Page 28 of Locke

Juno starts a quick slide out of the booth, reading the shift in conversation with the instinct of someone who has spent years knowing when she’s in a room and when she shouldn’t be.“And with that, I’ll let you two talk.”

“You don’t have to go,” Arch starts.

“I know.”She picks up her coffee.“But I’m going all the same.”Her gaze comes to me.“Text me for girls’ night.”

“You got it.”

She points at me on her way out like it’s already settled.

I turn back to Arch.“Okay… what do you mean ‘someone like you’?”

“Like—” He spreads his hands.“No major childhood trauma.Good parents.Not complicated.I didn’t have some big thing happen that screwed me up.”He says it with a self-awareness that’s more sophisticated than the delivery suggests.“But I’m third line.Every training camp I come in not knowing if today is the day they decide they don’t need me anymore.I’ve been in this league for eight years and I still haven’t bought a place to live because it feels like the thing that jinxes it.”

Arch doesn’t know exactly how many athletes just like him also need help.

He keeps going.“So what I’m asking is if there’s anything you can do for a guy who’s basically fine, or is this all just for those with the big, complicated situations?”

For a half second, I think of Locke.The way the wordtraitorhurt my ears to hear it in the Calgary arena.The very large and very complicated situation sitting on the other end of the spectrum from the man in front of me.

“There’s a lot I can do for you,” I say.“And I want to push back at you.”

“Okay.”

“You said you’re basically fine.But what you just described—the performance anxiety, the superstition about buying a home, the feeling with every training camp like your roster spot isn’t real yet—that’s not nothing, Arch.That’s a very specific kind of chronic low-level stress that accumulates over time and it absolutely affects consistency on the ice.”

Arch strokes his chin, nodding.“Yeah… okay… that makes sense.Go on.”

“You don’t need childhood trauma to benefit from mental performance work.”

He tilts his head.“What would we actually do?”

“We’d start with a mental performance assessment.Map out where your focus holds and where it breaks.Identify the specific triggers for the anxiety—what’s happening right before a performance dip.Build some tools, and at some point, we’re probably going to talk about your living situation.”

He laughs, straight white teeth flashing.“Yeah, okay.I’m digging it.”

We spend the next twenty minutes in real conversation—not the surface version he leads with, the easy charm and the jokes.Underneath it he’s sharper than he lets on.More aware of his own patterns than he pretends.He asks good questions and he listens to the answers and I find myself genuinely interested in working with him and that has nothing to do with professional obligation.

He’s going to be good at this, I think.If he can stay out of his own way.

We’re walking out of the Blue Line together, already having scheduled an evaluation, when I see him.

Locke is coming through the entrance from the east corridor, fresh from a workout and shower.He’s a hockey god with that dark blond hair still damp at the ends, gray T-shirt, black track pants, and a posture that’s broadcasting the universal signal forDon’t approach me.

“I’ll see you next week, okay?”I tell Arch, which releases him.

He lifts a hand over his shoulder, already moving away.“Sounds good, Doc.”

I let the title pass, although I don’t like to be called by it.It’s true I have my PhD, but I find that players are more open to talking if I’m just Livia.

I step into Locke’s path and he stops short.Those chilly blue eyes come down to me with an expression that is impressively unwelcoming.

“Good morning,” I say brightly, then glance at my watch.“Well, almost on its way to afternoon.Good workout?”

“Fine.”

“Oh, come on now, Locke.You and I are old friends now.We shared cheese and wine, came to a mutual understanding.And you’re treating me like a bomb about to explode.”

“That’s an image,” he says dryly.