CHAPTER FOUR
Easton
Dr. Reyes' office wasn't what I expected. No couch. No abstract art. No clipboard with notes about my issues. Two comfortable chairs angled toward each other and a window overlooking the practice facility parking lot.
"Coffee?" Dr. Reyes offered, gesturing to a small pot on the side table. "Fair warning, it's terrible. But it's caffeine."
I shook my head, already tense.
He settled into his chair with his own mug, casual despite the circumstances. "So. The reporter. Walk me through what happened."
I crossed my arms, the defensive posture automatic. "You've seen the video."
"I have. But videos don't show what's happening in here." He tapped his temple. "What were you feeling right before you grabbed him?"
The reporter's face flashed in my mind. Smug, self-satisfied, deliberately needling me. My jaw locked. "He was baiting me. Asking if I was washed up, if it was time to retire. Then he brought up my father."
"And?"
"And I lost it." The words tasted bitter. "Grabbed him by the throat, backed him against the wall. If Coach Martin hadn't been there…" I trailed off, not wanting to think about how far I might have gone.
Dr. Reyes nodded, making a note on a small pad. "This wasn't your first incident this season. The equipment manager, the assistant coach. Tell me about the last time you lost your temper."
I shifted in the chair. "Last week. Practice. One of the younger guys wasn't taking drills seriously, and I got in his face. Yelled. Beck had to pull me off."
"What were you feeling at that moment?"
Rage. Pure, white-hot rage. The kind that made my vision tunnel and my fists clench.
The kind my father had perfected.
"You think this is a game, Easton?" His voice, cold and sharp despite the scotch. I'd been fourteen, laughing with teammates after we'd lost a game. "You lost. And you're smiling about it?"
"Coach said we played well, we just—"
"I don't give a damn what your coach said." He'd grabbed my jersey, pulled me close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "Winners don't make excuses. And they sure as hell don't laugh about losing."
He'd made me skate laps for two hours that night. Alone on our backyard rink in the dark, while he watched from the porch with his glass.
"I felt like he was wasting everyone's time," I said carefully, coming back from the memory. "Like he didn't respect the game."
"Or like he didn't respect you," Dr. Reyes suggested quietly.
Yeah. That too.
"Look, I get it." Dr. Reyes leaned back, his expression serious but not judgmental. "You've spent your entire life in an environment where physical dominance wins games. The problem is that doesn't translate off the ice. Out here, it destroys careers and relationships."
I wanted to argue, but his tone made me pause. "So, what am I supposed to do? Just let people disrespect me?"
"Not at all. You're supposed to respond instead of react." He pulled a small card from his desk drawer. "There's a difference. This is what I want you to try: stop, breathe, observe, proceed."
I looked at the card skeptically. "That's it?"
"It's not magic, it's practice." A hint of a smile.
"When you feel the anger rising, stop. Don't move, don't speak. Just freeze for a second. Then breathe.” He demonstrated by breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.
“Deep breath in, slow breath out. It gives your brain a chance to catch up with your emotions. "
"And observe?"
"Ask yourself, why am I angry right now?
Is this anger actually justified, or am I reacting to something else?
What happens if I act on this?" He shrugged.
"Then proceed, but with intention, not impulse.
That gap between what pisses you off and what you do about it?
That's where the work happens. That's where you take control back. "
I stared at the card, turning it over in my hands. It was very simple. "You really think this will work?"
"I think it's a tool. Whether it works depends on how you use it." He paused, cocking his head to the side. "Now, tell me about your father."
The shift in topic caught me off guard. "What about him?"
He blinked at me as if I were a kid. "The reporter mentioned him. That seemed to be the final trigger. What was your relationship like?"
My fingers clenched around the card. "He was a great man. A hockey legend. He taught me everything about the game."
"That's not what I asked." Dr. Reyes' voice was gentle but firm. "What was your relationship like?"
Images flashed through my mind. Dad on the ice, skating circles around me while I tried to keep up.
Dad at the dinner table, dissecting my games with surgical precision, pointing out every mistake.
Dad's face when I'd scored my first NHL goal.
There was pride mixed with something else I could never quite name.
"He was tough," I finally said. "Pushed me hard. But he wanted me to be the best."
