Which means I can’t stop.
Even if I wanted to—even if I could convince myself that the old way was working—I’ve seen what the alternative looks like now. A team that trusts me instead of fears me. Practices that build up instead of grind down. A version of myself that doesn’t require constant, exhausting vigilance just to function.
I catch my reflection in the glass again. The shadow that looks less rigid. The shoulders that aren’t climbing toward my ears.
I’m changing.
Whether I want to or not.
And tomorrow, I’m going to show up at her salon at whatever ungodly hour she dictates, because apparently that’s who I am now—a man who picks “hug” as his greeting optionand lets a woman with honey-brown eyes reshape his entire understanding of how to exist in the world.
God help me.
Breathe Or Fight Me
Gisele
There are moments that split a story clean in two. Before you say it. After you say it. Before you touch. After you can’t stop. Around here, we pretend those moments sneak up on you. They don’t.You feel them coming from a mile away. And you step into them anyway.
Playlist: “Take Me to Church” by Hozier
The next day, I’m waiting for him when he comes out of the locker room.
Bennett pushes through the door and stops cold when he sees me. His hair is damp from a shower, his gear bag slung over one shoulder. He looks better than he did a few days ago—the haircut helps, obviously—but there’s an intensity in his eyes that tells me the improvement is surface-level.
Underneath, he’s still spinning. I know the signs now. The way his shoulders climb toward his ears. The hand twitching toward his hair. The carefully blank expression that means he’s screaming on the inside.
“Following me now?”
“Intercepting.” I fall into step beside him as he starts walking toward the parking lot. “There’s a difference.”
“Seems like the same thing from where I’m standing.”
“Then maybe you should work on your perspective.” I have to take two steps for every one of his, but I’ve been doing that since we were fifteen and I’m used to it. “Shep says practice went well. Once is luck. Twice is skill.”
“Shep needs to learn to mind his own business.”
“Shep will never learn to mind his own business. That’s kind of his whole brand.” I catch his arm, pull him to a stop in the corridor. “Hey. Look at me.”
He doesn’t want to. I can see the resistance in every line of his body—the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw is set,the deliberate avoidance of eye contact. But eventually he turns, meets my gaze.
There it is. The spiral. The one that starts small—a thought, a worry—and feeds on itself until he’s drowning in his own head. I’ve watched it happen enough times to recognize the early stages. Not this time.
“Come with me,” I say.
“I have to—”
“Whatever you have to do can wait twenty minutes.” I don’t let go of his arm. “You’re about to retreat into control mode, and I’m not letting that happen. Not today.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can. I am. Let’s go.”
I lead him back into the rink, through a side door I shouldn’t have access to but do because I know which locks haven’t been changed in twenty years because I may or may not have made out with Tommy Richardson in here when I was sixteen. The building is mostly empty now—practice ended half an hour ago, and the staff won’t start prepping for tomorrow’s game until evening.
The room I’m looking for is small, probably used for equipment storage at some point. Now it’s just empty space with padded mats on the floor and fluorescent lights that flicker when you first turn them on. Private. Quiet. No witnesses.
The thought should feel practical. It doesn’t.
