Page 43 of Shattered On Ice

“I can feel you staring at me,” he rumbles without opening his eyes.

“Just checking that you're alive,” I say, sitting on the coffee table across from him.

He cracks an eye and peers at me a moment before it snaps shut again. “Alive, yes. But functional, no.” He throws his arm over his face to block out the light.

“How are you feeling about what happened last night?” I ask, deciding to just rip the Band-Aid off.

Westin groans. “Like I almost killed a man, so pretty shitty, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“You're deflecting, Westin,” I counter. It’s time for some tough love, whether or not he’s ready.

He lifts his arm an inch and squints at me through narrowed slits. “I hate myself for drinking too much, because now I have a splitting headache. And I hate myself for almost killing a man in anger over some stupid fucking words he said. I know better, but I let him get under my skin, and look what happened.” His voice breaks on that admission, and he drops his arm back to his face, his body silently seized with the throttled sobs he’s violently holding back.

“Well, your coping mechanisms are shit, but at least you chose yourself, so that’s one positive,” I say, pragmatic in the face of his stifled breakdown.

“Aren't you supposed to be all nice and shit?” Westin groans, throwing a second arm over his head to fully block my words and the morning light streaming through the windows.

“I am nice. That’s why I brought you Advil,” I say, voice emotionless. I’ve compartmentalized. My feelings are safely tucked away for now while I call Westin out. “But blatantly ignoring a cry for help because it makes you uncomfortable would be malpractice. Your coping mechanisms are shit, Wes,” I repeat.

He peeks out from under his arms, red-faced and sweaty. “You think drinking is a cry for help? I didn't drive. I didn't hit anyone.”

“No, you just drank until you passed out because you were so desperate to turn off your brain and feelings,” I spit back, not giving an inch. “You wanted to run from what happened on the ice, but it didn't work, did it? You're waking up with the same horrors in your chest, only now you have a splitting headache to accompany it.”

“Damn, Doc,” Westin mutters, his voice dropping to a deep tone as he rakes a hand down his face. “You can stop shouting at me now. It’s too early for this level of self-reflection.”

I freeze as if he’s struck me. The nickname isn’t playful. It’s a white flag. He’s asking for help even if he doesn't have the words to say it.

I’ve spent my entire life learning how to put shattered people back together. I never expected the person who needed it most would be him. If he’ll just let me, I can pull him out of this.

“Take the Advil. Drink the Gatorade. Let's undo the damage you inflicted and go from there,” I say, holding out my hand as a peace offering.

Westin slowly lowers his arms, revealing his beautiful, red-rimmed hazel eyes, face swollen and sallow. But he looks at me with trust as he takes the Gatorade and the pills.

“Do you think I’m a monster?” he asks quietly, unable to meet my eyes.

I drop to my knees in front of him, the therapist overtaken by the lover in a rush. “No, absolutely not.”

“You were there. You saw what I did. What I’m capable of. I wanted to hurt him, and I did.” Westin scrubs his hands over his face, dashing away the pooling tears he refuses to let fall.

“What did he do to you, Wes?” I ask, my voice breaking for the repressed man who is blaming himself for a situation that’s so much bigger than the part he played in it.

He shakes his head, mouth set in a tight line as if that will keep the truth hidden, but his eyes plead with me. Slowly, his mouth opens, and I think he’s finally going to let me in.

The door opens, and Rook enters with a big bag of takeout. “Oh, good, you're alive!” he says, heading our way, Indiana barking at his heels.

Westin looks away from me. I watch, paralyzed, as he violently swallows the truth back down. In half a second, he agonizingly pulls his shoulders back, his jaw clenches, and the All-Star mask locks into place like an iron vault. He sends an easy, frazzled half-smile at Rook.

I stand from the floor, swallowing a bitter wave of disappointment. He was right there. I had him. And now I’ve lost him all over again.

Sixteen

Westin

Afive-game suspension for charging.

That’s what the Department of Player Safety handed down, citing excessive distance traveled and a failure to decelerate before a violent impact. Five games and a maximum allowable fine.

That’s bullshit. I ended his career. I sent him off the ice on a stretcher. I put him in a halo brace after two surgeries just to ensure he wasn't permanently paralyzed. I should be suspended for the rest of the season. I should be stripped of the ‘A’ on my jersey, banished, and hidden away.