Bennett isn’t angry. He’s terrified. Of losing control, losing respect, losing the only identity he’s ever let himself have.
And the tighter he grips that control, the closer he gets to shattering completely.
Franklin’s office is exactly what I expected—big desk, leather chairs, framed photos of championship teams from decades past. The man himself stands by the window, looking out at the rink below, and doesn’t turn when we enter. Making us wait. Establishing dominance. I’ve seen this move a thousand times—usually right before someone asks for an updo they saw on Instagram that won’t work with their hair texture.
“Sit.”
We sit.
The silence stretches for probably thirty seconds. Franklin’s a big guy—former player himself, before his knees gave out—and he carries the kind of presence that makes you want to apologize for things you haven’t done yet.
Finally, he turns.
“I’m not going to yell.” His voice is calm, measured. “I’m not going to threaten, or lecture, or pretend this meeting is about anything other than what it’s about.”
Bennett shifts beside me. I stay very still.
“What happened yesterday.” Franklin settles into his chair, eyes moving between us. “The... incident. On Main Street.”
“It won’t happen again,” Bennett says flatly.
“I know it won’t.” Franklin’s gaze sharpens. “Because I’m making it very clear, right now, that it cannot happen again. This organization is already on thin ice—pun not intended. We’ve got budget concerns, attendance concerns, a fanbase that’s been patient but isn’t going to stay patient forever. What we don’t need is our team captain having a very public breakdown that ends up on social media.”
Bennett’s jaw tightens further. I resist the urge to reach over and physically force it to relax. Or kiss it loose.
The thought arrives randomly, and I shove it down so hard I almost miss Franklin’s next words.
“The clips are everywhere, Bennett. I’ve had three calls from local media already. The narrative right now is that you’re ‘struggling’, which is better than ‘unstable’, but not by much. We’re already under a microscope this season. I won’t have this turning into a distraction.” Franklin leans forward. “I need to know this was a one-time thing. I need to know my captain has himself together.”
“He does,” I hear myself say before my brain catches up to my mouth.
Both men turn to look at me.
“Gisele...” Franklin’s tone is carefully neutral. “This is a conversation between—”
“With respect, Mr. Baker, you summoned me here, too. Which means you already know that what happened wasn’t just about Bennett—it was about everyone who showed up to help him.” I meet his gaze steadily, channeling every ounce of my grandmother’s steel. “Including me.”
Franklin studies me for a long moment. “I’m aware of your... involvement.”
“Then you’re aware that I’m not going to let this happen again, either.” I glance at Bennett, who stares at me through narrowed eyes. “I’ve already got a plan.”
“A plan.”
“For helping Bennett develop better coping mechanisms. Emotional regulation strategies. Ways to manage stress that don’t involve shutting down in the middle of a public street.”
The silence is deafening.
“You’re serious,” Franklin says.
“Dead serious.” I fold my hands in my lap. “You can either trust that I know what I’m doing, or you can handle this yourself. But I’ve known Bennett since we were kids, and I can guarantee you I understand what he needs better than any corporate wellness consultant you’d bring in.”
Bennett makes a noise beside me that sounds like a growl trapped behind clenched teeth. I ignore it.
Franklin’s eyes move between us—calculating, assessing. Finally, he nods once.
“Fine. I’ll give you some runway on this. But I want to see results, and I want to see them quickly. The team needs their captain focused, and this town needs something to believe in.”
“Understood.”
