"Silas, I want you to try something with me. A thought experiment." She leans forward slightly. "If you weren't a hockey player for a year, who would you be?"
The question hits like a slap shot straight to the sternum. I stare at her for several seconds, mouth opening and closinglike a fish out of water. "I don't... that's not... Iama hockey player."
"I understand that. But imagine, just for a moment, that you couldn't play. Maybe you're injured. Maybe you're taking a sabbatical. For one full year, no hockey. Who are you then?"
My hands clench into fists on my thighs. The leather couch creaks as I shift forward, then back, unable to find a comfortable position. "Nobody. I'd be nobody."
She writes that down, her face neutral. "Nobody?"
"Look, hockey isn't just what I do. It's who I am. Without it..." My voice trails off because finishing that sentence feels like admitting something I can't take back. "My dad played. My brothers play. It's the family business. Take that away and I'm just some guy with no skills, no purpose, no fucking point."
"What about a team outside the NHL? Have you considered that?"
Another gut punch disguised as a question. My shoulder throbs as if responding to the thought. "That would mean I'm done. Washed up. It feels like all those years of sacrifice were for nothing."
"Sacrifice," she repeats, latching onto the word. "Tell me about those sacrifices."
"College relationships that never went anywhere because hockey came first." My neck heats, because of course I'm talking about Scout. "Really one relationship in particular that could've been a thing. But I was worried that if I didn't focus on hockey a hundred percent, I'd lose my shot."
Dr. Sable's pen stills against her notepad. Something flickers across her face, too quick for me to read, before her professional mask slides back into place.
"One relationship in particular," she repeats carefully. "That sounds like it still weighs on you."
"Sometimes." The admission burns coming out. "It was eight years ago. I should be over it by now."
"Should is an interesting word choice." She sets her pen down entirely, giving me her full attention. "There's no timeline for processing regret, Silas. Especially when it represents a pattern that might still be active in your life."
"What do you mean?"
"You chose hockey over this relationship because you were afraid of losing your shot. Are you still making that same choice? Still sacrificing connections for the game?"
My jaw tightens. "Hockey demands everything. That's just how it is."
"Is it? Or is that the story you tell yourself to avoid taking risks?" She leans back slightly, studying me. "What if that person, that particular relationship, could have existed alongside hockey? What if it wasn't actually an either-or situation?"
Bitterness fills my tone. "You don't understand. I had to be completely focused. Any distraction could have cost me everything."
"And did that total focus get you everything you wanted?"
The question sits heavy between us.
"I'm in the NHL," I say finally.
"That's not what I asked." Her voice stays gentle but doesn't let me off the hook. "You're in the NHL, yes. But are you happy? Fulfilled? It doesn’t sound like you are.”
Scrubbing my neck, I can't help but picture Scout again. Her scent, her warmth, the way she touches me and makes me feel like I'm not some broken robot.
"I don't know." I peek up at the doctor. "Can I skip that for now?"
"Of course. This is only our first session. I'm just trying to find your baseline." Dr. Sable shifts in her chair, recrossing her legs. "You mentioned anger earlier. That it's been an issue on the ice. What happens if you let yourself feel anything besides anger?"
The question catches me off guard. I've been ready to talk about fighting, about penalties, about the rage that sometimes takes over when an opponent goes after one of my teammates. This is different.
"I don't understand the question."
"Anger is often what we call a secondary emotion. It usually covers something else. Fear, hurt, disappointment. What happens when you let those other feelings surface?"
My throat goes tight. People call me Ice Man. The nickname's supposed to be about my icy feelings in the face of chirping. But the truth is darker than that.
