Page 3

Chapter 3

AMBER

I’m still typing a few notes into my player file as Jason Scott shuffles out of the office. The space is simple, with gray cinder block walls and a few framed pictures of past Blades players. Dr. Stone has spread his things out over one desk, while I set up my tablet and keyboard on my own desk, seated in a chair to his right.

“I like this kid,” Dr. Stone says as soon as the door closes behind Jason. “You can tell he’s been to some kind of counseling before. He seemed familiar with the process, and he’s been more comfortable than anyone else we’ve seen so far.”

“I agree.” I finish typing and lean back in my chair. “He mentioned his parents divorced when he was younger, I’m betting they sent him to some sort of mandatory therapy. He definitely shows some skills.”

“Good for them.” Dr. Stone stretches. “How many more interviews do you think we can get through today?”

I check the roster. “Well, there are twenty-three guys on the team, and we’ve already chatted with four of them. I think as long as they’re willing to stay a little late, we can definitely get through half of the team today!”

Dr. Stone rubs his hands together. “Sounds good to me. Who’s up next?”

I run my finger down the list of positions on the roster. “Well, I told Coach Green I wanted to go position by position, to make things easier. There are eight defensemen, and Jason was our fourth, so it’s going to be Jack Murray, Cal O’Rourke, Derek Moore, or Alec Morgan.”

“Great. Can you tell me anything else about these guys?” Dr. Stone starts getting a new player file ready, sliding papers around on his desk and pulling out fresh copies of the profile forms we’re filling out for each of them.

I pull up my digital version of the same thing and summarize what I can. “The defensive line is overall pretty young. The oldest player is Jason Scott, who we just saw. The next closest player is Derek Moore, and he’s five years younger.” I keep flipping through the various players, scanning the profiles. “The youngest is Donatello, who we saw earlier, and he’s only twenty-one.”

Dr. Stone lets out a low whistle. “I swear, the longer I’m in this job, the younger the athletes get. Maybe I’m getting too old for this.”

I flash him a quick grin. “Come on now, Dr. Stone. You can’t leave me to handle these guys all on my own!”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Dr. Stone chuckles, then gets us back on track. “I’m not surprised they’re struggling with confidence. So many young boys on defense means the line will be weaker than they want. Especially since, what, two of them are new this year?”

“Three,” I correct him. “And two signed just the year before that. That’s over half the defense barely off their training wheels.”

Dr. Stone sighs thoughtfully, tapping his finger on his chin. Before I can ask him what he’s thinking, the door to the office bangs open and our next player stomps in.

It’s Zack.

My stomach does a little flip, and I hide behind my tablet to compose myself. “I guess we’re moving on to centers,” I mutter under my breath. I quickly rearrange my tabs and pull up Zack’s file.

Dr. Stone leans over to me. “I guess the rest of the defense was busy,” he says. “Who is this?”

“Zack Colt, center.” I peek up from under my lashes and see Zack sprawled in the chair across from the desk. He’s still mostly in uniform, though he changed into regular shoes once he got off the ice and left his helmet and gloves behind. His dark hair is slicked back with sweat, and he runs his fingers through it, spraying droplets onto the floor.

That one gesture takes me back to meeting him outside the locker room after a game, the way he’d rip his helmet off and push his hair out of his eyes just like that. …and then kiss me like he couldn’t wait another second. I try to stop the memory before I get too carried away, but it’s hard not to remember the stolen kisses that followed. I take a deep breath and ignore the way that the room suddenly feels about ten degrees hotter.

“So, Zack.” Dr. Stone begins with the standard questions. “Tell us a little bit about yourself. What brought you to the Jefferson Blades?”

I sit up a little straighter. I want to know the answer to that question myself.

Zack shrugs a shoulder. “I got drafted to the Hawks out of college. Got traded a few times. Been here two years.”

Dr. Stone nods, scribbling something down on his paper. “And you’re a center, correct?” Dr. Stone looks up to see Zack nod noncommittally. “And do you like your position?”

“It’s what I’m good at.” He shrugs again, like that’s all anyone needs to know. Zack’s tone remains flat. I study him curiously. He never was particularly chatty, but he’s even more closed-off than I remember. And while he sits with his legs spread wide, his arms are folded tightly against his chest, and one of his feet won’t stop bouncing.

