Page 4 of Steel and Ice

COLT

Mandatory anger management. That’s what they’d called it. A punishment with a polite name. The same way rich people called rehab a wellness retreat .

But I preferred to call it exactly what it was: a waste of my goddamn time.

They’d smacked me with a game suspension and a fine. Not to mention my manager was launching a PR campaign as if I were a live grenade. The League came back with the crushing blow of forced group therapy if I had any hope of playing again this season.

So yeah, I showed up.

Didn’t mean I had to enjoy it.

Today was my second group session, and I figured it wouldn’t be any better than the first. The room reeked of lemon cleaner and shame. The cleaner stung my nose and my pride; the same institutional scent they flooded the locker room with.

In my mind, suddenly there were flashes of a tunnel, rubber under foot. Sticks tapped the kick plate in a rhythm that meant wake up.

I ignored everyone and made a beeline for the coffee pot. Head down, hood up. Do not engage with anyone. But he was already there, fully prepared to lead another meeting.

Blair.

The clipboard guy. Thin wrists, thick lashes. He sat in one of the chairs in a circle and flipped through a stack of forms. At first glance, his hands looked almost soft. His shirt was a little too perfectly crisp and his face a little too delicate.

Not the type of man I’d expect to run an anger management course for people who threw fists for a living.

He glanced up from his seat as if he hadn’t expected me to show up on time. His fingers slid too carefully through the pages as he tried not to show how close he was to trembling.

I immediately knew Blair had watched the video again, in spite of me calling him out on it after the previous group session.

And he hadn’t viewed it just once.

Blair didn’t break eye contact, and that told me everything I needed to know. He wasn’t just curious… he was measuring me.

Because under all his polite little nods and tidy shirts, he held the one thing I needed most: his signature.

He could decide if the League’s golden monster deserved another chance on the ice. One flick of Blair’s pen and I was either back in the game or benched for good.

From how he studied me, I wasn’t sure which way he was leaning. He held my career in his hands.

And that made me furious.

I wasn’t another client or participant to him. I was the fight. The Mercer Game. The one who didn’t stop at three punches. Or at six.

The last punch was what got me here. But what no one saw was that Mercer had speared me. His stick tip caught my ribs where neither the camera nor the referee could see.

I gritted my teeth. I wanted to look away, but something changed in his expression when I walked in. Not fear. Not exactly. More along the lines of… calculation. Studying, maybe to determine what type of beast had wandered into his circle of cheap folding chairs.

Blair nodded politely and said my name, neutral, detached. “Colt, thanks for being here.”

I grunted and sat down in the last remaining chair, which was thankfully also the farthest away from Blair. Arms crossed. Legs spread. A stance meant to say: don’t fucking talk to me.

Blair talked anyway.

“I want to thank everyone for showing up,” he said to the room.

Almost not looking at me, he added, “And for staying.”

I glanced around and took them all in. A couple of them barely registered for me. One dude with his head down fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt. Another guy, skinny as hell, and nervous, as if he might apologize for breathing.

Then there was Travis, in his chair with a scowl on his face. Big man. Arms covered in tattoos. Cheap class ring on his finger which he spun with his thumb. Green-glass stone, gold flaked away at the edges.

Travis seemed like the type of guy who peaked in high school. For some reason he always looked twitchy as hell. He shifted his weight in his seat as if his chair might bite him. When anyone else tried to speak, he sliced through with a short, mean laugh that didn’t come across as a joke.

Obviously, he didn’t want to be here anymore than I did, but for an entirely different reason.

I shifted my gaze away from him before we could make eye contact. Not my problem.

I spent the next hour ignoring everyone else in the group. They shared stories, gave each other smiles and nods. Someone cried about a bar fight while Blair leaned in and made eye contact.

He said things like, “Thank you for being vulnerable.” The type of nonsense I’d expect to hear if we were all hugging at a yoga retreat in the woods.

I kept my focus locked on Blair.

