Page 48 of Shattered On Ice

Knight just looks at me. His eyes are perceptive, steady, and empty of the warmth and desire I’m used to basking in. He doesn't take any notes. He doesn't take the bait. Instead, he lets the silence stretch.

The wall clock above my head ticks out the seconds, steadily counting down to an explosion. The silence feels suffocating, expanding and heavy against my ribs until my lungs are burning. I lean forward, hoping to pull in a full breath, but the air drags through my throat, and my knee starts bouncing in a frantic rhythm I can’t control.

“It’s just hockey, Doc. I play a fucking sport for work. It’s not that serious,” I try again, voice stretched thin and lacking the humor I’d hoped to interject with the cracking smile. “Guys get hit. You get in your head about it sometimes. Life goes on. We don't have to make anything of this.” I gesture around the office. I bring my hand back to my lap quickly to hide my trembling fingers.

“We both know that’s not true, Westin,” Knight says, his voice a gentle yet immovable wall as he finally breaks his silence. “You don't fight. Cheap shots aren't your thing. You're known for playing clean, even when provoked. Yet, you took a run at the Montreal captain in a six-to-zero game with three minutes left on the clock. That wasn't just a hockey play. That was personal.” He leans forward on his knees, bringing us close enough for me to inhale his bergamot cologne, which I’m addicted to. “Tell me about your history with Jérémy Benoit.”

The name hits me like a sledgehammer, every bad memory I have of him slamming into me until I’m struggling to breathe. The phantom ache in my jaw flares to life, throbbing along with my frantic pulse.

My breath catches in my throat. To explain Benoit, I have to explain the why. I have to reach into the locked box inside my heart to pull out the secret I haven't told a single person in ten years. I have to say Jean Luc’s name out loud.

I look away, focusing on the plaid pattern of the rug beneath my boots. If I look at him, I’ll shatter. I can't hide from Knight. There’s no All-Star mask I can slip on and pretend in front of him. It’s just me, the ghost of my first love, the memory of the monster who destroyed it all, and the horrifying reality that the only man who can save me is the one currently out of reach, that I’m not allowed to touch.

I blow out a shaking breath as my knee bobs. So, I have to go there.

“I played on a team during Juniors with Benoit,” I say. My voice is monotone, formulating the parts of the story to tell and which to omit. “He was a shitty human even at eighteen. We won the championship, and should have been celebrating, but afterwards, he and some other teammates cornered me in the locker room and beat the shit out of me.” My hand automatically raises to the indentation in my jaw, rubbing where it was wired. “I fought back, but four on one is an unfair fight, no matter how big or strong you are. There was so much blood. I remember falling to my knees and watching the blood drip from my face onto the concrete. That’s when they started kicking me. I woke up in the hospital with three broken ribs and a wired-shut jaw. I drank my meals through a straw for six weeks. It was simple hazing. He didn't like me because I outperformed him on the ice. They taught me a lesson for it.”

“That wasn't hazing, Wes.” Knight’s voice is soft, carrying to my ears and gently breaking through the static building to a crescendo. He sees right through me. “Teammates don’t send you to the hospital just to assert dominance. That was targeted violence, something personal. What did Benoit find out that made him want to destroy you like that?”

I’m seventeen all over again, my breathing hitching as I find myself in the musty locker room and realizing everything was fucked. I hesitate before I break the decade-long silence.

“I was with my first boyfriend, Jean Luc.” Saying his name in a monotone voice sends a jolt of fear streaking through me, panic clawing at my throat, trying to shut me up. “He was the only one I wanted to celebrate with after the win. I took him back to the locker room, knowing everyone had cleared out. I was just holding him,” I say. “It was one kiss.” I’m begging him to understand as I glance up, quickly meeting his gaze before dropping my eyes down again.

“I couldn't get away fast enough when the door opened. I wasn't out, and I knew anyone walking in wouldn't understand. I panicked when it was Benoit standing there with his fucking henchmen friends. I sent Jean Luc away. He didn't need to be a part of whatever Benoit had planned, and I thought it was safer if he didn’t see. I wanted to protect him.” Now that I’ve opened this old wound, it’s gushing. “Jean Luc’s look of betrayal as I told him to leave still haunts me. His blue eyes were so hurt that I pushed him away, that I denied he was anything to me. Benoit noticed I was close with Jean Luc at school and had started fucking with me well before this, but there was a violent disgust in his expression that broke whatever hold he had on his civility.” I pause, fidgeting with the seam on my pants, hating every agonizing moment of this. I’m nauseous and light-headed as I recount the interactions with my tormentor.

