Authors: Katie Kenyhercz
Home Ice (25 page)
Reese rolled his eyes and pushed off the bench. “Whatever. Guess I should get it over with.”
“Hey, before you go … got you these.” Scott turned from his locker and tossed him a box of tissues. Reese ground his teeth and threw the box back. Hard. It hit Scott between the shoulders but bounced off, harmless. The asshole was laughing.
“All right, that’s enough,” Cole broke in. “Scotty, hit the ice before Coach sees you missing. If you’re the last out again, she’ll give you a speech that’ll make your ears bleed. And mine, so spare me. Reese, go talk to the doc. It won’t be that bad.”
“That’s why you’re captain, Cole. Your speeches are so damn inspiring.” And before he could get another one, Reese stormed from the locker room. It would have been more dramatic without the limp, and that made him angrier. High ankle sprain. It was such a stupid injury. If that ass Chekov hadn’t landed on him like that, he wouldn’t be indefinitely benched at the start of the playoffs.
He had to consciously unclench his fists as he stopped at the dark wood door with the newly minted plaque. Dr. Alexandra Kallen, Sports Psychologist. He could just imagine what she looked like. Gray hair in a tight bun. Librarian glasses. Judging smirk and zero idea of what he was going through. He summoned some resolve and knocked.
“It’s open.”
The voice didn’t
sound
old. He stepped inside, and could only stare. Alexandra Kallen was no librarian. A fitted, short sleeve, red blouse played off the coloring of dark brown hair that fell in straight layers a few inches past her shoulders. She looked more co-ed than doctor in her leg-hugging, dark denim pants and high heels that put her even with his chin. When he took her extended hand, her skin felt soft, but her grip firm. “You don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”
“Thank you, but I’m twenty-eight.”
“Sure you don’t mean eighteen?”
She arched a brow. “You’re one to talk. You have your driver’s license yet?”
“You don’t sound like a doctor either.”
She laughed, and when her features relaxed, she looked even younger. “Thanks, I think. You’re Shane Reese? It’s nice to meet you.”
“I, uh, you too. Um, what should I call you? Dr. Kallen?”
Her full smile showed perfectly shaped, white teeth. No lipstick, just gloss. It didn’t look like she wore any other makeup, but she was a striking, girl-next-door kind of pretty. “If you want. Or you can call me Allie. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Allie
. That fit much better than Dr. Kallen. “Oh—kay.”
She pressed her lips together and looked down at their still-joined hands.
“Sorry.” He let go and looked around the room. Anywhere but at her. At least until the heat faded from his cheeks. Her office wasn’t what he expected either. He thought it would be something like Jacey’s—modern, minimalistic. Instead, it looked like the family room from his childhood home; pale blue paint disguising the cement-block walls, overstuffed furniture, plush cream carpet. A mini fridge sat next to the couch, and a bowl of pumpkin seeds beckoned from the coffee table. “How’d you know?”
“The pumpkin seeds? I asked around. Have a seat.” She gestured toward the couch and sat in the chair adjacent to it.
Reese hesitated but lowered himself onto the sofa. He didn’t know what to think of her talking to others behind his back. It seemed … manipulative. “You gonna tell me you know the name of my first dog, too?”
“Does it bother you that I did some research?”
“This whole thing bothers me.”
“I know what you mean.” Her voice was smooth and quiet, and it gnawed on his nerves.
“All due respect, Doc, but I seriously doubt—”
“Junior year.”
“What?”
“Junior year.” She turned her dark gaze on him, but her voice remained soft, her expression unreadable. “I played netminder for Stanford University’s soccer team. Number one in the division. My junior year, I tore my ACL blocking a shot, and I never played on a team again.”
“If that’s your idea of a pep talk …”
She laughed again. A sweet, genuine sound that warmed him even though he wanted to be mad. She leaned back and crossed her legs. “No. I’m just saying I know what it’s like when an injury takes away the one thing you care about the most. It’s why I went into sports psychology. Helping other athletes helped me.” Her gaze darted to the side then down to her notes. Interesting. Doc might have more secrets than she was owning up to.
She cleared her throat. “And your injury is different. It may take a while, but it’ll heal. You’ll get back out there.”
“Yeah … even if I do, now it’ll be prone to re-injury. It’ll follow me for the rest of my career.”
