"You think this is a game, Easton?" His voice, cold and sharp despite the scotch. I'd been fourteen, laughing with teammates after we'd lost a game. "You lost. And you're smiling about it?"
"Coach said we played well, we just—"
"I don't give a damn what your coach said." He'd grabbed my jersey, pulled me close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. "Winners don't make excuses. And they sure as hell don't laugh about losing."
He'd made me skate laps for two hours that night. Alone on our backyard rink in the dark, while he watched from the porch with his glass.
"I felt like he was wasting everyone's time," I said carefully, coming back from the memory. "Like he didn't respect the game."
"Or like he didn't respect you," Dr. Reyes suggested quietly.
Yeah. That too.
"Look, I get it." Dr. Reyes leaned back, his expression serious but not judgmental. "You've spent your entire life in an environment where physical dominance wins games. The problem is that doesn't translate off the ice. Out here, it destroys careers and relationships."
I wanted to argue, but his tone made me pause. "So, what am I supposed to do? Just let people disrespect me?"
"Not at all. You're supposed to respond instead of react." He pulled a small card from his desk drawer. "There's a difference. This is what I want you to try: stop, breathe, observe, proceed."
I looked at the card skeptically. "That's it?"
"It's not magic, it's practice." A hint of a smile. "When you feel the anger rising, stop. Don't move, don't speak. Just freeze for a second. Then breathe.” He demonstrated by breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Deep breath in, slow breath out. It gives your brain a chance to catch up with your emotions."
"And observe?"
"Ask yourself, why am I angry right now? Is this anger actually justified, or am I reacting to something else? What happens if I act on this?" He shrugged. "Then proceed, but with intention, not impulse. That gap between what pisses you off and what you do about it? That's where the work happens. That's where you take control back."
I stared at the card, turning it over in my hands. It was very simple. "You really think this will work?"
"I think it's a tool. Whether it works depends on how you use it." He paused, cocking his head to the side. "Now, tell me about your father."
The shift in topic caught me off guard. "What about him?"
He blinked at me as if I were a kid. "The reporter mentioned him. That seemed to be the final trigger. What was your relationship like?"
My fingers clenched around the card. "He was a great man. A hockey legend. He taught me everything about the game."
"That's not what I asked." Dr. Reyes' voice was gentle but firm. "What was your relationship like?"
Images flashed through my mind. Dad on the ice, skating circles around me while I tried to keep up. Dad at the dinner table, dissecting my games with surgical precision, pointing out every mistake. Dad's face when I'd scored my first NHL goal. There was pride mixed with something else I could never quite name.
"He was tough," I finally said. "Pushed me hard. But he wanted me to be the best."
"And did you feel you could ever be good enough?"
The question hit like a slapshot to the chest. I cleared my throat, looked away, focusing on the parking lot below. "I don't know. Maybe not."
"And you've been trying to prove yourself ever since."
It wasn't a question, and I didn't have an answer. The silence stretched between us, heavy with a truth I wasn't ready to face.
Dr. Reyes leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Here's your homework for this week. Every time you feel that anger rising, use the card. And I want you to keep a journal. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just notes. What triggered you, how you felt, what you did about it."
"A journal?" I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." He smiled slightly. "Look, I know it sounds touchy-feely. But you can't fix what you don't acknowledge. Writing it down makes it real. Makes it something you can work with instead of something that just happens to you." He stood, signaling the end of our session. "Give it a try. Worst case, you waste five minutes a day."
I pocketed the card and nodded, already dreading our next meeting.
