Page 49 of Shattered On Ice

I look around at the empty rink and breathe in the frosty, chemical-laden air. “So why are we here?”

“In practice, we use bilateral stimulation to help work through trauma. In the office, it would be eye movement and tapping. But you’ve been performing bilateral movement your entire life every time you take the ice. Right stride, left stride. This crosses the midline of the brain and forces the two hemispheres to communicate, which is what we want to do now. We’re going to use that to release the trapped adrenaline that has you in a heightened state of fight or flight and is messing with your ability to exist naturally on the ice the way you’ve come to expect.”

“How will that help me play the way I should? I don't have a stick to work with, or even a puck,” I say. What he’s saying makes sense to me in the limited way I can grasp it, but I don't understand the effectiveness of skating on an empty rink without the tools I use for work every day.

“You don't need your equipment. No pucks, no sticks, no drills. You're not Westin Dumont, the All-Star, here. You're just a guy carving lines into the ice. You’re just going to skate.” His face is so determined and sincere, I have to take him at his word that this can help.

I’m terrified that the moment I glide out onto the ice, my body will lock up and I’ll suddenly forget how to do the thing I've been doing since I was three and I’ll end up on my ass in front of him.

He doesn't follow me to the entrance. He waits by the bench, leaning his elbows on the boards as I take my first tentative step onto the slick surface. Has ice always felt so slippery? I don't remember the last time I even noticed, instead of just skating. I push off with my right skate, the sound grating and sharp, and glide. It’s wobbly, but manageable. I push with my left and wonder what I’m supposed to be feeling, because all I notice is how shaky and unreliable my legs are. I suck in a deep breath of the cold air, and it stings my lungs, but I keep skating slowly, moving around the rink clockwise until I’ve passed Knight again.

“Where are your feet? Feel your edges, Wes. Feel the ice. It’s solid and holding you. Keep going. Focus on the rhythm you’ve set.”

Fine, if he wants to make me skate fucking laps, I will. I would do anything for him, even if he’s in his Dr. Stephens persona instead of the Knight I know so well. I do what he said and focus on the left-right glide of my skates over the ice. It takes a few laps, but I suddenly notice that I’m no longer noticing my legs, and my skates feel normal rather than like moon boots. The next lap, I speed up a little, feeling the rhythm take over so it’s just one foot and then the other moving at a speed I’m comfortable with. I clock that my heart isn't racing and my breathing has slowed from the jagged inhales and explosive exhales that began this session into a smooth rhythm that matches my effort. Even the ache in my jaw has faded, whether real or imagined. The compressing weight on my chest that’s been crushing me is gone, along with that static that’s buzzed in my ears since I hit Benoit during the game.

Well, fuck me. Knight didn't just send me out here to skate laps for a coping mechanism. He gave me my sanctuary back. I reluctantly realize that maybe Knight, acting as Dr. Stephens, knows his shit, and he’s really treating whatever is wrong with me and my fucking broken amygdala. As much as I hate to admit it, the doctor-patient boundary, while completely awful, might just save my life.

Now that I can think without my brain record scratching every minute, I know I’m on the right track. I slide to a stop, blades cutting the ice in a spray that spatters the boards right in front of Knight. The elation in my body is bubbling, and I reach for him, wanting to hold him in my arms and press my face into his neck to inhale his scent. He slowly lifts his hands and moves back, dodging my embrace in an effortless manner that leaves me colder than the ice below my forgotten feet.

Ah, yes. He’s not my Knight. He’s Dr. Stephens. I don't get to kiss him when I’m happy or hold onto him when I need him anchoring me to the earth so I don't feel like I’ll float away. I slowly lower my hands until I grip the boards instead, needing something to keep me tied to the here and now.

Knight seems to understand what I need, even if he can't give me everything. He places his hand next to mine, almost touching. I can't quite feel the warmth of his skin, but it’s close, and that makes me crave him even more.

“It looked like you figured things out on the ice,” Knight says softly. “How are you feeling right now, this very moment?”

I chew on that question, wondering how to do justice to what he’s done for me with this simple act. “I thought I’d lost it forever,” I say, chest still heaving from the exertion of my faster laps at the end. “I thought Benoit had taken this away from me, too.” Sweat trickles down my brow, mixing with the dampness coating my skin. “But you gave it back to me. You gave me the ice back, Doc.”

Knight's smile lights up his face and crinkles his eyes. “It was all you. You did the work, Westin. Your brain just had to remember how to steer instead of letting the fear response take over,” he replies quietly. His voice is a soothing balm to my frayed edges. He taps my pinky finger with his before he moves his hand away. “The next session we’re working with a youth hockey organization, so I want you to bring your basic gear.”

Nineteen

Knight

The aluminum bleachers at the community rink are unforgiving. A freezing, seeping cold works through my slacks, and even my wool coat can’t fend off the chill that’s raising the hairs on my arms. I wrap my hands around the styrofoam cup of awful, burnt concession-stand coffee, wishing I’d thought to bring my own, but it's the heat I seek to thaw my hands enough to hold my pen.

The blank page in my clinical notebook resting on my thighs mocks me.

I steady the pen and finally begin my notes. Patient exhibits a rigid body posture upon entering the noisy environment. Shoulders elevated, breathing rapid and shallow, hyper-vigilant scanning of his surroundings.

Clinically speaking, it’s the truth. As Westin stepped onto the ice into the pack of thirty screaming, chaotic eight-year-olds, he looked like a man approaching the gallows. The sheer volume of the rink, with the thud of pucks against the boards, shrill screams and laughs of the kids, the slice of dull blades on the ice, and whistles blowing, had his All-Star mask slamming into place immediately as he fought for control of the anxiety that jacked his shoulders to his ears. He stood at the blue line, arms crossed over his massive chest, towering over the kids in their mismatched, oversized jerseys, looking absolutely scared out of his mind.

I take a sip of the disgusting coffee and frown, looking back down at my notes.

What I conveniently left out, and what I’m ethically forbidden from ever writing down, is that my chest is caving in under the weight of my desire to rush down the bleachers, wrap my arms around his neck so our faces are inches apart, and tell him he’s safe, and I’m here for him, before I kiss him softly.

A shrill whistle snaps me out of my depressing rumination, and I refocus on the ice. The head coach of the squirt team, an exhausted man in a puffer jacket, yells for the players to begin a warm-up drill. The kids swarm into the semblance of a line and begin skating backward without much skill.

One of them, a kid with bright red laces in his skates, catches an edge. He flails wildly, his arms pinwheeling before crashing helmet-first into Westin’s legs.

I sit up straight, my pen frozen over my notebook, and watch Westin intently. Will this trigger a flinch? Is he going to panic?

The kid bounces off Westin’s massive legs and lands on his back, sliding away like a turtle flipped on its shell.

For a moment, Westin freezes. He stares down at the child, his eyes wide and half wild. And then, my heart squeezes as the most amazing thing happens.

The All-Star mask drops, shattering to reveal the real man under the NHL pro as he lets out a booming, chest-deep laugh. His head tips back as the sound echoes through the frozen air over the noise of the rink. He skates forward in two smooth strides and effortlessly hoists the kid up by his armpits. He sets him back on his skates like he weighs nothing. He pats the kid on the helmet with a big glove, says something that has the kid grinning widely, and gently shoves him back toward the drill.

I forget my clinical notes and the damn notebook as my breath catches in my throat.