Page 2 of Steel and Ice

BLAIR

Wednesday came faster than I thought it would.

On my way to group session, the train smelled of wet coats and coins. Every pane of glass returned a faint likeness of me. I stood the entire way because sitting invited questions I wasn’t ready to answer.

On the walk from the station, Chicago’s famous wind pushed me along storefronts until I landed under the corner market’s huge television. The fight clip played on mute above my head. Fists flashing on the rink.

Colt.

A mom paused on the sidewalk next to me with her son as they both stared up at the TV. His face went still, the way kids do when they learn something adults won’t say out loud.

The mother shifted, her body blocking the screen. But not me.

The TV held my gaze for a second too long. I’d already rewound him at home; this time, the city pressed play for me. On the glass, my reflection stood where a penalty box should have been.

They both moved away, and I stayed in front of the store alone. Watching. The type of footage that would remain on the news for days. As I stood, the city made its judgment. But my body kept its own counsel. My face felt hot in the cold light of the screen.

Too much wind , I thought.

I nudged myself to keep moving and didn’t, but the street signal counted me anyway.

The WALK digits slid down.

Ten, seven, three, one.

Our clinic sat on a block that always looked exhausted by afternoon. A paper sign taped on the old brick facade by the buzzer asked for patience. Inside, fluorescent light gave its best effort as coffee stung the air. Somewhere in the ductwork, the building cleared its throat.

The hallway funneled me toward a room where I was supposed to be the calm one, the objective one. Though I was normally a few minutes late, today I arrived early.

Too early.

The kind of early that reeked of anxiety instead of professionalism.

The room was already set up; chairs in a circle, neutral paint, and a potted plant that was faker than the smile I slapped on my face.

I circled the chairs twice, adjusted them ever so slightly, straightened papers that didn’t need to be straightened.

Denny walked past me with his fresh coffee. “You’re awfully twitchy today.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I am professionally composed.”

I glanced down and noticed my palms were sweating so I wiped them on my pants, but it didn’t do any good.

Relax , I thought. Chill. Breathe.

Denny glared at me, not buying a word I said.

“Blair, you color-coded the sign-in pens,” he said with a smirk.

A fact I had not realized until he’d pointed it out.

“You’re welcome,” I muttered and forced a grin.

The first few attendees arrived right on time. Ramon joked about dreary weather, Edgar gave me a stale protein bar he likely found under his car seat, and Ben asked if the chairs were new; they absolutely were not.

Next in was Travis. He’d been here before, but he never looked willing.

This was his second attempt at anger management after he’d missed too many sessions the first go-round.

Big guy, fully shaved head, sleeves of tattoos and a chip on his shoulder the size of a dining table.

He dropped into a chair with a grunt and didn’t make eye contact with anyone, including me.

Same as always.

Last session I logged Travis’s boundary violation during group. He screamed in another participant’s face and planted himself in the doorway after two prompts to move out of the way. Conduct noncompliance. Per policy, I notified my supervisor, and the note was flagged for probation review.

Travis was aware of the same rules I tell every court-ordered client. Aisles and doors stay clear, and no staff contact outside scheduled group.

So today, Travis’s participation was conditional. Attendance verified, behavior documented. The clinic’s snapshot goes to parole officers regularly. Wording mattered. Travis knew it, and I knew it.

But no matter how angry Travis seemed, my mind couldn’t help but wander to Colt. The clip I’d seen was enough to leave a lasting impression. I counted the minutes as they passed and wondered when he’d enter the building.

Then, at 9:08, the door opened.

And Colt Mitchell walked into the room as if the floor should part ways for him. The room tipped a few inches toward him, and I corrected my posture as if it would fix the floor.

He was even taller than he appeared on video. Broader. His sweater couldn’t hide that he was built like a man who moved refrigerators recreationally.

Colt carefully scanned the room, passed over everyone else, mere background furnishings to him, and landed on me.

I smiled but it may have come out as a grimace.

Colt didn’t smile back. Instead, he sat in the chair furthest away from me and angled it away from the group.

“All right,” I said, pretending I didn’t need a paper bag to breathe into, “let’s get started.”

Group went mostly as I’d expected.

Ben shared that his boss shouted at him for small infractions again. Ramon said something he thought was vaguely inspirational, and Edgar said he was proud of himself for only almost punching someone this week. For Edgar, that counted as growth.

