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Chapter four

Alex

I ’m halfway into my post-practice protein shake…kale, ginger, Greek yogurt…because apparently I hate myself. Actually, it tastes pretty good. Then Coach drops the bomb.

“You’re up next. Nina’s expecting you.”

I freeze mid-sip. “Excuse me?”

Coach doesn’t look up from his clipboard. “Her office. Now. Don’t make her come find you.”

Right. That stupid sign-up sheet I filled out half-jokingly the other day just came back to haunt me. I’d almost forgotten I made the damn appointment.

Around me, the locker room starts buzzing. James lifts his eyebrows like a kid who just saw a substitute teacher pull out a ruler. “I'm feeling first date vibes. Should we bring candles?”

“Should I leave my Spotify log-in open?” Ethan adds. “She might need a ‘Fixing Broody Men’ playlist.”

I slam my shaker down and grab my hoodie off the hook. “If I end up emotionally scarred, I’m blaming both of you.”

“Too late,” Parker mutters. “You already are.”

James smirks. “Tell her you’ve been bottling up your feelings since 2014 and you’re not about to stop now.”

Ethan throws in, “Or tell her your emotional availability is somewhere between ‘injured reserve’ and ‘just trade me already.’”

Parker’s stretching but still listening. “Don’t forget to tell her about the time you yelled at a vending machine and then apologized to it.”

“That machine ate my protein bar,” I mutter.

James grins. “You still brought it flowers the next day.”

I pause at the door, turn, and raise my shaker like I’m making a toast. “I’ll let her know she’s walking into a locker room full of unresolved trauma, ego bruises, and a disturbing number of mommy issues.”

“Maybe she’ll bring us stickers,” Ethan says.

James snorts. “Tell her we’re all emotionally mature and totally fine, except for the part where we confuse trash talk with intimacy.”

Parker chuckles. “Yeah, and maybe let her know Ethan’s idea of vulnerability is watching a sad movie without sunglasses.”

“Hey,” Ethan says, mock offended. “I teared up once during Rudy and you people never let it go.”

I grin. “You'll get a gold star if you make it through one of her sessions without deflecting, joking, or blaming everything on your childhood and poor skate sharpening.”

They’re still laughing when I walk out, not because it’s that funny, but because they’re all glad it’s not them. Yet.

I make my way toward the corridor where the coaches’ offices are. I’ve passed her office a dozen times now. Today, I have to go in.

I knock once. Short. Sharp.

“Come in,” comes the reply, crisp and cool.

I step inside and immediately catalog the space. Clean. Neutral. There’s a little green plant by the window and a framed photo of a guy in fatigues on her desk. Her brother, probably. She’s seated behind her desk, a mug of coffee in her hand and a legal pad in front of her like she’s about to do my taxes.

“Alex,” she says with a nod. “Nice of you to stop by.”

“Didn’t realize I had a choice.” I shut the door behind me but don’t sit.

“You don’t,” she says evenly. “But you do have control over what we talk about. You can sit, or stand and glare. Either way, we’ve got fifty minutes.”

She’s good. Calm. Collected. Her voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t snap. I hate how grounded she seems. Like nothing I do could throw her off.

I lower myself into the chair. Slowly. Like I’m doing her a favor.

She watches me for a second, then flips open her pad.

“Alright. Let’s start with something simple. How’s your sleep?”

I scoff. “What is this, a mattress commercial?”

“Consider it a baseline question.”

“I get enough.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I narrow my eyes. “Fine. Restless some nights. Better after wins. Worse after crap like last night.”

She nods and jots something down. “Nightmares?”

I nod head. “Wow. You just dive right in, huh?”

“I find ripping off the Band-Aid works better than tiptoeing around denial.”

“Or maybe you just like playing shrink with sharp objects.”

Her lips twitch, almost like she’s suppressing a smile. “Says the guy who’s dodged three session requests and nearly bit Parker’s head off last week.”

“He shouldn’t have said we needed yoga.”

“God forbid yoga would offend your masculinity.”

“Are you always this charming with your patients?”

“Only the ones who walk in with their guard up and a chip on their shoulder.”

I lean back, arms crossed. “You know, most people ease into emotional ambushes. Maybe start with a compliment or a snack.”

“I'm not most people. And I don’t hand out cookies for good behavior.”

“Tragic.”

We stare at each other for a moment. She’s not blinking. She’s not fidgeting. She’s just… waiting. I’ve never hated silence more.

Then her expression shifts, just a little.

Then she leans back, just slightly, her pen tapping once on the pad before she sets it down.

