Page 15

Nate

I sit across from Elena in her office, watching her arrange her notepad just so on her lap, pen poised and ready. My leg bounces with nervous energy. I've been dreading this session, knowing what I need to tell her, feeling the weight of the unspoken words.

"How are you?" Her voice is carefully neutral.

"Fine." The word comes out clipped. I force a smile. "Two goals against Detroit last night. Coach seemed happy."

She nods, making a note. "Your on-ice performance has been consistently strong lately."

"Yeah, well. Helps to have good linemates."

A small silence stretches between us. I wonder if she's thinking about what happened in her car. If she regrets it.

"Well, let’s dig in. At the end of our last session, we were discussing your childhood." She keeps her voice steady. "You mentioned feeling like you never belonged anywhere."

My throat tightens. I knew this was coming, knew we'd have to get back to that conversation. Still, I'm not ready.

"There’s not much more to say about that." I shrug, aiming for casual. I know damn well there's a lot more to say about it.

Elena's eyes hold mine, patient but persistent. "I’m pretty sure there is though."

Something in her gaze breaks through my defenses. Maybe it's the way she looks at me like she actually gives a shit, like she sees past the swagger and to the mess underneath. Or maybe I'm just tired of carrying this alone.

"I had a brother." The words feel strange in my mouth. "An older brother. Teddy."

Her eyebrows lift slightly—surprise, carefully contained. "You haven’t mentioned him before."

"I don't talk about him much." I look away, focusing on a framed diploma on her wall. "He died when I was six. He was eight."

"I'm sorry, Nate." Her voice softens. "How horrible."

I look down at my hands. "Yeah, you could say that."

She waits, giving me space. I can feel sweat gathering at the back of my neck. Part of me wants to deflect, make a joke, change the subject. But I know it's time to say it out loud.

"There was a fire." My voice drops lower. "In our apartment."

The memory rises up, vivid and terrible. The smoke. The heat. The panic.

"My parents were out. They did that a lot—left us alone while they went drinking or whatever. We were supposed to be asleep, but Teddy and I were playing with these toy cars he got for his birthday."

I stop, my throat closing up. Elena doesn't push, just watches me with those steady eyes.

"I found matches sitting out on the coffee table. My parents both smoked. I was just... curious, I guess. Wanted to see what would happen."

My hands are suddenly cold, despite the warmth of the room. I rub them against my jeans, trying to warm them up.

"The curtain caught fire so fast. One second it was just this tiny flame, and the next..." I swallow hard. "Teddy tried to put it out. Told me to go get help. But I was scared and I couldn’t move. By the time I snapped out of it, the whole room was burning."

Elena looks at me with disbelief.

"I ran out, thinking Teddy was behind me." My voice cracks. "He wasn't. He was still trying to put the fire out, I guess."

The silence fills with the weight of what I'm not saying—the guilt, the horror, the life-shattering moment when I realized my brother wasn't coming out.

"The neighbors called 911. Fire department came. They got him out, but it was too late. Smoke inhalation, they said."

I can still see my parents' faces when they arrived home. The shock. The disbelief. The accusation.

"My mom..." I pause, steadying myself. "She looked at me like she didn't know me. Like I was some monster who took her son away. My dad couldn't even look at me at all."

"They blamed you." It's not a question.

"Yeah." I rub my face, suddenly exhausted. "They said it was my fault. That I killed Teddy. And they were right."

"Nate." Elena's voice is gentle but firm. "You were six years old. Children that age don't understand consequences like adults do. Your parents left dangerous items accessible and two young children unsupervised. That responsibility falls on them, not you."

Her words should comfort me, but they don't. They just scrape against the guilt I've carried for over twenty years.

"After that, everything changed. Dad drank even more than usual. Mom checked out—physically there but gone inside. When they bothered to notice me at all, it was just to remind me what I'd done."

"That's a tremendous burden for a child to carry."

I shrug. "I got used to it."

"Did you?" Her question is soft, probing.

"Had to. I figured out nobody was going to stick around. Not family, not friends, nobody. So I stopped letting people get close." I look directly at her. "It was easier that way."

"Is it still easier?"

The question hangs between us. I think about the women I've walked away from, the teams I've burned bridges with, the reputation I've cultivated. The carefully constructed walls that keep everyone at a safe distance.

