They weren’t afraid.
Shep was right. For three years, I’ve ruled practice with an iron fist, convinced they needed the structure and discipline. They responded — but they did it tight, defensive, always bracing for the next explosion.
Today, I came in softer, just because Gisele had spent forty minutes with her hands in my hair telling me I was allowed to want things for myself. And everything shifted.
I don’t know what to do with that. Don’t know how to reconcile the captain I’ve been with the one I apparently need to be.
Eventually, I coast to a stop by the bench, lean against the boards, stare at the empty rink.
My reflection catches my eye in the glass barrier. Just a shadow, really—dark shape against the white ice—but I find myself studying it anyway. The silhouette looks different than Iexpect. Less rigid. The shoulders aren’t hiked up toward my ears the way they usually are.
I look like someone who might actually be okay. I’m not sure I recognize him.
The thought is terrifying.
Because if this version of me—the post-breakdown, Gisele-intervention, hug-greeting version—is better for the team, then what does that say about everything I’ve been doing? All the control, all the discipline, all the wall-building I’ve convinced myself was necessary for survival?
What if it was never holding anything together?
What if it was just keeping everyone else out?
The question sits heavy in my chest. I push off from the boards, start skating again, but I can’t outrun it. Can’t outwork it. Can’t do anything but feel it settling into place like a truth I’ve been avoiding for years.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my gear bag. I ignore it. Buzzes again. Again.
I give up, skate over, check the screen.
Three messages from Gisele.
Heard practice went well.
Small towns.
See you tomorrow, hothead.
I stare at the words for a long time. Warmth unfurls in my chest—not quite hope, not quite fear. Something in between. Something that feels dangerously close to wanting her to text me again.
How do you already know about practice?
Her response comes immediately:Shep live-streams everything. You should know this by now.
I’m going to murder him.
Sure. But maybe wait? Violence before games is bad for morale.
I catch myself smiling at my phone. Actually smiling, alone in an empty rink, at a text from a woman who’s systematically dismantling every defense I’ve ever built. And I don’t hate it. That’s the part that terrifies me.
I should hate this. Should resent the intrusion, the loss of control, the way she’s rearranged my entire life without asking permission.
Instead, I’m standing here grinning like an idiot because she calls me “hothead.”
The smile fades as I realize what that means.
This isn’t just about emotional exercises and Post-it notes. This is about Gisele. Specifically Gisele. The way she shows up at my door with coffee. The way her hands felt in my hair. The way she looks at me like I’m not a project or a problem, just... Bennett.
I’m in deeper than I planned. Deeper than is safe.
And the worst part? The team is better for it. I’m better for it. Even Shep, who makes my life a living hell on an hourly basis, is better for it.
