Called To The Office
Gisele
I’ve seen a lot of people get called into that office upstairs.
Some walk in confident. Some walk in defensive.
Most walk in pretending they’re not about to have their lives rearranged.
The thing about power isn’t who holds it.
It’s who’s willing to challenge it. And today?
That’s not the man in the captain’s chair.
Playlist: “Control” by Halsey
The rink door swings shut behind me, and I make it exactly three steps before my hands start shaking. Adrenaline got me through the confrontation with Bennett. Now it’s abandoned me in the parking lot like a bad date.
My phone buzzes.
Lynsie: Did you seriously just crash Slammers practice and let Bennett Foster have it in front of his whole team???
Small towns. Zero secrets.
Me: Shep live-tweeted it. I’m going to kill him.
I pocket the phone and keep walking. I need structure for this “Operation Soft Boy” plan. Rules. Exercises. Something Bennett can’t outrun.
I’m halfway across the mezzanine when I hear the click of heels on concrete behind me.
“Gisele!” The voice is warm, efficient, and completely familiar.
I turn to find Prudence Thistle cutting across the rink floor in a tailored gray suit that somehow still reads practical on her, like she could balance the team’s books, break up a fight, and re-tape a stick without wrinkling it.
Of course it’s Pru.
I drop the customer service smile automatically. “What did I do?”
Her mouth twitches. “Nothing yet.” She stops in front of me, already halfway to her next task. “Franklin wants a word.”
My stomach drops. Franklin Baker. The Slammers’ owner. The man who apparently told Bennett he was turning into his father and set off this entire spiral.
“Right now?”
“Immediately.” She gives me a look that’s more apologetic than authoritative. “Before he changes his mind about how he wants to handle… whatever this is.”
That does not make me feel better.
“Bennie’s already upstairs,” she adds, softer. “Figured you’d rather hear that from me than walk in blind.”
“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Lead the way, Pru.”
She turns toward the rink, but not before tossing over her shoulder, “If it helps, I’ve seen worse. Not many, but worse.”
I fall into step beside her.
“You’re not in trouble,” she adds under her breath as we walk. “Franklin just wants to be in control of the narrative. Give him five minutes and a coffee, he’ll settle down.”
The rink’s administrative offices are on the second floor, accessible through a door I’ve walked past a hundred times without ever going through. Pru badges us in, leads me up the narrow staircase that smells like old carpet and industrial cleaner, moving like she’s made this trip a thousand times.
At the top, she pauses just long enough to meet my eyes. “You’ll be fine,” she says, and there’s no bullshit in it. Just quiet certainty. “He already knows who you are.”
She opens the door and gestures me inside. Bennett’s already there.
He’s changed out of his practice gear into jeans and a Slammers hoodie, hair still damp from what I’m guessing was the fastest shower of his life.
His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack molars, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets in a way that says he doesn’t trust them not to do something inadvisable.
And I still notice it. That’s the problem.
He doesn’t look at me when I sit down.
“This is on you.”
“Probably.” I cross my legs, smooth my hands over my jeans. “Though I’d argue the part where you sat in the middle of Main Street came first.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps. “I had it under control.”
“You had nothing under control, Bennett. That’s literally the whole point.”
He turns to look at me then, and the heat in his eyes makes my breath catch. Not anger—or not only anger. It’s more complicated than that. I’ve seen flashes of for years without ever letting myself name it.
“Why are you here?”
“Pru summoned me. Same as you.”
“Not the office. My practice. My team. Why are you inserting yourself into—”
“Bennett. Gisele.” Pru’s voice cuts through. “Mr. Baker will see you now.”
We stand in unison, which is probably the only thing we’ve agreed on in the past twenty-four hours. The walk to Franklin’s office takes maybe fifteen seconds, but it feels like miles—the narrow hallway forcing us close enough that his shoulder brushes mine twice and I feel the contact in my teeth.
