The words spill out, bitter and sharp. I stop abruptly, surprised by my reaction.
Elena doesn't flinch. "I think your anger makes perfect sense. And I think it explains a lot about your pattern of behavior."
"You mean why I'm such an asshole on the ice?"
"I mean why you've developed certain defense mechanisms." Her voice remains even, professional. "Your anger isn't random. It's a shield."
The observation strikes me like a physical blow. "A shield?" I repeat.
"Yes. When you feel vulnerable or threatened, you lash out. You push people away before they can reject you. You sabotage relationships before they become important enough to hurt you if they fail."
My hands are suddenly damp. She's reading me like a fucking book.
"That's quite a diagnosis from just a few sessions, Doc."
"It's not a diagnosis. It's an observation." She tilts her head slightly. "Am I wrong?"
I want to say yes, to dismiss her neat and tidy psychological packaging of my mess. But the words stick in my throat.
"No," I finally admit. "You're not wrong."
Something shifts in her expression—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. "Recognizing the pattern is the first step to changing it."
"Is that what you want? To change me?" I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Make me a good boy who plays nice with others?"
"I want to help you be the best version of yourself, on and off the ice." Her tone changes just slightly on those last words, reminding me of how very unprofessional we've been.
"And what if thisisthe best version?" I ask. "Pissed off, difficult, complicated?"
"I think you're selling yourself short." Her eyes meet mine directly. "I've seen glimpses of who you could be. That is, when you're not hiding behind that shield."
The timer on her desk chimes softly, signaling the end of our session. I continue to sit, reluctant to leave this space even though I've revealed much more than I intended.
"Same time next week?" she asks, therapist mask firmly back in place.
"Wouldn't miss it." I stand and flash her a killer smile. "You're my favorite kind of punishment, Doc."
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight curve of her lips before she suppresses it. "That's not how therapy works."
"If you say so."
I move toward the door, every cell in my body screaming to touch her, to kiss her, to press her against the wall and remind her what happens when we're alone and not in these damn sessions. But I don't. I keep my hands to myself, maintaining distance.
Sometimes the most effective move is the one you don't actually make.
"Have a good week, Doc." I open the door, glancing back over my shoulder.
For a split second, I see disappointment flash across her face—she expected me to try something. Wanted me to, maybe. Good. Let her think about it. Let her wonder when I'll make a move.
Let her come to me next time.
I close the door behind me, exhaling slowly. My body feels strangely light, like I've set down a weight I've been carrying for too long. Is this what good therapy feels like? Or is it the rush of being truly seen by another person?
Either way, I'm hooked. And from the look in her eyes when I left, so is she.
Chapter 9
Elena
