Page 2

Chapter two

Alex

“S he’s not bad looking for a shrink,” James says the second we step into the locker room.

Ethan snorts. “She’s terrifying. I’m pretty sure she could castrate a guy with just a stare.”

“Speak for yourself,” James replies, grinning. “I’m considering scheduling a session. Just me, her, and a box of tissues.”

“For your feelings?”

“Sure, let’s go with that.”

“You dirty dog.”

I drop onto the bench and yank off my skates, tuning the guys out.

The energy’s typical post-practice chaos with wisecracks flying like pucks in warmups. But underneath it, there’s a charge in the air. A little too much laughter. A little too much deflection.

I know it because I feel it too. That itch beneath the skin. That voice that whispers, Something’s off and we’re all pretending it’s not.

The shrink showing up just pressed on it.

Parker walks in behind us, slower, like he’s still thinking about what she said. He nods toward the hallway. “She didn’t flinch. I’ll give her that. Most people fold after five minutes of Henderson mouth.”

“You’re welcome,” James says with a dramatic bow.

Parker ignores him and looks at me. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Dr. Erwin. You think she’s gonna help?”

I pull off my pads and toss them into my locker. “We need to win games, not share our feelings.”

That kills the noise.

Ethan exhales a big sigh. Parker gives me a look, one of those patient, older-brother types that makes you want to throw a water bottle at his head.

“We haven’t won in six games,” he says. “Maybe sharing feelings isn’t the worst idea.”

“I’d rather do pushups until I barf.”

“You might get both,” James mutters.

I grunt and stand up. My legs ache and my lower back’s tight, even after the stretch. The ghost of my injury likes to remind me it never really left. It just got quiet enough for me to ignore.

I wish I could ignore the rest of it as easily. The pressure. The eyes. The way one bad game feels like a personal failure stamped across my chest.

The truth is, I haven’t been sharp. Not in weeks. Not since the nightmares started creeping back in. Not since I started hearing the whispers again, not from anyone else. Just from me. The worst ones always come from inside.

You’re slow. You’re off. You’re the reason they’re losing.

No shrink can fix that.

I head toward the gym.

Weights don’t ask questions.

***

I’m halfway through my third set of deadlifts when Parker strolls in, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel. He nods at me and grabs a pair of dumbbells.

“You working through something or trying to prove something?” he asks.

I grunt. “Yes.”

“Thought so.”

He goes quiet for a bit, focusing on his reps. I go back to mine. The metal clang is oddly soothing. It drowns out the noise in my head.

After a while, he speaks up. “You know she’s not just here for the drama, right?”

“Everyone’s here for the drama.”

“She’s worked with SEAL teams.”

“Great. So, she’s qualified to listen to guys with God complexes and authority issues.”

Parker shoots me a look. “You’re saying that from experience?”

I glare at him.

He shrugs. “I’m just saying… maybe she actually knows what she’s doing. You saw her in that room. She didn’t take the bait. Didn’t back down. Hell, she shut James up. That alone deserves a medal.”

I shake my head. “She’s just another suit trying to shrink the room.”

“Or maybe she’s here because some of us are cracking and don’t want to admit it.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

He doesn’t mean it like a jab. That’s not Parker’s style. He’s not Connor with the fire or James with the snark. He’s calm. Steady. The guy you go to when your life’s falling apart and you don’t want anyone else to know.

That makes it worse.

I drop the barbell and wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“Some of us don’t need fixing,” I say.

He watches me for a second. “No. But even the best engines need a tune-up now and then.”

I grab my water and turn away before I say something I regret.

Inside, my walls creak.

If I open up, even a little, everything unravels. Can’t risk it. Not now. Not ever.

***

The clang of weights fades behind me as I walk through the hallway, my head buzzing with sweat and silence. I blink, and for half a second, I’m not in Detroit anymore.

It’s an away game, the moment everything went wrong.

One wrong move. One bad twist.

My knee buckled beneath me, my head slammed the ice, and the roar of the crowd dissolved into white noise. I remember trying to stand—reflex, instinct—but my leg wouldn’t respond. I remember panic flooding my chest like black water.

Then the hospital.

Then silence.

Then months of being treated like a broken part. Trainers. Therapists. Endless questions. I could fix the muscles, the mechanics. But the mind? No one touched that part.

No one dared.

I shake it off.

It’s over. It’s done. I’m back.

Sort of.

I’m rounding the corner when I see her in Coach Stephens’ office.

Dr. Erwin.

She’s sitting across from Derek, sipping a coffee, a sleek black notebook in her lap. Her posture’s relaxed but alert, like a soldier who knows where every exit is. She’s listening, nodding once or twice, but she’s not schmoozing or trying to charm.

She’s just watching. Reading.

Analyzing.

Her back’s mostly to me, but I pause anyway, out of her view. Even though I’m not thrilled about any of this, I can’t help but notice the way she carries herself: confident and grounded. She’s got this long blonde hair pulled into some no-nonsense twist, and when I first met her, I caught the sharp green of her eyes.

Dangerous. The kind of pretty that makes smart men say stupid things. And yeah, she’s got a figure that makes you look twice even when you know you shouldn’t. Doesn’t mean I’m buying what she’s selling, but I’m not blind.

She’s calm. Not in a performative way but in a way that says she’s seen a lot worse than cocky hockey players and locker room antics. There’s no wide-eyed wonder or glossy admiration in her presence here.

I keep walking toward the exit.

“Alex!”

I pause and turn my head just enough to see Coach Stephens standing in the doorway, waving me over. “Got a minute?”

Shit. I adjust the towel around my neck and nod, pissed I just got stopped. I step in, shoulders squared, almost like I’m bracing for impact.

“Nina, this is Alex Chadwick. One of the best goalies in the league."

She turns her head, meets my eyes. Calm. Measuring. Unreadable face.

“Alex,” she says simply, with a nod. “We met briefly at the team meeting.”

“Doc,” I reply, just as even. I don’t give her anything extra.

Coach gestures for me to sit. I stay standing.

“Wanted to check on your schedule,” he says, glancing between us. “Make sure you’re not too overloaded for the travel stretch next week.”

“I’m good,” I answer. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Coach raises a brow. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He gives a half-smile, like he doesn’t totally buy it but won’t push.

“You haven’t had your individual session yet,” Nina says, her tone even but not warm.

“Didn’t realize we’d started mandatory roll call already,” I say, keeping my voice light but dry.

She doesn’t flinch. “It’s not about compliance. It’s about performance. Mental edge. Focus. It’s about sharpening tools you already have.”

Coach’s eyebrows shoot up slightly, but he stays quiet.

I give a small shrug. “I’m focused just fine.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But unfocused people usually say that too.”

She’s poking the bear.

Coach steps in like a ref breaking up a face-off. “Alright, alright. No need to square off right now. Alex, just carve out some time this week. Sit down with her. One session won’t kill you.”

I nod at him. “I’ll look at my calendar.”

I glance back at Nina. She doesn’t look smug or annoyed. She just looks like she’s waiting to see if I’m going to be worth her time.

I give her nothing.

“Thanks, Coach,” I say, keeping it neutral. I nod once to her, nothing more, and turn to leave.

As I walk out of the office, I feel her eyes follow me even though I never look back.

She’s not impressed by us. We're the Detroit Acers for Christ's sake.

I scoff quietly and keep walking.

She probably already has a file on me. Alex Chadwick: emotionally unavailable goalie. Caution: prickly.

She can take her notes and her tidy little binder of trauma responses and tuck it all into a drawer labeled Not My Problem.

Because I’m not one of her puzzles.

I’m the wall.