On how his upper lip twitched when someone brought up something particularly violent. On how he wouldn’t glance directly at me for more than a few seconds at a time, no matter how many times I shifted my weight in the chair.

On how he kept his pen poised, ready to either write down words I hadn’t yet said or use it to defend himself against an imaginary attack from one of the attendees.

Blair was obviously curious about me. But something unnamed lurked under his curiosity. I wasn’t sure if it was fear—close, though.

My thoughts were interrupted by a low chuckle from Travis.

He leaned forward in his chair and rested his inked-up forearms on his knees. An actor settling in for a performance.

“Bet you enjoy this,” Travis said, his voice so loud it filled the room. “Sitting there like you’re above us, taking notes, waiting for someone to fuck up so you can call the judge and feel important. Does that do it for you, counselor?”

Blair froze for a second before he fixed his expression. A mask he’d probably rehearsed and polished in a mirror. But his hand gave him away, tightening so hard around his pen I thought it might snap into two pieces.

“I’m here to help,” Blair said evenly.

I counted the space between them. Five steps, two chairs, and one bad idea.

“To help?” Travis laughed. “Is that why you wouldn’t remove the safety hold the other day? Sure, that’s helpful. Now I’ve got a sit-down with my parole officer in the morning so he can decide my punishment. All because of a hold.”

“We’re all here to help each other learn ways to manage our anger, our emotions,” Blair said. “It’s my job, to help.”

Travis snorted and it echoed through the room.

“Help, sure,” he said. “That’s what a judge said when he shoved me in here the first time. Second time’s a charm, I guess. Missed a few classes the first go-round. Broke a few bones. The judge wasn’t impressed.”

“And can you see your actions had consequences?” Blair asked. “Do you understand that’s the reason you’re here?”

Travis’s grin changed to a scowl. “The reason I’m here is my ex-girlfriend’s new man had the nerve to tell me where I was allowed to go. I left him on the floor coughing up blood. Poor guy didn’t leave the hospital for a month.”

A couple of people shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, avoiding eye contact with Travis. He examined the room, a dare in his eyes for someone to open their mouth.

I’d heard the whispers about him from other attendees. This was Travis’s second time through because he’d skipped half the sessions the first time.

Court-ordered.

He’d put his ex-girl’s new boyfriend in the hospital with broken ribs and a concussion.

I didn’t tolerate his type. Guys who went after whoever they assumed were a weaker, easier target.

And I hated how Travis’s voice crawled over Blair, a dare for him to react.

His voice alone irritated me. Hairs on the back of my neck rose and I shifted forward in my chair before realizing it. I wanted to shut Travis up.

I preferred quiet. Sometimes I took it.

Blair’s eyes flicked over to me for a second. He could sense the shift in me, the weight of it. He straightened his shoulders, inhaled, and continued, redirecting the group as if he could erase the moment.

But the group wasn’t on my radar anymore. My mind had been consumed by how much I despised Travis’s smirk, and how close I was to wiping it off his face.

If I swing, I lose. But if Travis swings, he disappears.

I thought about Blair as I watched him. The way his voice had stayed calm though his hands hadn’t. I hated to see his composure slip. But I hated even more that it was because of Travis.

If anyone was going to shake Blair like that, it’d be me.

I didn’t wait at the coffee pot with the rest of the group members. I went for the door.

Chicago cold hit my face. I grimaced and shook my head.

Blair was halfway down the block, head down. He walked with a neat, steady pace. A moment passed and he stopped at the corner under an old awning.

I couldn’t help but wonder if an anger management therapist contemplated how many people might wish him harm.

My thoughts drifted for a moment to Travis, and my skin crawled.

Blair waited to cross the street, unfazed by the hustle and bustle around him. Or maybe it was a front, a carefully crafted act.

The WALK sign was counting down.

Twenty-three.

A camera over the market door threw a red dot into the glass window of the shop. Everything flashed through my mind at once, contracts, sponsorships. Millions at stake. All in Blair’s hands.

I came up beside him and took the curb.

“Counselor,” I said.

