But as for the part that thought of Walker’s quiet smiles, funny stories, sexyhockeyness—not that this was a word—and steady presence? Well, that part knew this was something real, and I closed my eyes, picturing Walker’s soft expression and the tenderness in his touch.
I knew I was falling for Walker.
THIRTEEN
Walker
The gameagainst Champlain was not one of my best.
I was glad it was an away game. Finn didn’t have to sit in the stands and watch me be a total moron. The whole incident with that asshole parent threatening my man had stirred up something I’d thought I’d had under control. Obviously not, since I ended up with a five-minute major for fighting in the first, an elbowing call in the second, and two roughing calls in the third. The first roughing call was against the same shithead I had inadvertently elbowed in the second. Is it my fault I’m tall and that guy is short? Is it my fault that his head is where a normal man’s elbow is? Nope. Still, the refs had been hitting me hard. I guess I had a reputation. Who knew? Well, I knew, and while I usually snickered at the bullshit calls, last night’s had gotten me a dressing down of biblical proportions.
At the advice of my head coach—advice being delivered with his sweaty red face directly in mine—I was sitting in the mellow environs of Dr. Quackers’ office staring at him fixing us a pot of some sort of funky smelling tea. It was too damn early for this tea shit. I’d not even had morning skate yet. Not that Coachwould have allowed me to skate until I’d checked in with Dr. Quackers.
“Now, this is a sipping tea,” he informed me as he passed the tiny cup on the equally small saucer to me. It looked like a kid’s toy in my massive mitts. “To receive its full benefits, you should enjoy it slowly. Savor it. Try not to throw it back as you normally do.”
“It smells like Arnaud’s skates.” There was no way I was putting this shit into my body.
Says the man who routinely used to do poppers.
Point taken.
“Oh? Does Arnaud have lemon-scented skates?”
I was in no mood for funny banter with my therapist. “Not even close.” I took a taste and let it flow down my throat. Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. “So, about my fall from the wagon… ”
“Mm, yes, you mentioned there was an incident at the game in Champlain.” He sat back, crossed his skinny legs, and tucked his goatee into the neck of his turtleneck. Then, he picked up his tea from the side table beside his chair and looked at me through curling steam tendrils. “What do you think precipitated that outburst?”
“There’s this guy where Finn works, a kid’s dad, and he keeps showing up at night to harass Finn. Guess the guy is a real dick. Abusive. You know?”
He merely nodded and sipped, really loud, slurpy sips that were already working on my nerves. “Has Finn called the police?”
“Sure, yeah, he’s doing all the right protocols and shit, but I honestly… ” I gazed down at the tea in my dainty cup. “Yeah, I honestly want to hang out in the school parking lot every night now.”
“What would you do in the parking lot at Finn’s school?”
“Guard Finn. And when Mr. Asshole Dad arrived, I could show him how it feels to be on the receiving end of an ass whipping.” My gaze lifted from the putrid lemon tea to my counselor. The good doctor stared back at me, quirking a thick eyebrow. “That’s it. I just want to punch the guy in the face numerous times.”
“I see.” He loud slurped again. A little chime clock over on his desk rang.
I waited. He sipped and slurped. I waited some more. “That’s all you have to say? I see? I mean, the team is paying you all kinds of money to talk with me, and so far today, all you’ve done is sit there and slurp tea. Also, and this is almost as annoying as you slurping, is the fact that you tucked your silly goatee into your shirt. So, you look like a turtle in a turtleneck drinking tea that smells like my friend’s rotten skates.”
“I’m meeting my wife for lunch today and she dislikes it when I have tea dried in my goatee.” I blinked. “I can tie a napkin around it if that would be better?”
“No, that would not be better. That would be worse.” I placed the cup and saucer on the coffee table none too gently. “I feel like you’re just phoning this session in, to be honest. Like, shouldn’t you be telling me that the incident with Finn and that asshole has got me so fired up because it’s stirring up memories of when my dad was being an abusive prick to me, and that by me hitting people it purges the built-up anger that I feel toward my father, who didn’t even have the fucking courage to face me man-to-man, but died before I was big enough to beat him down?” I blurted and drew in a breath. He just sat there, slurp-sipping. “Shouldn’t you be telling me that I need to process all of this with methods we’ve discussed instead of driving my elbow into the head of some Hobbit on skates? Why aren’t you reminding me that violence is not the healthy way to work through the pain?!”
“I don’t need to ask you those questions, as you’ve already answered them for yourself.” He smiled serenely at me and took another sip. Well, fuck me sideways. “You should try the tea again. It will grow on you.”
“You’re a sneaky shit. Stop making me heal myself.” I picked up the fucking tea and took another taste. Yeah, nope, it was terrible. It made me pucker. I hated it. “So how do I stop wanting to hurt my father as much as he hurt me?”
“We’ll work on that. For now, let’s sip tea and talk about some coping mechanisms for when you feel that dark urge to lash out at fantasy characters on ice skates.”
This guy was a total flake. I kind of liked him, though. I’d never tell him that, obviously.
Coach workedme so hard at morning skate I’d like to have died. I mean,shit, dude. Morning skate was supposed to be light. Guess he was still pissed about my penalty minutes, which was legit. After I crawled off the ice, I managed to get undressed, showered, and pulled on my street clothes. My hamstrings were still burning when I was easing my arms into my coat. The other art guys were hanging around the dressing room as I limped around looking for my other sneaker. I threw a dark look at Arnaud when it turned up in the soda cooler.
“I think maybe it would chill out your hothead?” he offered with a playful smirk and shrug.
“My head is on the other end of my body, dipshit,” I snarled, then shoved my foot into an icy cold Nike.