“You know,” she says lightly, “I’ve had guys walk in here and try to out-stare me, out-snark me, even outlast me in complete silence. No one’s succeeded yet. But you’re definitely top five.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That a compliment?”

“Call it an observation with potential,” she says. “You’ve got stamina, I’ll give you that.”

I smirk. "Careful, Doc. Complimenting my stamina might get you sued for flirting."

She chuckles, unimpressed. "Is everything an innuendo with you, or just the things you’re scared to talk about seriously?"

"Mostly the serious stuff," I admit. "But you walked right into that one."

She shakes her head like she’s trying not to smile. “Duly noted. I’ll adjust my phrasing next time.”

“Don’t. It’s fun watching you try to out-snark me while pretending you’re above it.”

She bites her lip. “Trust me, I don’t need to try. You’re just used to people backing off when you push.”

“And you’re not?”

“Not even close."

Her tone’s lighter now, but her eyes are still sharp like she’s giving me a rope and watching to see if I’ll hang myself with it—or maybe use it to climb out.

“Just so we’re clear,” she adds, “you don’t have to spill your life story in one go. But you do have to stop pretending that sarcasm is a suitable replacement for substance.”

“I was hoping I could just coast on charm.”

A small smile forms. “Charm’s debatable.”

I huff a dry laugh. “So’s your bedside manner.”

Suddenly the breath I didn’t realize I was holding escapes. The mood hasn’t shifted entirely, but the tension is not strangling anymore. And somehow, I already know, this is going to get under my skin.

She cracks a smile. A real one.

“Well, at least your sarcasm is consistent. That’s something I can work with.”

I grin faintly. "Consistent. Like black coffee and bad decisions."

“So,” she says, finally breaking it. “How long have you been pretending the injury didn’t affect you?”

My jaw tenses. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“No? You slammed your stick against the post after the fifth goal last night. Skated circles like you were ready to snap. Then spent the rest of the third period locked in your own head.”

“I was pissed. You want me to smile after getting shelled?”

“I want to know what happens when you stop pretending you’re fine.”

I am suddenly caught off guard, but only for a second.

“You know,” I say slowly, “you walk around here with that calm voice and notepad like you’ve got us all figured out. But you’re just guessing.”

“Maybe,” she says. “But I’m very good at educated guesses, like how you deflect with sarcasm. How you use structure and routine to avoid anything unpredictable. How you build walls and call it discipline.”

“And you call yourself a professional?”

“I am.”

“Then maybe stop acting like you know me.”

“I don’t. Not yet. But I’d like to.”

The room goes quiet again.

I shift in my seat. I can feel the edge of something rising. Is it frustration, curiosity or the sudden annoying awareness of how striking her eyes are when she’s locked in?

“You’re not what I expected,” I mutter.

“And what did you expect?”

“A clipboard cheerleader with a motivational quote fetish.”

That gets a laugh out of her. It’s quick, but real.

“I left my pompoms in the car,” she deadpans.

“You don’t rattle easily.”

“You trying to rattle me?”

I shrug. “Just checking.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re testing me. Trying to figure out if I’m worth your time. If I’ll flinch. That’s fine. But I’m not here to pass your test, Alex. I’m here to help you win hockey games and sleep through the night. In that order.”

I exhale through my nose. “You’re intense.”

“And you’re exhausted. Even when you hide it well.”

There it is. That moment where the room shifts—not because something was said, but because what she said landed .

“I didn’t ask to be here,” I say quietly.

“I know.”

“I don’t need fixing.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Another pause, giving me space. Her tone softens just a hair.

“Look,” she says, “I get it. This isn’t your thing. But something’s off, and it’s costing you. Not just in the net. I see it in how you move, how you speak to the team, how you walk out of every room like you can’t get far enough away fast enough.”

That last part hits harder than I want it to.

“I’m not trying to mess with your head,” she adds. “But I am trying to get through to it.”

I stare at her. “And if I don’t want that?”

“Then we’ll keep having these little chats until you do. Because this isn’t just about you, it’s about the team too.”

I should be mad. Hell, I am mad. But I’m also… intrigued. She doesn’t backpedal. Doesn’t apologize. And somewhere beneath that clinical calm is a fire I didn’t expect.

I stand up. “Session over?”

“For now.”

I nod once and head for the door. But before I leave, I glance back.

“You ever think maybe I’m not your kind of project?”

She doesn’t even look up from her notes. “You’re not a project. You’re a person. One I’d really like to see stop carrying all of this alone.”

I grip the doorknob. My throat feels tight.

She finally meets my eyes again. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

I don’t answer. I just walk out.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure if I won that round, or lost the last bit of distance I’ve always kept between myself and anyone who sees too much.