Page 4 of Puck Me

“It was Milton.”

Noah raises an eyebrow. “What does he want?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but he wanted to meet.”

“I hope you said no.”

“Of course I said no. I don’t want to get involved in his particular brand of weird again.”

“Good. You certainly don’t need that right now.”

“No, I don’t. I think I’m going to go back to sleep.”

“You do that. I’ll wake you up before I go.”

Noah seems to think that sleeping all day is bad for me, an idea he got from Dr. Davidson. As if she gets to comment on what’s good for me or not after abandoning me.

I go back to bed, and I’m shaken awake seemingly moments later by Noah.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead. I’ve got good news.”

The only good news I want to hear is that I can go back to hockey, but I know that isn’t the news Noah is about to give me, so I’m not particularly interested. Still, I know he’s putting in a lot of effort to be here for me, even when I don’t always make it easy, so I do my best to fake some enthusiasm.

“What is it?”

“I’ve looked into this Dr. Storm Harris, and he seems to be brilliant. He’s had excellent outcomes with a number of patients in situations very similar to yours.”

“Great,” I say dully. I know I should try to summon up some enthusiasm, but it’s beyond me right now.

“I’ve called and made you an appointment for tomorrow.”

“Fantastic.”

I don’t want to see Dr. Storm Harris. I want to lie here in my own misery until it all ends, one way or another. However, I know that Noah will not be accepting that excuse, and if I’m not careful about my phrasing, he’s going to confiscate all the sharp objects in the house again. I only just got my razor back last week.

“Try to keep an open mind, Chester. I know it’s hard, but maybe Dr. Harris will be able to help you better than Dr. Davidson could. You never know.”

“Yeah. Can I go back to bed now?”

Noah sighs. “Yes, you go rest. I’ll let myself out. See you tomorrow, Chester.”

“See you.”

I flop back into bed, wishing that this would all just go away.

2

Storm

I’m always excited to meet a new patient, even though I know that those new patients won’t necessarily be excited to meet me. I’ve looked through the hockey star, Chester Russo’s file and he’s exactly the kind of patient I think I can help best.

Dr. Davidson wasn’t having any luck with him, but she doesn’t have any experience in cases like his. She was the psychiatrist the hospital assigned to him when they realized that he’d never walk properly again, but she has no particular specialty in injuries or disabilities.

I make sure that everything is in order in my office and wait. I can hear two people arguing in the waiting room and go to join reception.

“I don’t want to,” Chester mutters resentfully. I recognize him from the picture in his file. And, of course, I googled him. I don’t tend to follow hockey, so I wouldn’t have recognized him otherwise. In person he is still strikingly beautiful with big soulful blue eyes and dark hair, but he looks unkempt and rugged with a face full of stubble and his hair looks far messier than it did in the photos I found online.

“I don’t care,” the other man says flatly. “Seeing your psychiatrist is non-negotiable. We’ve been through this.”

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