"That's heavy shit." No judgment in his voice, just acknowledgment. "How long you been playing?"
"Since I was four."
"So hockey's not just your job, it's your identity."
"Yeah. Exactly that."
"Makes sense you'd be freaking out." Papers shuffle. "Sable said you've got some relationship stuff going on too. Want to talk about that?"
I think about Scout, about how badly I want to marry her and how terrified I am that she'll realize I'm not worth it. "I'm with someone. Someone really good. And I keep waiting for her to figure out I'm a mess and leave."
"You tell her you're a mess?"
"Some of it. I'm trying to be more honest."
"That's a start." His chair creaks again. "Here's the thing, Silas. Most of us are a mess in one way or another. The question isn't whether you're fucked up. It's whether you're willing to do the work to be less fucked up. You game for that?"
Something about his bluntness makes me relax. "Yeah. I'm game."
"Good. Let's get you scheduled for a real session. You free tomorrow at three?"
"I can be."
"Done. I'm texting you the address now. Fair warning, myoffice isn't fancy. It's above a gym in Fremont. You're gonna smell chalk and sweat the whole time."
"That sounds perfect, actually."
"Thought you might say that." I can hear the grin in his voice. "Bring a notebook tomorrow. We're gonna start mapping out who Silas Huxley is when he's not on the ice. It's homework, so don't skip it."
"I won't."
"See you tomorrow, man."
He hangs up before I can say anything else. I sit there with the phone in my hand, the ice pack now lukewarm against my shoulder, and realize I'm smiling.
Maybe this will actually work.
The next afternoon, I find Dr. Max's office exactly where he said it would be. Above a CrossFit gym in Fremont, up a narrow staircase that smells like rubber mats and protein powder. The door has his name printed on frosted glass in simple black letters.
I knock.
"Come in!"
The office is small and cluttered in a way that feels lived-in rather than messy. Bookshelves line one wall, crammed with psychology texts and sports biographies. A worn leather couch faces two chairs. No desk, no diplomas on display, just a space that feels more like a living room than a doctor's office.
Dr. Max stands to greet me. He's shorter than I expected, maybe five-ten, with graying hair pulled back in a small ponytail and the build of someone who used to be an athlete. Faded tattoos cover both forearms.
"Silas. Good to meet you in person." His handshake is firm. "Have a seat wherever. Couch, chair, floor if that's your thing. I don't care."
I choose one of the chairs. It's comfortable, broken in, the kind of chair that doesn't make you worry about sitting wrong.
"So." He settles into the other chair with a notebook that's seen better days. "Sable gave me the basics but I want to hear it from you. What brings you here?"
"My last therapist was my girlfriend's sister. That got complicated."
"Bet it did." He grins. "But that's not what I meant. What's the real reason you're sitting in my office instead of pretending you've got your shit together like most athletes do?"
The directness catches me off guard. Again. "My coach made me start therapy. Said I needed to figure out my priorities before my career decisions got made for me."
