Somehow, he made me smile. We reached the top floor—quiet, carpeted, nothing like the echoing sports levels below. A huge4was painted beside the admin wing doors.
He stopped, nodding toward it. “You know what room you’re looking for?”
Panic punched straight through my ribs. My mind blanked. “I’ll find it,” I said too fast.
Something in my voice must’ve hit him because he backed off gently, hands raised. “Cool.” He took a step back, smile softening. “Nice to meet you again, Jari. See you soon.”
“‘Soon’?”
He frowned. “For the charity planning.”
“Yeah, sure, of course.” I swallowed, nodded, and reached for the door, but my pulse tripped. “I don't think I'd be a good fit,” I blurted, imagining the damage my participation could do to a charity focusing on mental freaking health. One glance at my last name and it would tarnish the entire thing.
“Why’s that?” The way Cam held my gaze made it hard to walk away. I had to, though, because Cap didn't know what he was doing when he asked me to be part of a charity focused on mental health.
“Nothing. Ignore me,” I said, and after a pause, he nodded. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
All too soon, I was on the other side of the door, pulling out the slip of paper with Dr. Hale's room number. I followed the corridor until I reached a door with a brushed-steel plate reading417.My stomach dropped. I knocked before I could think better of it.
“Come in,” a male voice called—steady, low, nothing as I’d expected.
The room surprised me. Expansive windows stretched across the far wall, looking out over the baseball field below. The roof was closed today, a curved shell of steel and glass filtering the light, so everything seemed muted and distant. From up here, the diamond appeared almost unreal—perfect lines, untouched dirt, the entire stadium quiet.
The office was warm. Plants. Soft lighting. Bookshelf. No cold chrome medical bullshit. Just a desk, two comfortable chairs, and framed prints of abstract art that didn’t demand anything from me.
And behind the desk—Dr. Hale.
A man.
For some reason, I’d been expecting a woman. Maybe because every therapist I’d ever been to was one. Maybe becauseanother man would see me as weak, I didn't like it one bit, and I came to a halt just inside the door.
He didn’tseemharsh and judgmental, though. Dark hair threaded with early silver, beard trimmed close, eyes tender but sharp enough to notice things I didn’t want seen. Late forties, maybe. Button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, posture relaxed but confident.
“Jari Lankinen?” he said.
I nodded, throat tight.
“Come in. Sit wherever you feel comfortable.”
Comfortable. Right. I wanted to run. I stepped inside anyway.
Dr. Hale waited until I sat on the edge of the chair with my back to the internal window, too upright, too tense—before he spoke again.
“First things first,” he said, voice steady but not clinical. “I’m Dr. Daniel Hale. But most players call me Dan.”
Dan. That felt… less threatening. Still a man. Still, someone who could cut me open with a question. But softer around the edges. He folded his hands loosely on his knee.
“Coach tells me you made the roster with the Railers. Big congrats on the transition. How’s your head handling all of this?”
My laugh came out wrong—thin, brittle. “Fine.”
Dan’s eyebrows lifted in a way that wasn’t judgmental—more as if he was giving me space to reconsider. “‘Fine’ is a big word,” he said. “Covers a lot of ground. What does it mean for you?”
I picked at one of my bracelets. “Means I’m doing good,” I lied.
“Showing up here counts,” Dan said. “I know you didn't have any choice, but it’s the hardest part.”
