Quickies Story Index

The Quickies blog began when Jay and MelTing started betting on Penguins/Canucks games, the losing team’s supporter had to write a short story about the winning team. The score so far: Pens 2, Canucks 0. Still Jay has been nice enough to write two Canucks stories anyway. And the blog has evolved as a place to put all our short stories and writing experiments, because it's fun to write about characters or ideas you might not want to live with for a long fiction.

I wanted to organize all the stories on this blog, so you could pick and choose or read them in order, but when I tried to write summaries, everything sounded more like cheesy Harlequin Romances than hockey fiction. So I embraced the cheesiness.

And remember, we love your comments, even after a story is done. Who knows, they might inspire or motivate us to write the next story!

Fresh Air by MelTing

A Pittsburgh defenseman goes out to buy a quart of milk, but instead finds a tiny kitten, and the possibility of….love.

A Valuable Trade by Jay

Traded from the Pens to the Dallas Stars, Alex is lonely in the Lone Star State but it’s Georgiana’s job to make him feel right at home.

A Picture’s Worth by Jay

Vancouver photographer Amanda finds out that the mountains and ocean are not the only things that look picture perfect, when she’s asked to shoot fitness apparel endorsed by a certain underdressed hockey player.

Going Mental by Jay

Dr. Reneé Carlyle knows a lot about hockey and hardship, but will members of the embattled Vancouver Canucks take her advice?

Valley of Gold by MelTing

Angela is a young mom who seems to have it all, but when she finds her old diary, will her perfect world come apart?

For Charity's Sake by Jay

Amber has a hard time saying "no" when it comes to doing the right thing, and James Neal learns that there's nothing wrong with having to ask for help when he really needs it.

For Charity's Sale: Three, The End

They walked into the arena, James leading the way and Amber following a half step behind. Even though they were a few minutes early, they were one of the last to arrive. James cut through the dressing room so he could pick up his skates, and then they made their way out to the rink. Amber shed her coat but left on her scarf and gloves, and then sat next to him on the bench as they laced up their skates, ready to join everyone else who was already on the ice.

James was wearing faded jeans and a thick, brown, cabled sweater that looked warm but not soft. Once his skates were laced and secure, he stood and hopped over the boards like he was ready for his next shift. Amber was slow to follow, worried that she wouldn’t get her footing and would lose her balance. He offered her his hands and asked, “You good?”

“I think so,” she mumbled, turning down his help once her blades were on the ice. She gave one strong push off from the boards and started to sail smoothly forward—until Jordan Staal came flying up around the corner and slung his arm around Amber’s shoulders, and her feet almost went out from under her. She let out a little shriek, which echoed off the glass and called attention to her awkward presence.

“Whoa there,” he chuckled. Heather came up alongside them, then turned and started going backwards so she could circle around them. Amber felt like she was surrounded by sharks. “So this is Nealer’s, uh ‘friend’?”

Heather nodded, a sly smile playing across her lips. “Yup, that’s Amber. And Amber, this is my boyfriend, Jordan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Amber mumbled, ducking out from under his arm. Once she resurfaced, James skated up onto her other side.

Jordan looked at her. She was a little pear-shaped, but she was much better looking than he expected, considering he had imagined the worst. “So where did you come from, and where has Nealer here been hiding you?”

Even though Jordan had been addressing Amber, James answered. It was easier to take control instead of worrying about what she would say. “Gary Roberts—well, his wife, actually—introduced us.” It wasn’t a lie, but it certainly wasn’t the whole truth either.

Amber looked up at him, a little surprised. She wasn't sure if he was trying to maintain their façade as friends or acquaintances dating back to February, but she had to admit that his explanation sounded better than the total truth.

“No shit?” Jordan asked, intrigued by the news. He had played with Roberts a few seasons ago and would have never made the connection. But he did think that it explained James’s ambivalence toward her when they talked in the locker room, if James was feeling trapped or pushed into seeing her.

While she knew that the situation was going to be a little weird, attending a Christmas party with someone she barely knew and under circumstances that were strained at best, she suddenly felt like it was a bad idea. She still thought that James had had a point when he had said that she deserved to go, because she did contribute, but she had obviously walked into something that she didn't feel comfortable with. She was definitely out of place—especially when she looked around and saw only families, pairs, and some kids. And she was just a stranger to all of them, including James. Feeling defensive, she acerbically quipped, “I used to babysit for them. Apparently, they thought James here needed babysitting, too.” Amber then awkwardly tried to push off to begin skating again, to put some distance between her and everyone else.

Jordan snorted a laugh and Heather giggled. James caught up to Amber in one fluid motion, sailing up on her right, and muttered under his breath, “That's nice.”

“Are you offended?” she asked, looking straight ahead even though she was tempted to turn and observe the expression on his face. “Because that's kind of what it felt like, you know, being asked out of the blue to meet with you to do you a favor. And then you didn't even show.”

“I didn't ask—”

“I know you didn't,” she cut him off. She couldn't help herself, so she turned to look at James and turned her torso in his direction. The change in posture threw her off, and she flailed her arms to try to balance herself.

Amber began to spin, and James, for a split second, thought about letting her fall. He was probably just as frustrated with the situation as she was, but for different reasons. After the moment quickly passed, he wrapped his left arm around her ribcage and pulled her toward him. James was too solid and too sure on his skates to be taken down so easily.

He put his other hand on her hip as he waited for her to still. Once she was stable, he didn't move or release her, in case she wasn't quite ready to stand again on her own. Quietly he asked, “All right now?”

