26. Hudson
HUDSON
I park outside the clinic the team uses for counseling and sit in the truck for two minutes because showing up is easy to say and harder to do.
I go in anyway. The receptionist checks me in.
The counselor—Dr. Keane—meets me in the hall and leads me to a small room with two chairs and a stubborn plant.
We set goals. Fewer blowups. No cheap shots. Notice triggers sooner. Replace heat with a plan. She asks for the story of the tunnel snap. I tell it clean, no excuses.
She writes three words on a pad: notice, name, navigate . She shows me a sixty-second body scan. Feet. Calves. Thighs. Chest. Jaw. Hands. If a part is buzzing, pause. Then there’s a four-count breath. In four. Hold two. Out six. Repeat.
We build a script for hot moments: Pause. Breathe. Water. Step back. Find the next right thing.
I say it until it stops sounding dumb. But I force it into a mantra.
Coping mechanisms are next, and sadly do not include the kind of sex we had last night. Sex is, apparently, a good physical stress reliever, but if there’s anything wrong in your head at the time, Dr. Keane says, it can make the stress worse.
Fucking stellar.
Ultimately, I tell her that I’m going public. “This is a problem. And it’s not just a me problem. Lots of guys have mental health stuff, and we have to start addressing it. I figure if I can do that, I might get someone else to do it too.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep—that adds to your frustration. Share resources. Tell people what you’re learning and that you’ll mess up sometimes, and that’s okay. You keep going.”
Keep going. That’s been the name of the game ever since I can remember.
I walk out steady. In the lot, I text PR to set up filming a PSA about anger management for men. To my surprise, they’re on board.
I skate and keep it boring. Nothing fancy. Straight lines. Edge work. Puck protection. Good, clean, the way the game should be played.
In the locker room, Ellis chirps, “Zen Harris,” and bows. Carter asks if I’m giving away my sticks to atone for slashing his laces last year.
I roll my eyes at them. “Anyone else?”
No takers.
“Make your jokes, guys, but I’m not gonna be the one at forty in the ER because I had a stroke.” I wink and head over for my PSA in PR’s office. By two, I’m sitting in front of a black backdrop. A camera, a light, a mic on my shirt. No script. PR says, “Two minutes.”
I look at the lens. “I’m Hudson Harris. I play left wing for the Baltimore Black Devils.
Last week, I snapped at a journalist in the tunnel.
I’ve taken cheap shots when I was frustrated.
I’ve done other things that I could have handled better.
” I sigh, because it’s hard to say all of this out loud. Who wants to admit this shit?
Today, I do. I need to. So I continue, “That’s on me.
I started anger management today. I’m talking about it because men’s mental health gets ignored, especially when the emotion is anger.
We’re told anger is the only thing we’re allowed to show.
It isn’t. I’m learning to notice it sooner and do something different.
We have to handle this kind of thing better, and sometimes, that means reaching out.
If you’re where I was, talk to someone. This is work.
I’ll mess up. I’ll keep going. You can too. ”
We do one more take. PR says the first one is better. They schedule it for tomorrow morning.
In some ways, that’s a relief. I don’t have too much time to get self-conscious, freak out, and tell them not to air it. It feels official in a way that keeps me calm right now.
In the gym, the guys rib me more. “Harris is going to breathe me off the puck,” Lane says.
I shrug. “Hope so, because the other option is hooking your ankles.”
Oliver hides a grin. Rocco taps his temple. “New play— mindfulness check.” I flip him off without heat. He snickers and glances away.
It’s a long workout, and I outlast most everyone in the gym. Except for a few stragglers and Travis.
He waits until the room thins, then comes over. No camera. No audience. “I heard about what you did. The PSA thing. What you’re doing is important. Proud of you for owning your shit.”
I wait for sarcasm. A beat. Then another. It doesn’t come.
He adds, “Can you show me how to move faster? My first three strides suck. I can’t get enough grip on the ice. Never could.”
Again, no sarcasm. The fuck is he playing at?
The words come out slowly. “You want me to help you?”
He looks away. “Yeah. If you wouldn’t mind. If you’re busy, I get it?—”
“Yeah, okay. Far rink at eight tomorrow. Bring runners and off-ice shoes. We’ll start with starts.”
He smiles like a kid. “Thanks, man. I just…you know.”
“You’re bad at asking for help, so you act like a boy with a crush and pretend to be an asshole to get attention?”
He just stares for a minute. Then a weird-ass cackle pops out of him. “Yeah, I mean, kinda.”
“You’re just as simple as that fuck-awful haircut you got, aren’t you?”
“Hey—”
But I cut him off with a laugh. “You owe me, kid. I’ll train you, but don’t think that means I’ll go easy on you. Just the opposite. Can’t sharpen a blade in warm butter. I’ll make you better, but you might hate me in the process.”
That makes him smile. “See you at eight.”
After the gym, I drive to Bea’s. The collab launch is soon.
We kept it quiet until the TRO landed. The label reads Bea’s x Black Devils with a small bee by the team logo.
Two scents: brAVE—honey, cream, coffee. POWER PLAY—cedar, smoke, citrus.
Every penny after costs goes to legal fees and moving expenses if we need to move the shop, but that’s a last resort.
Aqua is at the counter in green velvet and a team hat. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Meg stands by the honeycomb wall, her phone in hand. She looks steady. She isn’t. But only me, Rocco, and Oliver would know it by looking at her.