“The locker room and the ice had been my sanctuary for so long, but it became a slaughterhouse in a moment. They didn't just beat me to teach me a lesson,” I say, voice cracking under the pressure of ten years of silence. “Benoit told me that I was what was wrong with the world and could never be a hockey player if I were gay. He said if I ever tried it again, if I ever let anyone else in, he wouldn't just ruin my career. He’d ruin whoever I touched. He’d do to them what he did to me.”

I finally look up and meet Knight’s obstinately steady gaze. “That’s why I stay in the dark. It’s why I push you away in public. If someone like Benoit found out about you…if they hurt you…I’d kill them. I would fucking kill them.”

Knight’s pen stills, his knuckles going white as he grips the metal against the notebook. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling a sharp, painful-sounding breath before he swallows. Feature by feature, he smooths out the emotional cracks in his clinical composure. When he breathes out, his shoulders lower, and he finally opens his eyes to meet mine again.

There he is. My Knight. He’s still in there, behind the notebook and Dr. Stephens' nametag, even if I only caught the briefest peek of him for two heartbeats. God, I want him back.

“You didn't just put yourself in the closet after what that man did to you. You built a fortress to keep the people you care about alive,” he says, fighting to swallow back the emotion thickening his voice. “And it worked. You're safe. You’ve kept Jean Luc and me safe.”

I sink into the sofa, the leather creaking under my weight as I stare at him. “I can't just live a different life now. The threat is still there.”

“The war is over, Wes,” Knight says, firm authority returning to his tone. “You aren't a terrified seventeen-year-old with a secret in a junior league locker room anymore. You're a grown man. An NHL All-Star. Jérémy Benoit is a broken man thousands of miles away who will never play hockey again.” I cringe at the reminder of what I did as he leans toward me, green eyes intense behind his glasses. “You're safe. I’m safe. Now we have to teach your nervous system that the threat is gone.”

“I—I don't know how to believe that after so long,” I admit, folding forward to rest my face in my hands. This is too much. I can't breathe as I try to fit this information into my reality.

Knight softly closes his notebook and finally sets aside the pen I’ve been too fixated on. “Your brain knows the truth now, but your body doesn't believe it yet. This is why you’re flinching on the ice, missing passes, and not able to shoot. I assume you have your skates in that bag?” he asks, gesturing with his hand to the gear bag.

“Yeah, of course. I normally leave them at the arena, but you said to bring them with me. See, I can follow directions. Give me a gold star and tell me we’re done here.” Even I hear the hollowness in the thin humor I attempted.

“We aren't done yet. Let’s go.”

Going to a community rink wasn't on my bingo card for whatever therapy Knight had planned, but here I am, following him into the building anyway. As soon as he opens the door, the cold, metallic ozone scent hits me, sending me back to my last game. I freeze with my hand on the metal push bar, staring inside as my body locks up. It was bad enough to have fucked up at practice and be scratched. Now he wants to drag me back to a rink to do what, exactly? I take a steadying breath and cross the threshold into the space that’s like so many I’ve been in. Every rink and arena can bring me memories of my greatest joys and most horrific nightmares.

Knight leads me into the deserted space, nodding to a man at the rental counter as we pass. When we enter a brightly lit rink, he leads me over to a bench along the boards. I’m having flashbacks to Pee Wees when I played at community centers like this, and there was barely enough room for families to sit in the makeshift stands. All that hard work to get me to the pro level, and look at me now, hands shaking so badly I can barely lace up my skates. They feel foreign on my feet despite having a custom-molded footbed, and look like aliens to me.

Knight stands nearby, waiting for me to get my shit together.

I can't do this. Yesterday, I couldn't even take a pass from Chad without my brain going on the fritz. Why would he bring me here? Shouldn't we be back in his office, talking about all my failings in great detail? The rink feels like a prison sentence, not my salvation.

Knight takes pity on me, kneeling and tying my skates, then sitting back on his heels. It’s just like when we’ve been in my room, and I’ve put him on his knees to suck my cock, but I’m not in charge anymore.

“The yips aren't just physical, or a failure of your incredible talent. They're a biological misfire happening up here,” he says, tapping his head. “Your amygdala is hijacked. Your brain is sending red flag-waving danger signals to your hands and feet when there’s no danger at all, Wes.”