I gesture toward the couch. “But we aren’t here to talk about me. What’s wrong?”
He sits heavily, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might crack open and swallow him.
“The ashes,” he says quietly.
I sit beside him, close but not touching.
“They’re in my closet,” he continues. “I thought I could just deal with it later. But it feels like they’re everywhere now. Like I can’t breathe around them.”
His voice roughens. “I’m pissed. And I don’t even know who I’m pissed at.”
I listen. Really listen. No interruptions. No fixing.
When he finally trails off, I’m still there. Steady, present.
And for the first time since he walked in, his shoulders drop just a little.
Whatever line I crossed by letting him into my home, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.
It feels like exactly where he needed to be.
I shift slightly on the couch, angling my body toward him without really meaning to. He’s close enough now that I can feel the heat rolling off him, the tension vibrating just under his skin.
“When you think about the ashes,” I ask gently, “what do you want to do with them?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead of us.
“I want to scatter them,” he finally says. “At Rebel Field.”
My brows lift before I can stop myself. “That’s definitely not allowed.”
“I know,” he says quickly, like he’s braced for judgment. “It’s stupid. Risky. But it’s where he watched me play. Where he was proud of me, even if he didn’t say it.”
The desperation in his voice cracks something open in my chest.
I don’t tell him it’s impractical. Or unethical. Or that there are rules for a reason.
Instead, I smile.
“I’ll help you,” I say simply.
He blinks. Then lets out a surprised laugh. “I didn’t take you for a rule breaker, Doc.”
I shrug, laughing softly. “You’re only breaking the rules if you get caught.”
He shakes his head, amusement flickering across his grief. “Well damn. I’m liking you more and more.”
The heaviness eases after that, like we’ve shifted into a different gear without acknowledging it. We start talking. Not therapist and patient, not intern and player, just two people sitting on a couch late at night.
“What was it like for you growing up?” he asks.
“Boring and safe to anyone who wasn’t really paying attention. I had my fun. Got into things I shouldn’t have. Probably not the version Kamden told you.”
He laughs. “His stories make it sound like you were a saint.”
I snort. “Kamden didn’t always know what I was up to.”
His brow arches. “So you liked the feeling of something dangerous? Something exciting?”
