It's not a question but I answer anyway. "Well, yeah."
"What do you do when you're overwhelmed? When everything feels like too much?"
"I hit things." The honesty surprises me. "Usually I have a go with the heavy bag at the gym. Sometimes I drive to the rink at two in the morning and shoot pucks until my arms shake. Other times I just... shut down. I lock myself in my room and stare at game tape until my eyes burn."
"Does that help?"
I shake my head. "No, but it passes the time."
“Thank you for confiding in me, Silas.” She smiles a little. That weird feeling of having met her somewhere before passes over me again. Almost a sense ofdéjà vu. Dr. Sable glances at the clock on the wall, then back at me.
"We're almost out of time for today, but I want to leave you with something to think about." She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, elbows on her knees. "You've built your entire identity around being useful to other people. But what if your value isn't tied to what you can do for others? What if you matter just because you exist?"
The words feel like a foreign language. I stare at her, unable to formulate a response that doesn't sound like complete rejection of the concept.
"I'd like to see you again in the next couple of weeks," she continues, standing up. "I'll reach out to you for scheduling."
"Sure." I stand too, grateful for the excuse to move. "Coach says I have to, so I'll be here."
"Silas." Her voice stops me at the door. "This is hard work. What you're doing, coming here, being honest. That takes courage. Real courage, not the kind that throws punches on the ice."
Something in my chest cracks. I scrub at the back of my neck as I mutter, "See you around, Dr. Sable."
The hallway feels too bright after the warm dimness of her office. The elevator ride down stretches forever. By the time I push through the building's front door, my hands are shaking. Seattle's gray morning air hits my face, cool and damp, and I gulp it like I've been underwater.
My truck sits where I left it. I climb in and just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave marks. The session replays in fragments.
Nobody. Replaceable. What if you matter just because you exist?
Those are heavy questions.
My phone buzzes. As if he knew I was already in a tailspin, there's a text from Enzo.
Enzo:Got your contract numbers from the Havoc. Call me.
I dial before I can think better of it, already bracing for whatever manipulation he's about to try.
"Huxley!" His voice is too bright, too cheerful. He sounds as though he's won something. "I've got some news about your contract negotiations."
I need to rush him off the phone. "Let's hear it."
"The Havoc's offering two years, but the numbers are lower than we initially projected." He rattles off a figure that's nearly forty percent less than what I'm worth. I know what players with my stats and experience typically get.
My jaw locks. "That's insulting."
"I know, I know. But the market's tight right now. Your age, your injury history, the questions about your shoulder..." He trails off, letting the implications hang there like a noose. "I can push back hard, but I'm not sure how much wiggle room we have here."
"You're my agent. That's your job. Push back."
"I will, I will. Just managing expectations, you know?" He sounds too pleased about all this. I'm pretty sure he's enjoying delivering bad news.
Something clicks in my brain, a pattern I should have seen before.
My voice goes frosty. "Why do you sound happy about this?"
"What? I'm not happy. I'm just being realistic about market conditions..."
"You want me to take less money. Why?"