Colt said nothing. Not a word.

When it came to be his turn, I tried. Gently at first.

“Colt, is there anything you want to share with us?”

His eyes met mine. “No.”

One word. No inflection, no explanation at all.

A verbal full stop, issued as a command.

“Nothing at all?” I asked.

“Not in front of them.”

Colt’s palms flattened on his thighs.

It’d be easy for me to spend ages dissecting his comment.

Ben snorted and rolled his eyes. “Strong silent type, eh?”

So, we moved on.

I did my best to remain composed as I internally guessed what he might do. But Colt didn’t argue or interrupt. He sat, completely still, and observed prey patterns instead of participating in group session.

Every time I glanced at him, he was already glaring at me. But I couldn’t read hostility or curiosity. I wondered if he was directing all his rage toward me as the group leader. Maybe he blamed me for his necessary time here, for every violent act he’d committed.

I’d learned during my years as a therapist that the mind can tell itself all kinds of lies to protect ego.

Colt’s ego.

I managed to end the session on time and sent all the participants out with the usual goodbyes and platitudes.

Good effort, keep working, and you’re all on your own journeys.

Colt remained seated until everyone else had left the room.

Then he stood. Slowly.

Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t acknowledge me.

But as he passed, close enough for me to smell aftershave and something faintly metallic, he said quietly:

“You watched the video.”

It wasn’t phrased as a question.

My throat closed shut and my heart forgot its function. Before I could answer… before I could breathe…

Colt walked out.

I sat down in his vacated chair. Slumped into it.

Then I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened the app, and watched the entire clip again.

Because apparently, I hated myself.

The footage played on my screen. The crowd roared as the punches landed. My palms were sweaty again. And somewhere deep inside the professional, cardigan-wearing therapist I wanted to be…

Something twisted.

Not with fear. Well, not entirely. But with quiet, unsettling but unmistakable want . Which, to be clear, was not ideal .

At all.

I closed the video, locked my screen, and let out a sigh. I shook my head and shoved my phone in my pocket as I sat alone in the room with my thoughts, which were, in no particular order:

One, I should up my life insurance.

Two, therapy is a scam.

And three…

God help me, I might be into him.

Several minutes had passed, so I knew I wouldn’t run into anyone—especially Colt—in the parking lot.

I wasn’t sure whether fear or nerves wanted to avoid him.

After I checked my pocket for keys, I reached over for my coffee but realized I’d left it in the breakroom. The clock above the door ticked as I stood and walked toward the hallway which had emptied out.

Motion lights woke a moment too late, and the EXIT sign glowed next to the vending machine which provided its own little hum. No voices, or shoe scuffs.

Only me.

The staff lounge sat around a blind corner with its sad little badge reader by the door jamb. Participants were never allowed back here, so we always had to badge in. I pushed the door with my shoulder, and it yielded. No swipe, just a soft sigh and no click.

Inside, the room was dark until the motion sensor finally found me. Fluorescent lights came up quick and hard. My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted and for a second, I saw only the sink and the microwave. Next, my cup by the faucet.

Then I saw Colt.

He stood where I usually stand, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed.

Calm.

As if the room belonged to him and I was the one who’d wandered in by mistake.

I didn’t move because I couldn’t. Participants weren’t permitted here, ever.

I glanced back and saw the fob reader blink amber, then I saw a thin beam of hallway light around the rim of the door. The latch hadn’t caught.

The building had lied to me.

Colt stood there, wordlessly. The only thing between us was the dripping faucet. I opened my mouth to speak, my mind scrambling for words. Something banal, innocent. Safe.

Before I could think of anything, he locked eyes with me.

“You went back to it.”

My throat went dry. “What?”

His voice was low. Gravel and threat. “The video. You replayed it.”

I should’ve lied. But with one step forward from Colt, the lie died in my mouth and withered on my tongue.

He didn’t touch me or raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“If I did go back to it…” I said, trying to choose my words carefully. “What does that mean to you?”

“You couldn’t leave it alone,” he said through gritted teeth. “Not after the first time.”

“Neither could you,” I said. “Maybe I wanted a better angle.”

The words escaped before I could stop them, and every nerve in my system pulled tight, screaming.