Page 1 of Steel and Ice

BLAIR

The first time I saw Colt Mitchell he was punching a man so hard the man’s helmet snapped off and slid across the ice.

Subject line: Heads up, he’ll be in your Wednesday group.

My supervisor sent the link with zero context. The clip loaded and I saw Colt Mitchell, star hockey player, dragging a man’s bloodied body across the ice.

Not in practice or a locker room.

On the ice, during a professional hockey game, while cameras rolled and the entire world watched. Brutal, deliberate. And he didn’t stop. Carnage televised.

In group we teach control. Deep breath, hands open. On the screen, Colt’s stayed closed.

I’d expected someone with manageable anger. Not a thirty-one-year-old, six-foot-something NHL enforcer beating another man until his body went slack. Sure, fights happened in hockey. Everyone knew that. But this wasn’t a simple fight.

It was a moment I’d never forget. My laptop balanced on my thighs, fork suspended mid-air. No sound. Only the flash of rink lights and a tangled mess of bodies. One figure lying helplessly on the ground. The other on top of him. Thrashing.

Devastating.

I had precisely zero knowledge about hockey, so I couldn’t pick Colt Mitchell from a lineup, much less off the ice.

I opened Google. Evidently, he was a rising star known for crushing hits and a jawline that appeared to be carved from stone by someone very angry.

High cheekbones, straight nose. Dark-lashed eyes that tracked the other player’s hands.

A deliberate expression usually seen on men who’ve been hit hard and learned what to do next.

Articles from the big sports sites mentioned “disciplinary action” and “unresolved aggression.”

Nevertheless, I watched the clip two times.

On the third watch, I found the courage to turn on the volume. That was when I heard the screaming, which I’d naively assumed was the crowd.

But it wasn’t cheering. It was panic.

A commentator yelled about a substantial suspension while a nearby coach pounded plexiglass as if the world had ended. And the ref, with frantic eyes, shouted over and over, “Let him go. Let him go!”

But Colt didn’t let the other player go. Not until the sixth punch after the guy was clearly out cold. Not rage, not fury. Something colder.

As if he wasn’t angry. He was just doing his job.

Finishing something.

I told myself I was only watching it for a clinical perspective. As an anger management therapist, footage like this was useful in my day-to-day work. I needed to know about dangerous things, fury, dissociation, fight-or-flight response.

But what I’d seen had rocked me. I opened a new email.

Subject: Recusal/Referral – Wednesday Anger Management Group (C. Mitchell)

The cursor blinked, begging me to decide. Ethics would indicate that a therapist should recuse for things such as impairment, dual relationships, or conflicts that can’t be contained. But what I had was a hard pulse in my throat and a man on my screen who didn’t look angry; he looked intent.

I typed: I request to refer out.

I backspaced and reminded myself that our waitlist was three weeks and moving Colt would mean stranding him between court and public relations.

Fear wasn’t a conflict. Fascination could be. My pulse argued for a conflict of interest.

Across the street, a thin sightline opened through a gap in my neighbor’s curtain. Her living room was lit by a television playing ESPN where the fight played on loop. Wind thudded on the window like a fist as rain started, slowly but stubbornly. My gaze returned to the draft.

In light of the footage…

Delete.

That wasn’t honest of me. I wasn’t unfit, I was just… rattled. I could name that and still lead a group, help people heal.

I left the subject line unchanged and the body empty, unsent. A small red Draft flag appeared in the corner of it, proof I’d thought about doing the right thing. Or about running.

I told myself I’d send it after one last watch. Once I could say exactly what I had reacted to: Colt, or the way the crowd applauded violence until it stopped breathing.

Professional curiosity, I told myself, while my skin said otherwise.

I paused the video, my food left untouched, and stared at my wall for a solid minute. The plaster was cracked. Stained from leaks I could never afford to repair.

This house had been in my family for generations. Tucked away on a Chicago side street in an untrendy area. An old Victorian, and a burden more than an inheritance. I’d tried to sell it twice but offers had been laughable. Evidently, no one wanted a broken-down relic that groaned through the night.

Not to mention the back door latch which never sat flush. As if the house always kept its mouth open. A loose tooth in an old jaw.

The sounds alone were enough to give anyone nightmares. My radiator ticked in uneven time, trying its best to offer warmth. But the walls ate heat like a tithe I never agreed to pay. The financial cost was painful; an obscene electricity bill each month.

Heat rose anyway. Inside and out. I blamed the radiator and closed my laptop.

The glow of the television in my neighbor’s living room caught my eye again, playing the clip over and over.

The final punch, the one Colt threw at the end, made my stomach harden. Colt, a tank in flesh, didn’t stop until there was nothing left for him to fight.

Across the street, my neighbor’s TV went black. The window gave my face back to me. Silence held but compulsion didn’t.

I sat motionless for a moment, fork loose in my fingers. My breath snagged while dinner went cold, and my hands refused to behave.

And then, because I couldn’t help myself, I opened my laptop again.

Found the video.

And pressed play.