I’m hyper-aware of everything. The way his hand keeps twitching toward the scar above his eyebrow before he catches himself. The rigid line of his shoulders. The careful control he’s exerting over every single muscle in his body.
This is what Franklin doesn’t understand. What probably nobody understands except me and maybe Beth.
Bennett isn’t angry. He’s terrified. Of losing control, losing respect, losing the only identity he’s ever let himself have.
And the tighter he grips that control, the closer he gets to shattering completely.
Franklin’s office is exactly what I expected—big desk, leather chairs, framed photos of championship teams from decades past. The man himself stands by the window, looking out at the rink below, and doesn’t turn when we enter.
Making us wait. Establishing dominance. I’ve seen this move a thousand times—usually right before someone asks for an updo they saw on Instagram that won’t work with their hair texture.
“Sit.”
We sit.
The silence stretches for probably thirty seconds. Franklin’s a big guy—former player himself, before his knees gave out—and he carries the kind of presence that makes you want to apologize for things you haven’t done yet.
Finally, he turns.
“I’m not going to yell.” His voice is calm, measured. “I’m not going to threaten, or lecture, or pretend this meeting is about anything other than what it’s about.”
Bennett shifts beside me. I stay very still.
“What happened yesterday.” Franklin settles into his chair, eyes moving between us. “The... incident. On Main Street.”
“It won’t happen again,” Bennett says flatly.
“I know it won’t.” Franklin’s gaze sharpens.
“Because I’m making it very clear, right now, that it cannot happen again.
This organization is already on thin ice—pun not intended.
We’ve got budget concerns, attendance concerns, a fanbase that’s been patient but isn’t going to stay patient forever.
What we don’t need is our team captain having a very public breakdown that ends up on social media. ”
Bennett’s jaw tightens further. I resist the urge to reach over and physically force it to relax. Or kiss it loose.
The thought arrives randomly, and I shove it down so hard I almost miss Franklin’s next words.
“The clips are everywhere, Bennett. I’ve had three calls from local media already.
The narrative right now is that you’re ‘struggling’, which is better than ‘unstable’, but not by much.
We’re already under a microscope this season.
I won’t have this turning into a distraction.
” Franklin leans forward. “I need to know this was a one-time thing. I need to know my captain has himself together.”
“He does,” I hear myself say before my brain catches up to my mouth.
Both men turn to look at me.
“Gisele...” Franklin’s tone is carefully neutral. “This is a conversation between—”
“With respect, Mr. Baker, you summoned me here, too. Which means you already know that what happened wasn’t just about Bennett—it was about everyone who showed up to help him.” I meet his gaze steadily, channeling every ounce of my grandmother’s steel. “Including me.”
Franklin studies me for a long moment. “I’m aware of your... involvement.”
“Then you’re aware that I’m not going to let this happen again, either.” I glance at Bennett, who stares at me through narrowed eyes. “I’ve already got a plan.”
“A plan.”
“For helping Bennett develop better coping mechanisms. Emotional regulation strategies. Ways to manage stress that don’t involve shutting down in the middle of a public street.”
The silence is deafening.
“You’re serious,” Franklin says.
“Dead serious.” I fold my hands in my lap. “You can either trust that I know what I’m doing, or you can handle this yourself. But I’ve known Bennett since we were kids, and I can guarantee you I understand what he needs better than any corporate wellness consultant you’d bring in.”
Bennett makes a noise beside me that sounds like a growl trapped behind clenched teeth. I ignore it.
Franklin’s eyes move between us—calculating, assessing. Finally, he nods once.
“Fine. I’ll give you some runway on this. But I want to see results, and I want to see them quickly. The team needs their captain focused, and this town needs something to believe in.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” He stands, and we follow suit. “Bennett—whatever she tells you to do, do it. Consider it a direct order from ownership.”
Bennett’s face could be carved from stone. “Copy that.”
I’ve never heard two words hold so much suppressed rage. We’re dismissed with a nod.
