Page 62 of Shattered On Ice

“You're not broken, but you are a little fragile right now,” I amend softly. “It means you're healing. And you aren't walking onto that minefield blind anymore. We’ve built your toolbox and drawn the map together, Wes.”

Westin lifts his head, gorgeous deep hazel eyes locking onto mine, searching for reassurance and the absolute certainty he knows I carry for him.

“If the panic surges, what do you do?” I ask, slipping immediately into the clinical coach he needs. Dr. Stephens still knows hockey, after all.

“I find my edges,” he answers instantly, the repetition of our work as ingrained as his hockey muscle memory. “I feel the solid ice under my skates. Right stride, left stride. I use the bilateral movement to process the adrenaline in my body and force my brain back into the present.”

Warmth radiates through me. “And if you freeze?”

“Five, four, three, two, one,” he recites, large hands gripping the edge of the exam table, the paper crunching under his fingers. “Five things I can see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, two I can smell, one I can taste. I drop the anchor.”

“Exactly,” I say, a rush of fierce, unrestrained pride coloring my professional tone. “You have all the tools you could need, Wes. You're strong enough. You know exactly how to handle the stress and fear now. You have everything you need to make it through the next three periods. The ghosts don't get to control the ice tonight. You do.”

Westin takes a deep, expansive breath. His chest rises, stretching the Hydras crest on his jersey, and when he exhales, the last lingering threads of doubt are expelled from the room with it. He picks up his stick, his hands sure and steady.

“What if I need you?” he asks, voice thick with an emotion we’re not allowed to name in this room.

“I’ll be standing right in the tunnel,” I promise him, holding his bright gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Twenty-five

Westin

The ear-splitting roar in the arena is a physical weight pressing against my chest. The ice under my skates is rough, chewed up, and fast. Late in the first period, a San Jose defenseman catches me with my head down. The hit is perfectly legal, but it separates me from the puck and slams my shoulder hard into the plexiglass as the fans in the first row bang their fists against the barrier.

The crack against the boards echoes in my skull. Montreal. The phantom taste of copper fills my mouth, and I spit onto the ice, surprised it’s not tinged red. My chest seizes, a blinding spike of panic threatens to hijack my brain right here in front of eighteen thousand people screaming for the blood that’s not actually on the ice.

Five things I can see. The blinding white of the ice. The neon green of Monty’s jersey. The white tape on my stick. The scuff marks on the boards. The glare of the overhead lights. I dig my left edge in, then my right. Left stride, right stride. The solid resistance of the ice grounds me. I don't freeze. I don't drop my stick. I push off the boards, processing the adrenaline in real-time, and skate back into the play. I’m still here, motherfuckers.

We’re tied in the third period. The puck rims around the boards behind the goal in our offensive zone, directly into the path of a San Jose defenseman. I have the angle. If I pinch now, if I throw my weight and check him into the glass, the puck is ours.

I drop my shoulder, accelerating. But as I close the gap, I see the vulnerability in the defenseman’s stance. I see a man about to get crushed like Benoit. My stride stutters. The ghost of Benoit whispers in my ear, telling me this is what monsters do. They use their size to break people and send them to the hospital with shattered limbs. My hands go numb. My grip loosens, the shaft of my stick slipping through my heavy gloves. I’m hesitating. I’m about to blow the play, drop my stick, and free-fall right out of the sky.

Desperate, I turn my head, eyes snapping to the tunnel between the benches. I zero in on where Knight is standing, a Hydras pullover replacing his usual button-down so he blends in with the team staff. He isn't watching the game or the puck. He’s watching me. Time grinds to a tortured halt, the screaming fans dimming to a silent roar, the ice ticking by in flashes. Our eyes lock through the blurred chaos. He doesn't look worried. He just rests his hand flat against his own chest and takes a slow, visible breath. Drop the anchor. I unconsciously mirror him, dragging cold arena air into my burning chest. He offers me a small, steady smile and a firm nod. He doesn't see me as a monster.

You're not him.

The numbness vanishes, replaced by a roaring, electric warmth. I’m not free-falling anymore. I have my anchor. He’s wearing tortoiseshell glasses, and his dimples are on display just for me. I drop my center of gravity, knees bending, shoulder driving cleanly into the defenseman’s chest as the impact rockets down my arm, a perfect, legal hit. The puck pops loose. I dig it out with the toe of my blade, spin, and send a blind, tape-to-tape pass to Chad waiting in the slot. He snaps a wrist shot top shelf into the San Jose goal.

The goal horn sounds, noise exploding in the arena, vibrating deep in my bones. Chad tackles me against the glass, screaming in my ear as the rest of the line swarms us. I hug him back, an unhinged, massive laugh ripping from my throat. I know what it feels like to play numb, to play on autopilot, just to survive the fear. But this? This is pure joy.

When the final buzzer sounds, I’m flying high. There’s nothing that can hold me down. The bench empties, helmets and gloves flying off as players surge onto the ice to celebrate this mid-week game like it’s the fucking Cup finals. I'm hugged by the men I can now think of as brothers as they congratulate me. These guys, my team, are supporting me, as thrilled by my triumphant return to the ice as I am. They know me and want me on a team with them. They accept me as I am.

It's exactly how a team should feel. It's what I've always wanted from hockey.

I slide to a stop in front of Ryder at the goal, grabbing his big ass shoulders and pulling him in to kiss his mask as he laughs.

“Welcome back, Westy,” he says, squeezing me for a moment before letting me go to get the rest of his celebratory pats and helmet kisses.

Rook is waiting when I turn, ready to bump helmets with me as we grasp hands. “That’s what I’m talking about, bestie!” he shouts, slapping me on the chest. “You made it through better than ever.”

As soon as he lets me go, I’m skating toward the tunnel, one thing—no, one person—in mind. My heart is beating so fast I can’t feel the rest of my body, but that doesn't matter.

Knight is standing in the tunnel, a few feet back from the entrance, clutching his official-looking clipboard, looking completely out of his element and overwhelmed by the noise of the arena and this new environment.

I don't stop. I don't care about the cameras panning the ice, the media, or who could be watching. The ghosts of Montreal don't matter anymore. I toss my helmet to the side, drop my stick, and lunge for him.

Knight’s eyes go wide for a moment as I wrap my arms around his waist and lift him completely off his feet, his clipboard hitting the floor. The professional boundary he’s worked so hard to keep between us shatters into a million pieces.