“Good.” He stands, and we follow suit. “Bennett—whatever she tells you to do, do it. Consider it a direct order from ownership.”
Bennett’s face could be carved from stone. “Copy that.”
I’ve never heard two words hold so much suppressed rage. We’re dismissed with a nod.
The walk back down the hallway is even more loaded than the walk up. I can feel Bennett’s fury building with every step, pressure rising like a storm that’s about to break.
We make it out to the parking lot before he explodes.
“What the hell was that?”
“That was me saving your ass.” I turn to face him, arms crossed. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“No, you didn’t. Because you never ask for anything. That’s kind of the problem.” I take a breath, force my voice to stay even. “Franklin was ready to put you on some kind of probation or mandatory counseling or whatever corporate speak they use for ‘we think our captain is losing it.’ I gave him an alternative that keeps control in our hands. Your hands.”
Bennett’s mouth falls open. “Our hands? Since when is any of this yours?”
“Since I watched you sit in the middle of Main Street like you were waiting for a bus to the afterlife.”
He flinches. Actually flinches, and my chest cracks at the sight.
“Bennett.” I soften my voice, take a step closer. “I’m not doing this to control you. I’m doing this because I care about you, and because I can see that whatever you’ve been doing to hold yourself together isn’t working anymore.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine for months, maybe years. And I’ve watched you pretend otherwise because that’s what we do—I wait, you avoid, we both act like this is sustainable.”
I’m close enough now to see the way his pupils dilate, the rapid pulse at his throat, the way his breathing has gone shallow. Close enough to smell the soap from his shower, something clean and sharp underneath the lingering hint of rink.
“It’s not sustainable,” I say quietly. “And I’m done pretending it is.”
He’s silent for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
“What does this plan of yours actually entail?”
“Structure.” I pull my phone out, open my notes app. “Rules you can follow, exercises that feel manageable, clear expectations instead of vague emotional demands.”
“That sounds like therapy.”
“It’s not therapy. It’s more ... emotional training. You understand training. You respond to routines, benchmarks, measurable progress.” I meet his eyes. “I’m going to teach you how to feel things without falling apart, and I’m going to do it in a way that makes sense to your stubborn, control-obsessed brain.”
Something flickers in his expression—not quite hope, but close. “And if I don’t want to participate?”
“Then you don’t.” I shrug. “But Franklin’s going to be watching, and your team’s already seen the cracks, and the next time you hit a breaking point there might not be anyone around to pull you off the pavement. They may send you down to the Cities for treatment. Imagine no hockey and a head shrink cataloging your every move.”
The words land hard. I watch them hit, watch him absorb them.
“Tomorrow,” he says finally. “You said nine.”
“Sharp. My salon. We’ll start with the basics.”
He nods once, jaw still tight, and turns to walk away.
He makes it three steps before I speak again.
“Bennett.”
