Page 179 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Are you kidding? You went to war for me. Again.”
“It wasn’t war. It was just the truth.”
“Same thing, sometimes.”
He deserves a kiss for that.
Chapter41
Hunter
At practice that day, I get my ass handed to me. Coach Cross has us bag skating and doing suicide skates. Good for cardio, bad for not feeling like a Mack truck hit you. I’m halfway to being a corpse when I head for the tunnel.
The new team services coordinator, Scout, is waiting in the tunnel. She’s got Connor by the elbow, lecturing him about showing up late, while Shane sheepishly hands over a crumpled housing form. She’s juggling both without breaking stride, calm as hell while the rookies squirm.
I expect Silas to breeze past her, but he stops mid-step. Watches her. My brother rarely takes notice of the women who work here. Seeing him do it now is unnerving. Scout looks up, catches him staring, and flushes like she’s been caught out. He doesn’t say a word. She just lingers several seconds too long before moving on.
I don’t know what the hell that’s about, but I don’t like it. Ryan’s voice cuts through. “Hunter!”
I cringe. What did I do now?
I brace myself for another lecture about my temper, about keeping my head down and not giving anyone a reason to doubt the progress I’ve supposedly made.
But when I sit down, he doesn’t come down on me. Instead, he leans back in his chair. “The league is watching you.”
My stomach drops. “Coach, I haven’t done anything.”
“I know.” He pauses, studies my face. “Listen. I know that the video that got leaked about you has a lot of extra eyes on you, courtesy of the NHL. But I’m impressed with how you’ve handled it. Ownership is too. They’re very pleased with the fact that you let Juliet make a statement and didn’t lash out. Not every player would have the good judgement to let that pass.”
I don’t know what to say about that.Impressedisn’t a word that gets associated with me very often.
“You’ve grown more in two months than most guys do in two seasons,” Ryan continues. “Don’t stop now.”
The words hit me like a puck to the chest. I want to argue, to deflect, to make some joke about how the bar was pretty low to begin with. But something in his expression stops me.
“Thanks, Coach.” I manage.
“Don’t thank me. Thank whoever’s been keeping you grounded.”
The back of my neck heats. I know exactly who he means.
After practice, I wolf down a chicken stir fry bowl, then head to an appointment that I’m truly dreading. Juliet brought the idea of doing therapy to my attention last week.
And to prove to my fiancée that I take her seriously, I booked the slot immediately. But now, in the cold light of day, I’m cursing my past self.
The therapy office is nothing like what I expected. No leather couch, no degrees covering the walls. Just two comfortable chairs and a woman named Dr. Sarah Chen, who looks like she could be someone’s cool aunt.
“What brings you here today, Hunter?”
I shift in the chair. Even after deciding to come, actually talking about it feels impossible. “My fiancée thinks I should be in therapy.”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’m fucked up and tired of being fucked up.”
She nods like this is the most reasonable thing she’s ever heard. “That’s a start. What does ‘fucked up’ look like for you?”
I talk about anger. How it used to consume everything. How I’ve been working to control it but some days I still feel like I’m barely holding on. That train of thought progresses to Mom. With some gentle guidance from Dr. Chen, I talk about her and the ways she messed with my head for years.
