“You’ve got good hair.” I work my fingers through it, checking the texture. His exhale ghosts across my wrist. “Strong. Takes product well. You could do a lot more with it than you do.”
“I don’t—” He stops. Starts again. “I shower. I use shampoo. That’s the extent of my hair care.”
“I know. That’s my point.” I reach for my spray bottle. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m about to mist you, and water in the eyes is unpleasant.” I wait until he complies, then spray his hair damp. “Also because you need practice trusting people.”
“I trust people.”
“You trust people to do their jobs. You trust people to follow orders.” I start combing through his hair, sectioning it out. “That’s not the same as trusting someone with access to your soft spots.”
“My soft spots.”
“Everyone has them.” I reach for my scissors. “The places where you’re vulnerable. The things that can hurt you if someone knows where to press.”
“And you think cutting my hair gives you access to mine?” The way he says it—half challenge, half genuine question—makes my stomach flip.
“I think sitting still while someone holds sharp objects near your jugular requires a kind of surrender most people don’t think about.” I make the first cut—just the ends, nothing dramatic. “But you’re thinking about it. I can see it in the way you’re holding your breath.”
He exhales. “I’m not holding my breath.”
“You were.”
Silence. I keep cutting, working around the sides, shaping as I go. His hair is in worse condition than I let on—neglected, the ends rough from what looks like months of skipped appointments. Whatever barber he’s been “going to” clearly hasn’t seen him in a while.
“When’s the last time you did something just for yourself?” I ask.
“Define ‘for myself.’”
“Something that wasn’t about the team. Wasn’t about responsibility. Wasn’t about holding everything together.” I tilt his head slightly, check my line. “Something purely indulgent.”
The pause is too long.
“I don’t know,” he admits finally.
“That’s what I thought.” I move to stand in front of him, working on the front sections. This close, I can see the shadows under his eyes. The tension lines around his mouth. The exhaustion he hides behind control. I want to smooth those lines away with my thumb. Want to tell him he doesn’t have to hold everything together every second of every day. “You’re allowed to want things, Bennett. You’re allowed to enjoy things that have nothing to do with hockey or the team or saving the entire town.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“I know.” I let my fingers brush against his forehead as I section the hair. “But that’s the lie. The one that tells you everything falls apart if you take five minutes to breathe.”
His eyes are open now, watching me work. This close, the intensity of his gaze is almost unbearable—too much focus, too much weight. He’s looking at me the way he looks at game tape. Like if he studies me long enough, he’ll figure out the pattern, crack the code, understand the play.
Good luck with that, captain.
“Post-it time,” I say, stepping back slightly. “Pick a new one. What are you feeling right now?”
“I can’t pick from back here.”
“Then tell me which section it’s in. Red, blue, green, yellow.”
He considers. “Yellow.”
“Yellow is connection. Vulnerability in relationship.” I tilt my head. “Interesting. Can you narrow it down?”
“Vulnerable,” he says after a moment. “But not—it’s not bad. Just... present. I’m aware of it.”