“It may; it may not. Lots of players get a high ankle sprain, take a few months off, and come back better than before. Not all of them re-injure it. And you’re not going to let this stop you from having a career. Right?”
“This is the
playoffs
. We have a real chance this year. I worked my ass off all season, and now I don’t get to play?”
She fell quiet. He’d heard about this trick. If she didn’t talk, he’d have to fill the silence. Fat chance. But she didn’t
stay
quiet.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
He tilted his head back to count ceiling tiles. “Boss thinks you’ll help me ‘cope’ with warming the bench.”
“Actually, it’s because you fought two of your teammates and put your fist through the physical therapy wall.”
He groaned and slid his hands over his face. “I apologized for that. I paid for the wall. And I shouldn’t have engaged with them, but they wouldn’t let up, and I couldn’t take it anymore. So, what, this is anger management?”
“In a way. I want to help you deal with the frustration so you don’t damage any more property … or people. Injury is part of the game. Even for goalies. I know it’s not easy to accept that.”
And she did know. He wanted to hold onto the idea that no one could understand, but from what she said, she knew exactly how he felt. It kind of pissed him off.
Maybe I
do
need to be here
.
The rational part of his brain—the part missing since his last minutes on the ice—reminded him he shouldn’t blame this woman. It wouldn’t kill him to be nice to her. If things were different, if she weren’t trying to autopsy his subconscious, he’d probably ask her out. As it was, it took every ounce of his self-control to stay in the room. But he had to stick with the program. “Whatever you say, Doc.”
• • •
Allie watched him and made sure to keep her expression neutral. She’d seen him in pictures before, but in person he was a lot … bigger. Not the tallest on the team, but a good half-foot taller than her five feet, six inches. And solid. They called him The Wall, and she could see why with the way he filled out a designer t-shirt and jeans. In all of his press pictures, he smiled wide, and the gleam in his whiskey brown eyes reflected his league-renowned playful personality. Not now. Now his eyes were blank, but his white-knuckled grip on the armrest said anger simmered under the surface.
Maybe he thought he was fooling her, or maybe he didn’t care one way or the other. But she knew that fake complacent look. She’d worn it day in and day out for a year after her injury. Her chest felt tight. Professional distance was sometimes easier said than done. “Do you think you need to be here?”
He stared at the wall, lifted a shoulder.
Well, that was a big, fat no. “Shane—”
“Reese. Everybody calls me Reese. Even my parents.”
“Reese. It’s all right if you’re angry. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t. But it’s important to work through it so you don’t climb out of your skin while your ankle heals.”
“Little late for that, or I wouldn’t be here, right?”
Ah, there it was—some shame in his voice and a touch of humility. A good place to start. “Punching the wall was a moment of frustration. Everyone has them. And I’m willing to bet Collier and Scott weren’t innocent angels supporting you from the sidelines.”
He smirked.
“Right. I’m not condoning what you did to them; I’m just saying I know you were provoked.”
“I was. But that’s no excuse.”
The last part sounded robotic, like a quote from his coach, Nealy Windham—something he’d had to write on a mental chalkboard a hundred times. It had her fabled corporal punishment ring to it. “You have a right to feel whatever you’re feeling. Then, now, always. Just channel your reaction. You feel like taking down a teammate, hit the heavy bag instead.”
He nodded. He may have heard it before, but he needed to keep hearing it until it sunk in. Still, that sheen of anger in his eyes remained. He wasn’t just having a hard time sitting out. There was something else.
His pocket buzzed. He fished out a cell phone and hit a button. “Sorry. I have physical therapy at ten.”
“It’s all right. I think we’re done for today anyway.”
“Today …?”
“You didn’t think this was a one-shot deal, did you?”
The look of abject shock said he did. Allie bit back a smile. “Sorry. You’re stuck with me until you’re back on the ice. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
His jaw tightened, and his fingers twitched before he stood. “I guess I’ll see you Thursday then.”
“See you Thursday.”
Allie took in the tense set of his shoulders as he left, and she held her breath. Five seconds later, the crack of a hand slapping cinderblock echoed through the hall. At least the basement walls weren’t plaster. She leaned back in the armchair and studied the ceiling. Shane Reese did not hide his feelings well, but that was good news. There might be hope for him yet.
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