We clear the edge of the crowd, and I feel him breathe for what might be the first time since I got here. His hand’s still in mine. I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything.
“What happens now?” he asks.
I look back at him—at this stubborn, infuriating, beautiful disaster of a man who has no idea how much I’ve wanted him, how long I’ve waited for him to let me in.
“Now,” I say, “we fix you.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not broken.”
“No.” I squeeze his hand once before letting go. “But your coping mechanisms are trash, your emotional regulation is nonexistent, and if you think you’re turning into your father,then we’re going to prove—publicly, loudly, and with absolutely zero tolerance for your usual deflection—that you’re wrong.”
“How?”
I smile. It’s not a nice smile.
“Operation Soft Boy starts now, captain. And you’re going to hate every second of it.”
Behind us, the crowd’s already buzzing. Phones are out. Gossip spreading in real time. By lunch, everyone in Sorrowville will know that Gisele LaRue marched into the middle of Main Street and declared herself Bennett Foster’s emotional rehabilitation coach.
Let them talk.
By the time I’m done with him, he’s going to feel things whether he likes it or not.
Practice Makes Perfectly Unhinged
Bennett
I’ve seen men try to outwork their problems. Try to outrun them. Try to bury them under routine and rules and discipline. It never works. Because the thing about pressure is, it doesn’t disappear. It builds. Quietly. Patiently. Until it finds somewhere tobreak through. And if you’re unlucky, it breaks through in front of everyone.
Playlist: “Human” by Rag’n’Bone Man
The shower doesn’t fix anything.
Neither does the drive to the rink or the silence of an empty locker room. I run drills alone on the ice for an hour anyway. Movement is control. Control is survival. If I can just get through practice, this morning will fade into a bad day. A momentary lapse.
Not the complete unraveling with Gisele’s hand in mine while the whole town watched.
My jaw tightens. I push harder into the next drill, skating until my lungs burn and my legs scream and my brain finally goes quiet.
It doesn’t last.
The first guys start trickling in around two. I hear them before I see them—the usual noise of skates and gear bags and conversations that die the second they spot me through the glass.
Not a good sign.
I finish my lap, coast to a stop at center ice, and wait. Watch them file into the locker room. Watch them not look at me.
Definitely not a good sign.
By the time I push through the door to join them, the room’s already humming with that particular energy that says everyone knows something and no one wants to be the first to bring it up. Shep’s in the corner with his phone out, which is normal. What’snot normal is the way he shoves it into his bag the second he sees me.
“Captain.” He gives me his usual thousand-watt grin, but it’s off by a few degrees. “How’s the, uh... how’s the day going?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Great. Stellar.” He’s talking too fast, which means he’s hiding something. “We were just—”
“I saw the clips.”