Body language suggests insecurity, I note in my file, describing the way he’s thrown himself into the chair in such an overly casual way. Projects a false air of confidence. More swagger than substance—at least emotionally.

“Do you think your position is a good fit for you?” Dr. Stone taps his pen on his lips.

“It’s what I’m good at,” Zack repeats.

Dr. Stone nods again, making another note. “I see.” I can guess what he’s writing now. Player is evasive and not very talkative. Reluctant to open up. “What do you feel your strengths and weaknesses are, as a player?” Dr. Stone asks.

“I can get a little aggressive sometimes.” Zack shifts in his chair, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the armrests of the chair. “But that’s a good thing on the ice. And I push myself to be the best I can be, but that’s a good thing too.”

It’s the most he’s said since he walked through the door, and it shows how little he’s really changed. I remember him being the exact same way in high school. Nothing he did was ever enough, and he always had to be the best at everything to do with hockey. I knew firsthand just how much he would push himself, even if it meant pushing other people away.

“Those qualities can be helpful in moderation, but taken to the extreme, they can do more harm than good,” Dr. Stone says gently. “It sounds like that’s something we might be able to work on with you.”

“I guess.” Zack’s back to his short answers, folding his arms across his chest again.

“Is there anything you think we can help you with?” Dr. Stone prods, trying to get something else out of Zack that we might be able to use.

But Zack just shakes his head. “Nope. I think I’m good.” His foot still hasn’t stopped jiggling, and I catch his eyes darting to Dr. Stone’s desk, like he’s trying to read the notes from all the way over there. Good luck with that. Dr. Stone’s handwriting is almost impossible to read, even right-side up.

Dr. Stone flips through a few of the papers on his desk and finds the one with Zack’s player information on it. “I see here that you had a pretty good season last year. Fifteen goals and forty-six assists?”

“Sounds about right.” Zack looks distinctly uncomfortable now that we’ve brought numbers into the equation, and I make a note of it. He never liked people quantifying his achievements.

“I’m seeing 27 penalties here as well.” Dr. Stone peers at Zack over his glasses. “That’s a lot more than the two years previous.”

“Penalties are just part of the game.” Zack fidgets in his chair again. “Look, are we about done here? I’d like to get back to practice.” It’s clear he thinks all this psychology stuff is a waste of time.

“Sure thing, Zack.” Dr. Stone sets his pen down and dismisses him. “Thank you for your time.”

Zack practically runs out of the room. It’s only as he’s leaving that I realize he didn’t look at me once the entire time he was here. I rub my thumb over the corner of my tablet, trying to shake off the chill his silence left behind.

“I was trying to get him to realize that he doesn’t need more time in the rink,” Dr. Stone muses. “Technically, he’s very good. But it’s going to take some time to get him out of his shell. Then we’ll be able to help him.”

I nod, writing it all down. I hadn’t expected Zack to be an open book, but I wasn’t prepared for him to be quite so prickly, either. And I certainly wasn’t prepared to have my heart aching in my chest.

The rest of our interviews continue to go one of two ways – either the player is open to our involvement and willing to try our techniques, or they shut us down. I’m disappointed that Zack falls into the latter category. I’d have thought that, with all his talk of wanting to be the best, he’d do whatever it took to get him there. But no, he was completely shut down and unwilling to engage with even the most basic of Dr. Stone’s questions.

When practice is over, Dr. Stone drives us back to our temporary apartments sitting just outside of the quaint small town of Jefferson. The league set us up here while we’re in town, and it’s pretty convenient to be so close to work. Plus we’re within walking distance to some parks and cute little shops, if we ever need anything to do in the evenings.

I notice several of the players walking home at the same time we leave, so they must live in one of the nearby apartments or condos as well. I think I can make out Zack’s tall, lean shape going by in the dark, but soon we’re zooming past him and he’s nothing but a blur in the rearview mirror.

Seeing Zack today has made me all kinds of confused. I hadn’t thought about him in years, not until I got this assignment and saw the name Colt on the roster. And even then, I had successfully convinced myself that it wasn’t him, because I didn’t want to deal with a potential ghost from my past coming back and making my life more difficult.

But seeing the way he was today… It's hard to reconcile this hard, brooding man with the boy I fell in love with so long ago. Somebody must have hurt him, badly, for him to end up like this. And unfortunately, I think I know who it was…

Because it was me.