Chair Of Accountability #2
“That’s what I thought.” I move to stand in front of him, working on the front sections.
This close, I can see the shadows under his eyes.
The tension lines around his mouth. The exhaustion he hides behind control.
I want to smooth those lines away with my thumb.
Want to tell him he doesn’t have to hold everything together every second of every day.
“You’re allowed to want things, Bennett.
You’re allowed to enjoy things that have nothing to do with hockey or the team or saving the entire town. ”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“I know.” I let my fingers brush against his forehead as I section the hair. “But that’s the lie. The one that tells you everything falls apart if you take five minutes to breathe.”
His eyes are open now, watching me work. This close, the intensity of his gaze is almost unbearable—too much focus, too much weight. He’s looking at me the way he looks at game tape. Like if he studies me long enough, he’ll figure out the pattern, crack the code, understand the play.
Good luck with that, captain.
“Post-it time,” I say, stepping back slightly. “Pick a new one. What are you feeling right now?”
“I can’t pick from back here.”
“Then tell me which section it’s in. Red, blue, green, yellow.”
He considers. “Yellow.”
“Yellow is connection. Vulnerability in relationship.” I tilt my head. “Interesting. Can you narrow it down?”
“Vulnerable,” he says after a moment. “But not—it’s not bad. Just... present. I’m aware of it.”
“That’s progress.” I smooth his hair back, check the length on both sides. “Now. Bingo square.”
“Which one?”
“Your choice.” I return to cutting, working on blending the layers. “Pick something you’re willing to do right now, in this chair, while I have you trapped.”
He’s quiet for long enough that I start to wonder if he’s going to refuse. Then:
“Compliment someone without sarcasm. I tried last night. With Virg. I don’t think I did that great of a job.”
My scissors pause mid-snip. “So you want to try again?”
“You said complete one. That’s one I can complete here.”
“It’s also the one that requires you to compliment me.”
“Yes.”
The air between us shifts. Charges. I force myself to keep working, to maintain the pretense of normalcy even though my heart is suddenly pounding against my ribs.
“Okay.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Go ahead.”
He doesn’t speak immediately. I finish the current section, move to the next, hyper-aware of every second that passes.
“You’re patient,” he says finally.
I wait. That can’t be it.
“You’ve been patient with me for years. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was being—” He stops, starts again. “You never gave up. You never decided I was too difficult. You just... kept showing up.”
Don’t react. Don’t make this bigger than it is.
My throat tightens. I’ve been showing up for years, telling myself it was friendship, telling myself I was fine with proximity and patience and never asking for more.
I might have been lying.
My hands still against his hair.
“That’s not—” He clears his throat. “That’s not nothing. It’s not nothing to have someone who keeps showing up. It’s a lot, Gisele.”
The words hit somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve kept locked away since I was old enough to understand that my father chose leaving over staying. I blink hard. Force myself to stay present, stay professional. This isn’t about me. This is about him.
Except it’s never just been about him, has it?
Somewhere that’s been waiting for years to hear someone say that my presence matters, that I’m not just the backup plan, not just the safe option.
“Bennett.”
“Don’t make it weird.” His jaw tightens. “You said without sarcasm. That was without sarcasm.”
“I know.” I take a breath. Resume cutting. “Thank you.”
We’re both quiet for a while after that. I finish the cut, reach for my trimmer to shape his beard. The buzz of the tool fills the silence, gives us both something to focus on that isn’t the charged atmosphere we’ve created.
“Tilt your chin up.”
He does. The line of his throat is exposed, vulnerable, and I think about what I said earlier—about trust and sharp objects and the surrender required to let someone this close.
I could press my thumb to the hollow at the base of his throat and feel his pulse.
Could map the line of his jaw with my fingers, trace the scar above his eyebrow, touch all the places he keeps guarded.
“You’re doing well,” I say quietly.
“I’m sitting in a chair.”
“You’re sitting in a chair while someone pushes you to feel things and admit them out loud. That’s harder than it sounds.”
He doesn’t argue.
I finish with the trimmer, brush away the loose hairs, reach for the styling product. My fingers are steadier than they should be as I work it through his hair, given how aware I am of every point of contact.
“There.” I step back, turn the chair so he can see himself in the mirror. “Better.”
He stares at his reflection for a long moment.
The haircut has softened his face—or maybe exposed it.
He looks less armored. More human. More like the boy I knew before grief and responsibility turned him into someone sharp and impenetrable.
More like someone I could fall for, if I were stupid enough to let myself.
“I look different.”
“You look like yourself.” I undo the cape, brush off his shoulders. “The version of yourself that isn’t hiding behind neglect and bad haircuts.”
He stands, runs a hand through the newly shaped hair. I can tell he’s not sure what to do with it—this version of himself he can suddenly see.
“Same time tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll work on more squares.”
“Tomorrow’s a game day.”
“Then we’ll do it earlier. Or later. Whatever works.” I start cleaning up my station, keeping my tone casual. “This isn’t something you get to skip because of scheduling conflicts.”
“Gisele—”
“I’m not asking, Bennett.” I turn to face him. “You committed to this. You’re going to keep committing, even when it’s inconvenient. Especially when it’s inconvenient.”
Bennett holds my gaze for a long moment. His expression shifts—not resignation, exactly. More like acceptance. Or recognition. Like he’s seeing something in me I didn’t mean to show.
I break eye contact first.
“Fine.”
“Good.” I smile, nudge him toward the door. “Now get out of here. I have actual paying customers arriving soon.”
He pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You’re not charging me?”
“Consider it an investment.” I wave him off. “In your emotional development and my ongoing entertainment.”
The ghost of a smile crosses his face—there and gone in a second, but real. I want to see it again. Want to be the person who makes him smile without armor, without calculation, without the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Want too many things that aren’t part of the plan.
“See you tomorrow, Gisele.”
“See you tomorrow.”
The door closes behind him, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My hands are shaking slightly as I sweep up the hair from the floor, my chest tight with emotion.
I catch my reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, too-bright eyes—and force myself to look away.
The door chimes. My first real client of the day.
I paste on my professional smile and get to work, but my hands still smell like his shampoo, and I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he said I kept showing up.
Maybe this was never just about helping him at all.