But Blair didn’t look at me. His eyes remained locked on the WALK sign. The crosswalk countdown ticked.

Twenty.

My agent’s voice crawled into my ear. One game missed was fifty grand down the drain.

Paper before ice. His pen before everything else.

The part of me that swings stayed where Blair could see it.

I wanted to back him up against a brick wall until he told the truth. Deeper down, I thought he might open his mouth if I asked.

“You gonna tell me why you watched the video again?” I asked, each word deliberately chosen. “Or do you want me to help you name it?”

He swallowed and finally looked over at me. “Excuse me?”

I stepped close enough that the air between us thinned. Blair had to tilt his head back and stretch his neck to meet my gaze.

His pulse was visible in his throat and, for a second, I wanted to press my thumb there, to feel it hammer.

“You didn’t watch it once,” I said. “You rewound me. I want to know why you have such an interest in me, Blair. In the fight.”

I hated that I gave a damn in the first place. That some part of me needed to know what Blair saw when he pressed play.

The crosswalk counted thirteen.

Maybe he planned to use it against me, or dissect me on paper for his files, or write a case study about the hothead hockey player who snapped in a game. Or maybe Blair was the same as the rest of them. Eager for a show and addicted to the blood.

His lips parted, a denial likely ready, but nothing came out. His breath stuttered instead, a noise so small it barely counted as a sound at all.

“You were scared the first time,” I said, my voice low as strangers passed us. “But you pressed play again. Why?”

Nine.

A bus sighed at the curb, and the train rattled one block over. The market’s cooler pulled air in and the camera over the door kept its red dot.

“You stand between me and the game,” I said. “Between me and months of pay.”

“It’s my job,” Blair said, as if it were no big deal. “I need to know who I’m working with.”

Six.

“You think you know me now?”

“I think you like hurting people,” he said.

His words got under my skin. I felt them crawl up my back and through my neck.

I won’t touch him. I can’t.

One.

The hand flipped to WALK.

“No,” I said. “I like shutting people up.”

Without another word, I turned and left.

But the hunger followed.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Blair.

Back in my apartment, I paced the floors. A prisoner trapped in his cell, rapidly losing his lucidity. I was wired. Restless. My muscles twitched with an energy I couldn’t burn off. Not fury at Travis, not the session.

Blair.

The expression on his face when Travis got under his skin. How Blair held himself together, barely, as he walked a tightrope. And later, when I’d leaned in so close I could hear his breath, he hadn’t backed down.

I hated that I noticed everything. Every movement. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

I dropped to the floor and did pushups until I gasped. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, counting in my head. By one hundred, my arms shook so much I thought I’d lose balance. By one fifty, sweat had started to drip on the floor.

But I pushed harder anyway.

I cracked open my gear bag and my living room suddenly turned into the locker room. Rubber, sweat. Tiger Balm. The ice wasn’t there but my hands insisted on it. They shook and begged to be allowed near the rink again.

Nothing worked, so I rushed to the gym where I slammed weights and attempted to bench press heat from my head.

But the feeling didn’t fade.

The flicker in Blair’s eyes. How he’d steeled himself when Travis wouldn’t shut up. The tiny shake in Blair’s hands he assumed no one noticed.

I wondered how it might feel to be the one to make him lose his composure completely.

And I got hard thinking about it.

Didn’t make sense. Wasn’t supposed to happen. I’d had women throw themselves at me for years. Being an NHL player came with fame and money.

I knew what I wanted. I’d never even looked at a guy that way until Blair.

He was different from anyone I’d ever known. If I could’ve ripped this thing out of me, I would in a flash. Whatever the hell it was.

This wasn’t attraction. It couldn’t be, not in a million years. Had to be adrenaline, leftover intensity from Travis’s bullshit and the big hockey fight that hung over me.

That’s all.

I stalked into the gym’s sleek bathroom, surrounded by backlit marble, and stared at myself in a mirror; jaw so tense I could see the muscles as they shifted.

My face looked the same in the mirror, but I didn’t feel the same.

What the fuck is wrong with me?