I shoot a quick wave at Bishop in the stands, then retreat to the locker room for a shower.
Fine. The league can make me go to counseling. But they can’t make me talk.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting alone in an all-white waiting room. Unlike the coaching offices, there’s no fluorescent lighting here, only the soft glow of decorative rattan lamps. I pick up a magazine from the glass table beside me and thumb through the glossy pages, skimming articles on sports performance and athletic achievement. A clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second crawling by.
Tori would love this place. Quiet, controlled. Perfectly planned.
Finally, a door opens, and Dr. Sparks pops her head out. She’s probably five-foot-seven, dressed in navy slacks and a crisp white button-down shirt. Her chestnut’s hair pulled into a loose bun.
“Bennett Steele?” She peers at me over dark-rimmed plastic frames.
I rise, swiping my now-sweaty palms down the front of my joggers.
“Reporting for duty.”
And not happy about it in the least.
“Come on in.” She waves me into her office, stepping aside so I can enter the next all-white space.
The room’s small and cozy, with a white sofa, and a matching chair beside it, a perfectly organized desk sitting against the wall. There are no windows—just more white walls and an oversized painting of waves behind the desk.
“Have a seat.” Dr. Sparks motions at the sofa and I drop down onto the white fabric cushion. Spreading my legs wide, I brace my hands between my knees and stare directly at her.
This is such bullshit.
Dr. Sparks takes the chair across from me and whips out a legal pad and pen.
“Bennett, we’ll be meeting once a week for the next ten weeks, per the league mandate. Anything you say to me will be kept confidential, unless you tell me you’re thinking about hurting yourself or others — in which case I’m obligated to report that information. Otherwise, our sessions will remain private. Any questions?”
Her eyes are a crystal-clear blue behind her glasses. She tips her head to the side and waits for my response.
I swallow hard and focus on the ocean painting behind her.
“No, ma’am.”
“Wonderful. Is there any particular place you’d like to start?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, debating how to answer.
“This therapy deal wasn’t my idea. You tell me.”
Dr. Sparks blinks once, twice. Then she tucks a stray hair behind her ear and smiles like I’m a kid who just told her I hate vegetables.
“This is your session, Bennett. In here, you’re in a safe space, and you’re the leader of the conversation. How about this — start by telling me about your hockey career.”
Hockey. I can talk about hockey. All day long.
I kick my feet out, tapping my heel against the decorative rug.
“I’ve been in the league for a little over ten years and this is my only team. I’m sure you already know I’m one of the triplets. My brothers, Weston and Callum, also play for the team. We’ve always played hockey together.”
“Great start.” She scribbles on her notepad. “And your position is…?”
I’m positive she knows I play winger. But I humor her.
“I play winger. First string.” My jaw tightens. “As you know, I’m benched right now. Which is complete bullshit. No charges were brought against me. And I was doing the right thing.”
I lean back against the sofa cushion, my chest tight for reasons I don’t want to unpack.