The walk back down the hallway is even more loaded than the walk up. I can feel Bennett’s fury building with every step, pressure rising like a storm that’s about to break.
We make it out to the parking lot before he explodes.
“What the hell was that?”
“That was me saving your ass.” I turn to face him, arms crossed. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“No, you didn’t. Because you never ask for anything.
That’s kind of the problem.” I take a breath, force my voice to stay even.
“Franklin was ready to put you on some kind of probation or mandatory counseling or whatever corporate speak they use for ‘we think our captain is losing it.’ I gave him an alternative that keeps control in our hands. Your hands.”
Bennett’s mouth falls open. “Our hands? Since when is any of this yours?”
“Since I watched you sit in the middle of Main Street like you were waiting for a bus to the afterlife.”
He flinches. Actually flinches, and my chest cracks at the sight.
“Bennett.” I soften my voice, take a step closer. “I’m not doing this to control you. I’m doing this because I care about you, and because I can see that whatever you’ve been doing to hold yourself together isn’t working anymore.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine for months, maybe years. And I’ve watched you pretend otherwise because that’s what we do—I wait, you avoid, we both act like this is sustainable.”
I’m close enough now to see the way his pupils dilate, the rapid pulse at his throat, the way his breathing has gone shallow. Close enough to smell the soap from his shower, something clean and sharp underneath the lingering hint of rink.
“It’s not sustainable,” I say quietly. “And I’m done pretending it is.”
He’s silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
“What does this plan of yours actually entail?”
“Structure.” I pull my phone out, open my notes app. “Rules you can follow, exercises that feel manageable, clear expectations instead of vague emotional demands.”
“That sounds like therapy.”
“It’s not therapy. It’s more ... emotional training.
You understand training. You respond to routines, benchmarks, measurable progress.
” I meet his eyes. “I’m going to teach you how to feel things without falling apart, and I’m going to do it in a way that makes sense to your stubborn, control-obsessed brain. ”
Something flickers in his expression—not quite hope, but close. “And if I don’t want to participate?”
“Then you don’t.” I shrug. “But Franklin’s going to be watching, and your team’s already seen the cracks, and the next time you hit a breaking point there might not be anyone around to pull you off the pavement.
They may send you down to the Cities for treatment.
Imagine no hockey and a head shrink cataloging your every move. ”
The words land hard. I watch them hit, watch him absorb them.
“Tomorrow,” he says finally. “You said nine.”
“Sharp. My salon. We’ll start with the basics.”
He nods once, jaw still tight, and turns to walk away.
He makes it three steps before I speak again.
“Bennett.”
He stops but doesn’t turn around.
“I need you to understand something.” I make sure my voice is steady, clear. “I’m not going to be the person who makes this easier for you. I’m not going to let you deflect or minimize or pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. That’s not what this is.”
He turns then, vulnerability cracking through his careful control. “Then what is this?”
“This is me refusing to be your safe space anymore.” I hold his gaze, let him see that I mean every word. “I’ve been patient, letting you come to me when you were ready. That’s over. Now I come to you. Now I push. Now you don’t get to hide behind our friendship because it’s comfortable.”
The silence stretches between us, electric and dangerous.
“And what happens when you push too hard?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “What happens when I can’t do what you’re asking?”
I close the distance between us, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I can see the fear underneath the anger underneath the control.
“Then we figure it out together,” I say softly. “But you don’t get to run. Not anymore. Not from this.”
Bennett doesn’t respond. Just stares at me like I’ve rearranged his entire understanding of how we work, and maybe I have. Maybe that’s the point.
I step back first—one step, then another—putting safe distance between us before I do something stupid like touch him.
“Nine o’clock,” I say. “Don’t be late.”
I turn and walk toward my car before he can respond, before he can see the way my hands are shaking again, before he can clock the fear underneath my own certainty.
Behind me, I hear nothing. No footsteps. No protest. Just silence.
I don’t look back.
I have no idea if this is going to work.
But I know I’m done watching him destroy himself from the inside out.