"And did you feel you could ever be good enough?"
The question hit like a slapshot to the chest. I cleared my throat, looked away, focusing on the parking lot below. "I don't know. Maybe not."
"And you've been trying to prove yourself ever since."
It wasn't a question, and I didn't have an answer. The silence stretched between us, heavy with a truth I wasn't ready to face.
Dr. Reyes leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Here's your homework for this week. Every time you feel that anger rising, use the card. And I want you to keep a journal. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just notes. What triggered you, how you felt, what you did about it."
"A journal?" I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." He smiled slightly. "Look, I know it sounds touchy-feely.
But you can't fix what you don't acknowledge.
Writing it down makes it real. Makes it something you can work with instead of something that just happens to you.
" He stood, signaling the end of our session.
"Give it a try. Worst case, you waste five minutes a day. "
I pocketed the card and nodded, already dreading our next meeting.
The apartment was too quiet.
I'd turned off the TV an hour ago after catching my face on SportsCenter again. They were doing a whole segment: "Easton Henley: Talented Player or Ticking Time Bomb?"
Complete with a montage of my greatest hits.
The reporter incident, a stick-throwing tantrum from two seasons ago, a shoving match with a ref.
My father would have loved it. Proof that I was exactly what he'd always said.
A screw-up with a temper who'd waste his talent.
The bottle of whiskey sat on my kitchen counter where I'd left it last night, still sealed.
Jack Daniels.
My father's drink of choice.
I'd bought it three days ago in a moment of weakness. I stood in the liquor store for twenty minutes debating, then walked out with it.
I hadn't opened it. But I hadn't thrown it away either.
Now, I stood in my kitchen, staring at the bottle like it was a loaded gun.
Six months ago, I would've drained half of it by now. Would've sat on this couch and let the burn drown out the voice in my head that sounded exactly like my father.
"You're blowing it, just like I knew you would. All that talent wasted on someone who can't control himself."
My hand reached for the bottle. Felt its weight, solid and familiar.
One drink.
Just one to take the edge off, to silence the replay of Coach Martin's words.
"Get your anger under control, or you're done."
My phone lit up on the counter next to the bottle. A text from Dr. Reyes: How are you doing tonight? Remember our breathing exercises.
I stared at the message. Then at the bottle. Then back at the message.
Fuck.
I picked up the bottle, felt its weight one more time, then poured the entire thing down the drain. The sweet, sharp smell filled the kitchen with unwelcome memories, permeating the air.
My father, stumbling through the door at two in the morning, screaming at my mother while Holly and I hid in the basement.
The night he'd taken a swing at me, and I'd finally been big enough to hit back.
When the bottle was empty, I set it in the recycling bin with a thud, then picked up my phone with hands that shook.
Me: Not great. But I didn't drink.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Dr. Reyes:
That's a victory. A big one. What triggered the urge?
Me:
SportsCenter. My face is everywhere. All my worst moments.
Dr. Reyes:
And you chose not to add another worst moment to the list. That takes strength, Easton. Be proud of that.
I stared at the text for a long moment, then typed back.
Thanks.
Dr. Reyes:
See you Wednesday. And Easton? Write in the journal. Even if it's just one sentence.
I set the phone down and looked at the empty bottle in the recycling bin. One minor victory in a series of catastrophic losses.
But Dr. Reyes was right. It was something.
I opened the journal he'd given me and wrote the first entry.
I'm angry all the time, and I don't know why.
Tonight I almost drank. But I didn't. Dr. Reyes says that's a victory.
It doesn't feel like one.
The fitness center was nearly empty at six the next morning, which was exactly why I chose this time. Most of the team trained in the afternoons, and I wasn't technically cleared to be in the arena, but the judge's order said nothing about the attached gym.
I was halfway through my third set of deadlifts when the door opened.
Nathan Daniels walked in carrying his ever-present tablet and a massive coffee that looked like his fourth of the morning. The Shadow Wolves marketing director looked like he hadn't slept in days, but he still managed a tired smile when he saw me.
"Henley! I didn't expect to find anyone here this early." He set his coffee down carefully, like it contained liquid gold. "Then again, I've been here since four, so who am I to judge?"
I racked the weight. "I didn't think marketing directors worked out."