth it. "I'm with someone. Someone really good. And I keep waiting for her to figure out I'm a mess and leave."
"You tell her you're a mess?"
"Some of it. I'm trying to be more honest."
"That's a start." His chair creaks again. "Here's the thing, Silas. Most of us are a mess in one way or another. The question isn't whether you're fucked up. It's whether you're willing to do the work to be less fucked up. You game for that?"
Something about his bluntness makes me relax. "Yeah. I'm game."
"Good. Let's get you scheduled for a real session. You free tomorrow at three?"
"I can be."
"Done. I'm texting you the address now. Fair warning, my office isn't fancy. It's above a gym in Fremont. You're gonna smell chalk and sweat the whole time."
"That sounds perfect, actually."
"Thought you might say that." I can hear the grin in his voice. "Bring a notebook tomorrow. We're gonna start mapping out who Silas Huxley is when he's not on the ice. It's homework, so don't skip it."
"I won't."
"See you tomorrow, man."
He hangs up before I can say anything else. I sit there with the phone in my hand, the ice pack now lukewarm against my shoulder, and realize I'm smiling.
Maybe this will actually work.
The next afternoon, I find Dr. Max's office exactly where he said it would be. Above a CrossFit gym in Fremont, up a narrow staircase that smells like rubber mats and protein powder. The door has his name printed on frosted glass in simple black letters.
I knock.
"Come in!"
The office is small and cluttered in a way that feels lived-in rather than messy.
Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with psychology texts and sports biographies.
A worn leather couch faces two chairs. No desk, no diplomas on display, just a space that feels more like a living room than a doctor's office.
Dr. Max stands to greet me. He's shorter than I expected, maybe five-ten, with graying hair pulled back in a small ponytail and the build of someone who used to be an athlete. Faded tattoos cover both forearms.
"Silas. Good to meet you in person." His handshake is firm. "Have a seat wherever. Couch, chair, floor if that's your thing. I don't care."
I choose one of the chairs. It's comfortable, broken in, the kind of chair that doesn't make you worry about sitting wrong.
"So." He settles into the other chair with a notebook that's seen better days. "Sable gave me the basics but I want to hear it from you. What brings you here?"
"My last therapist was my girlfriend's sister. That got complicated."
"Bet it did." He grins. "But that's not what I meant. What's the real reason you're sitting in my office instead of pretending you've got your shit together like most athletes do?"
The directness catches me off guard. Again. "My coach made me start therapy. Said I needed to figure out my priorities before my career decisions got made for me."
"Smart coach. You pissed about that?"
"At first. Not anymore."
"What changed?"
I think about Scout, about almost losing her because I couldn't be honest. About the guys talking me down from my spiral. About realizing that being strong doesn't mean doing everything alone.
"I figured out I can't keep pretending I'm fine when I'm not," I say. "It's cost me too much already."
Dr. Max nods, scribbling something. "Tell me about your shoulder."
The next hour passes faster than I expect.
He asks questions that cut straight to the bone, doesn't let me hide behind vague answers or deflections.
When I try to minimize my fear about retirement, he calls me on it.
When I start spiraling about Scout leaving, he makes me actually articulate why I believe that instead of just accepting the anxiety as fact.
"Here's your homework," he says as the session winds down. "I want you to write down five things you're good at that have nothing to do with hockey. Can be anything. Cooking, making people laugh, parallel parking, I don't give a shit. Just five things."
"That's it?"
"That's it. Sounds easy, right?" His smile is knowing. "Most athletes can't do it. They've tied their entire identity to their sport for so long they can't see anything else. Prove me wrong."
"I will."
"Good." He stands, walks me to the door. "Same time next week?"
"Yeah. Same time."
"And Silas?" He claps me on the shoulder. "You're doing the right thing. Therapy's not weakness. It's maintenance. You wouldn't skip PT for your shoulder, right? This is PT for your brain."
The comparison makes sense in a way nothing else has. "Thanks, Dr. Max."
"Just Max is fine. See you next week."
I leave the office feeling lighter than I have in weeks. No breakthrough, no magical cure, just the beginning of actual work. Work I should have started years ago.
My phone buzzes as I'm walking to my truck.
Scout
How did it go?
She knows I had the appointment. I told her last night, nervous she'd be weird about me switching therapists. Instead she just kissed me and said she was proud of me for going back.
Me
Good. Really good actually. New therapist is solid.
Scout
I'm so glad, baby. Dinner tonight to celebrate?
Me
Yeah. I'll cook.
Scout
You're perfect. I love you.
Me
Love you too.
I get in the truck and pull out the notebook Max gave me. Five things I'm good at that aren't hockey. The blank page stares back, challenging me to see myself as something more than a defenseman.
I tap the pen against the paper, thinking.
I'm good at taking care of Scout. Making her feel safe and wanted and seen.
I pause, then keep writing.
I'm good at parallel parking. (Max said it counted.)
I'm good at making Scout laugh, even when she's trying to stay mad at me.
I'm good with numbers. Stats, analytics, patterns.
I'm good at showing up. Even when it's hard or when I want to run.
I stare at the list. It's not much. But it's a start.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I head home to Scout. To dinner and therapy homework and the life I'm building that exists beyond the ice.
Hockey won't last forever. But I’m starting to think beyond hockey, into next steps. And I’m not scared as shitless as I was six months ago.
That’s progress, right?