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Alastair, Ci, and I have all had shitty role models when it comes to showing someone love.

“So why would you want to hurt them?” he asks.

Ciaran is suspiciously silent as he stares at the floor. “Lots of reasons,” he whispers. “Control may not necessarily be real because life has a way of being chaotic, but orchestrating your reality can be soothing.”

“Hockey also does that,” Alastair grunts. “Get the puck across the ice, or keep it out of your crease. It’s why we love it so much and it saved our lives as kids.”

“It also gave you the idea that you were gods,” Dr. Storm scoffs. “In my experience, those men are never happy. They’re constantly trying to chase the next goal, and always crushing the next life.”

“How do you become a reformed Life Crusher?” I ask, sighing. “I don’t snap back at people as often, fuck, I even hold the door when I go to the store. But I know. I fucking know, that seeing Noor again could destroy everything I’ve done over the last seven years.”

“Don’t fucking talk. Watch her. Breathe before the first word comes out of your mouth,” he grunts. “Ask yourself if you’re coming from a place of healing or if you’re being a fucking thundercunt.”

Have I mentioned that the man doesn’t mince words?

“I have a problem,” Ci says softly.

“I know,” Dr. Storm says, a little gentler. “You’re not allowed to speak to her at all. Your crazy will show, Ciaran. My job is to make sure you won’t be a danger to her, however I think there’s some chemical imbalances we need to discuss. It’s been a couple of months since we’ve begun seeing each other, and you’re still seeing and hearing her when she’s not around. It’s time.”

The abuse he endured at his parents’ hand was brutal. Therapy alone isn’t going to undo that. I’m glad Dr. Storm understands this. Medication was brought up to begin with, and Ci said he was worried he’d abuse it.

“These aren’t the kinds of medications that are addiction driven, Ciaran. However, if it’ll make you feel better, I think Alastair or Draven will be happy to administer it for you.”

We both nod quickly, because we’ll do anything for Ci. We didn’t see what was happening at home soon enough, and then we missed the signs of his deteriorating mental health. Ciaran was silently screaming for help, and we didn’t fucking hear it.

“We’ll do it,” I say. Words have power, and that’s what Dr. Storm wants from us. Words and action, because everything else is bullshit.

“When I first saw her, I saw a threat to my future,” Alastair mumbles. “My father didn’t like that her foster mother was becoming more involved in the administrative aspects because Noor was at school. Dad wanted to launder money through her organization, and Noor was in the way.”

“Have you shared that with anyone?” Dr. Storm asks.

“Nope. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“I figured as much. Morality isn’t something I’m worried about. Instead, my focus is getting your heads on straight. Don’t have any contact with her or her family until we’ve made more progress.”

Considering we’re supposed to believe she’s dead, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.

My grin won’t fade as we celebrate our win against San Diego. We’re in the final games leading up to the Stanley Cup, and Coach thinks it might be possible.

The water from the shower runs down my body and I chuckle as I listen to my teammates talk. Coach is loosening the leash tonight and letting us go out. I need to see how Ciaran is feeling before we agree.

“That’s some tattoo,” Roberts says, his eyes catching it as I turn to face the water. This means he gets a load of my ass, but I simply shrug. I’m usually in and out when I shower, and he hasn’t seen it yet. The ink is a means to an end.

The angel is Noor, the flames at my ass are to cover the word mierda, and there are devils reaching out to pull her down. She’s struggling against us, something she’s been doing since she met us. Fuck.

“It’s something I did when I was a little drunk,” I lie, shrugging as I finish up.

I drag the towel over me before knotting it around my waist, frowning as I see Alastair’s blank face. Ciaran appears to be counting, and I immediately know things are bad. They’re both already implementing shit Dr. Storm taught us two weeks ago. Ci is also taking his new meds and has let the team doctor know.

Psych meds do not get flagged on blood tests with a doctor’s note, and none of it is allowed to be leaked. Mental health is finally something that’s being treated with the proper medical attention for athletes, and no one bats an eye at it. Even so, it’s no one else’s fucking business and the team doctor agrees.

“Something come up?” I ask casually, looking between my nice suit and sweats.

“Mmhmm. The old man’s come to visit.”

I have no idea who this old man is, but I reach for my boxers. Looks like I’m walking out in my suit. We silently get dressed, waving goodbye to our teammates and begging off going to the bar.

I force air into my lungs as I see none other than Emil Reyes standing in front of me with his hand in his pocket and his steely gaze on us.