I touch her elbow. “We got this.”
“Soon.”
We post on Bea’s, on the team account, and on my page. The line doubles in three minutes. People buy coffee, candles, and tiles, and they tip like they mean it. The online store number jumps. Every candle sold out in eight minutes. The team reposts. The captain texts me a bee and a thumbs-up.
There’s no way I’ll be able to keep up with the orders, and I lift Meg up by her waist in celebration. “One more item off the checklist, pet.”
She blushes as I set her down. “That was subtle.”
“Wasn’t going for subtle.” I kiss her in the middle of the shop until we’re both breathless.
That night, I write the apology I should have made the night of the snap.
“I lost my cool and slapped a reporter’s tablet in the tunnel.
No excuses. I apologized to him and paid for the device.
I’m in anger management and learning how to do better.
Thank you to the people holding me accountable.
I’ll earn your trust.” I post it and turn off replies for an hour. Then I turn them back on.
The comments are what I expect. A few call me soft.
A few say I’m a thug. More tell me good job and proud of you and I made my first appointment today because of this.
A dad writes that his kid asked what anger management is, and now they’re talking at dinner.
I like those and scroll past the ones that drag.
In bed, I start my homework. I write three triggers I noticed today. A question that pushed a button, a near collision in a drill, a comment in the comments. I write what I did instead. Breathe, water, walk away. I give myself a grade.
B. Not perfect. But better.
Morning. Far rink at eight. Travis is there early, which impresses me.
We start off-ice. Wall drills for shin angle and knee drive.
I show him how to set his foot under his hip, get low without folding, finish each stride with a snap.
Bands, short sled push. On-ice, stance, weight shift, and the first three strides out of a stop.
No crossing too early. We film his starts and mine.
He sees the difference. We do five sets. He improves on the fourth.
He huffs out a breath. “No one taught me that.”
“Ask sooner. You want minutes, you gotta earn them the right way.”
He nods. “I want to.” He hesitates. “I wasn’t trying to cut you off in OT, by the way. I panicked and jumped. Sorry for that.”
Takes a lot for a rookie to admit that kind of shit. It’s a liability, and we both know it. I could go to Coach with this and use his vulnerability against him.
I’m not that guy. “Wait for the whistle. Call for the puck when it’s your shift. Not a moment sooner.”
“I know. Just…sometimes I get anxious. Especially when we’re losing. Or winning. I want to be on the ice. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. My brain fades out, my body takes over?—”
“That’s a cop-out. You’re in charge of you, Travis. You can do this. You’re good—fast. You’ll be faster if you keep practicing, and the team needs that. So, get your shit together. See Dr. Keane about it.”
“I will. Go again?”
“Go again.” And we do.
PR posts the PSA. I repost it with a line: I’m learning. You can too. My phone buzzes for an hour. I put it face down and go to my Meals on Wheels route.
Mrs. Kline tells me she liked the video. She says her husband never talked about his temper, and she wishes he had. I carry groceries up three flights for a neighbor who waves me off halfway and then says thanks at the door. The work is good for my head.
Lift. Carry. Listen. Leave. Be useful.
Back at Bea’s, Meg’s team helps with the candles, labeling and boxing mostly. I’ve made hundreds, and each is spoken for. It feels good to contribute, especially with something I made with my own hands.
We load the truck with the first batch going to the shipping store. I drive with Oliver, and he’s curious. “You good?”
“Better. It felt good to teach the kid. He listened.”
“That’s the job. Teach the next one to do it right. Can’t think of a better teacher.”
That night, Meg and I sit on the couch with her feet under my thigh. We sort candle receipts while the game plays on mute. She squeezes my knee. “Tell me about your day.”
“It was good.” I tell her about Travis and the PSA comments and about Mrs. Kline. Nothing exciting. But every part feels like a step in a new direction.
She smiles. “I’m proud of you.”
“I know. That means everything, Meg.”
She blushes and cuddles up to me. “This is how I like ending my days sometimes. Maybe that’s boring, but?—”
“Not to me. This is perfect.”
I post once more before bed. A photo of the collab label and a short line: Thank you for selling this out twice. Every penny goes to keeping Bea’s alive. We see you.
By the end of the week, the PSA has a lot of views. The team pushes local resources again. Three fans stop me in the concourse to say they made an appointment because it was me saying it. One guy tells me his dad died mad and he doesn’t want to. I tell him good job and keep going.
Two days later, I sit in a group session because Dr. Keane wants me to try.
Six chairs in a circle. A mechanic who lost a job after throwing a wrench.
A teacher who yells at her kids and hates it.
A nurse who shuts down until she explodes.
I say my name and what I did. No one flinches.
We talk about the half second before the bad choice.
We practice the four-count breath. The counselor says anger is a signal, not a plan.
I leave with homework—write an apology to myself. It’s awkward as shit, but I get the gist and do it anyway. I keep going.
There are still comments that suck. There are still fans who want me to break something for their amusement. There’s still a court hearing coming. Peace is not a thing I can declare and then own. It’s a path to relief. I’m on it willingly.
I breathe in for four, hold for two, and let it out for six. I do it again. The pulse in my jaw eases. My hands stop buzzing.
I am not fixed.
But I am better than I was last week. I can live with that.