"Used to be." The admission surprises even me.

Something flickers in her eyes—understanding, maybe. Or something more.

"After Teddy died, I stopped believing in... everything." The words feel raw. "Family. Stability. Love. All of it. Just seemed like a setup, you know? Something they sell you in movies that doesn't exist in real life."

I've never told anyone this before—not friends, not previous therapists, not women I've been with.

"Your early experiences taught you that attachment leads to pain." Elena's voice is measured. "That's a protective mechanism, like we discussed before."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.

"Thank you for sharing this with me, Nate." She leans forward slightly. "I know that wasn't easy."

The gratitude in her voice catches me off guard. Like I've given her something valuable instead of dumping my tragic backstory in her lap.

"Yeah, well." I clear my throat. "Now you know why I'm such a fuck-up."

"I don't see a fuck-up." Her eyes hold mine. "I see someone who survived something terrible and did the best he could with the tools he had."

For a moment, the silence stretches between us, heavy with what I've just revealed. I feel like I've peeled back my skin and shown Elena the broken parts underneath.

"So…" I clear my throat. "Now that you know my tragic story, what's the diagnosis, Doc? Am I fixable or should we just cut our losses?"

Elena doesn't rise to the bait. "There's nothing to fix, Nate. You're not broken."

"Could've fooled me." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "What about you?"

"What about me?" Her brow furrows slightly.

"What's your story?" I hold her gaze. "You know my deepest, darkest secret now. What's yours?"

She shifts slightly in her chair. "This session is about you, not me."

"Right." I can't keep the edge from my voice. "But we crossed those lines a while ago, didn't we? In your car. In your hotel room. On your desk."

Her cheeks flush, but her voice remains steady. "That was a mistake."

"Was it?" I press. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake to me. It felt real."

She places her pen down carefully on her notepad. "Nate?—"

"Just tell me something true, Elena." My voice drops lower. "Not as my therapist. As the woman who can't keep her hands off me when we're alone. What is this between us? Does it mean anything at all to you?"

"We can’t talk about this here." Her voice is tight.

I run a hand through my hair. "But I just told you the worst thing I've ever done. The thing that broke me. Don't I deserve some honesty in return?"

Something flickers across her face—conflict, uncertainty. "It's complicated."

"That's not an answer."

"What do you want me to say, Nate?" There's a slight tremor in her voice now. "That I've compromised my ethics and a career I’ve worked so hard for? That I can't stop thinking about you even though I know better?"

Hope flares in me. "Is that true?"

She looks away. "We can't do this."

"Why not?" I stand, restless energy propelling me to my feet. "Because of your dad? Because of your job? Or because you're scared?"

Her eyes snap back to mine. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." I pace the small office. "I can't get you out of my head, Elena. I walk around feeling like I'm half-awake until I see you, and then suddenly everything's in focus. That has to mean something."

"It means we're attracted to each other." Her voice is measured, controlled. "It means we have chemistry. It doesn't mean we should act on it again. We never should have acted on it in the first place."

"But we already have." I stop in front of her. "Multiple times."

"And it was a mistake. Each time." She stands too, looking up at me, crossing her arms across her chest. "We need to maintain professional boundaries."

The phrase hits me like cold water. Professional boundaries. Like I'm just another client. Just another guy.

"Is that what you tell yourself?" The words come out sharper than I intended. "That I'm just another hockey player with anger issues?"

"No, of course not?—"

"Or maybe I'm just a good fuck. Something exciting to break up the monotony of your perfectly controlled life."

Her face pales. I know I've gone too far, but I can't stop the words tumbling out.

"Is that it? Are you slumming it with the problem child before you move on to someone who actually fits into your neat and tidy world?"

"Stop." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Why? Too close to the truth?" And then I continue digging this hole but I can’t stop. "What happens when you've had your fill? When you've gotten bored of playing therapist to my fucked-up psyche?"

"That's enough." Her words are sharp now, eyes flashing. "You don't get to project your insecurities onto me just because you're afraid of what you're feeling."

Her words hit like a physical blow.

"What I'm feeling?" I laugh, the sound hollow. "What I'm feeling is used, Elena. You fuck me, then you analyze me, then you tell me we need 'professional boundaries.' Which is it? Am I your client or your boy toy?"