She worried that the heat from her face would melt the whole floor of ice in the rink. It wasn't that she was embarrassed to almost-fall again—being so close to James was making her blush. Amber was perfectly aware that he was cute, maybe even hot if depending on whose opinion you asked, but she had been so caught up in thinking that he was a jerk that she couldn't have possibly cared a lick about his good looks. But being pressed up against his chest elicited a rush of emotions she hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since her boyfriend dumped her on Valentine’s Day the week before Mrs. Roberts called about James.

Something in Amber’s body chemistry changed, and there really was no rhyme or reason to why proximity or contact altered her emotions so suddenly. Maybe it wasn’t the contact per se, but the reason or act behind it that made her feel on fire: it was chivalrous thing to do, to keep her from falling.

Her voice came back to her slowly. “Yeah, I’m okay,” she told him, standing up straight and taking a deep breath. Amber turned away from him, hoping he wouldn’t see her face and hoping even more that she wouldn’t give herself away.

James reached for her hand and began to skate again. She felt her heart palpitate and her lungs deflate. In her head, she knew that he was probably doing that so she wouldn’t fall, but it was still a shock. She was glad that she had kept her gloves on so they wouldn’t have skin-on-skin contact.

He continued where they had left off. “I already said I was sorry, didn’t I?”

Amber nodded and whispered, “Yeah.”

“Then what else should I do to show you I’m sorry?”

She looked down at the new skates on her feet and began to feel bad. Amber didn’t think that he was trying to bribe her into being nice, but it was hard to be mean when he had bought her brand new skates; she didn’t know how much they had cost, but they probably weren’t cheap—by her standards, at least. Guilt was an easy emotion for her, which was probably why she was so nice in the first place. If someone who didn’t know her had seen her behavior and reactions, they would have thought that she had been holding a grudge these past ten months, which wasn’t true. It wasn’t until she finally met James that she began to deal with her buried resentment. She hadn’t even been totally mad, more just irked or annoyed.

So she apologized. “Sorry. But you have to admit, you kind of walked into that one.”

James tilted his head to the side and let out the softest of chuckles. Amber imagined that James was probably never too loud in any way. “Okay, maybe.”

They skated side-by-side for a while, and then they stopped so James could chat with his teammates or coaches and their significant others or families. When they looked at his companion, he dutifully introduced her as Amber—no qualifier like “friend” to give her presence at the party context.

When he talked, she looked up at him. He had very intense eyes that could be intimidating. Not in a threatening way, but in a could-look-right-through-your-soul kind of way. James had a slight smattering of hair across the bottom half of his face that looked reddish beneath the bright arena lights—so red that it looked gingery. Or it could have been the residual red bumps from razor burn.

Amber got bored with listening to them talk, so she excused herself and skated off the rink to the food table. There was a whole group of girls standing there, chatting animatedly and laughing boisterously apart from the men. She weighed the benefits of eating what looked to be delicious catered food versus the disadvantage of having to subject herself to the ongoing scrutiny of those women, and decided that she would be better off if she went hungry. Before she could turn around and head back to the ice and the safeness of James, Heather caught her molesting the food with her eyes and waved her over.

Feeling like she had no other option, she carefully teetered over on the blades of her skates and grabbed a plate. Heather properly introduced Amber to everyone, announcing their names and which of the players they were associated with, be it as girlfriend, fiancée, or wife. And then Heather said, “Girls, this is Amber. She’s Nealer’s... ‘friend.’”

At least one eyebrow of every one of them shot up, and Amber felt vastly out of place all over again.

“Friend?” one of them asked. Amber couldn’t remember any of their names. “Is that all?”

She nodded as she began to peruse the awaiting selection on the table. “Yeah, just friends.”

Another one spoke up. “I saw the basket you did for him. That was you who put it together, right? For the, uh, Wives Association?” When Amber nodded, she continued, “You did a good job with that, by the way. I liked the golf motif.”

Before she took a bite of chicken salad, she said, “Well, you know James. Ardent golfer.” They all looked at her as she chewed. Amber swallowed and then said flatly, “Listen, I don’t know why he invited me here, either. We’re not dating, never did, and I just threw stuff in a container for him for the charity auction because he asked me to. Well, kind of asked.” She shook her head and set her plate down. “It doesn’t matter. But I know you all are expecting to find something that isn’t there, I promise you, it’s not there.”

They continued to watch her, like they were expecting some other, better explanation—but Amber had nothing else to offer them. She knew what the situation looked like or what it must have seemed like to them, and she was tempted to tell them that their assumption that a hockey player would only bring a serious girlfriend to a function like this was false; sometimes, a person just didn’t want to attend a social gathering alone.

Amber was also tempted to reveal the truth of their relationship, that she was just a girl that had been roped into assisting a friend of a friend, but she didn’t want to do that to herself or to James, who would have to live with these girls probably making fun of him for it for a long time thereafter. It was too embarrassing. But she knew that if these girls were aware of the situation, they wouldn’t be looking at her like that.

“Hmm,” Maureen said, looking away at something in the distance. Amber turned to see what she was staring at and saw James looking in their direction—at her, more specifically. When they made eye contact, James turned and said something to his coach. Maureen chuckled. At least, Amber thought it was Maureen, Chris Kunitz’s wife. “There’s something, even if you don’t know what yet. He wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise. Or you wouldn’t have come here either.”

Some of the other WAGs nodded, but Amber just shrugged. There was no sense in arguing with them when she couldn’t set them straight—that she hadn’t come just because he asked, but because she had helped with the basket. But then she would have explained her role with helping the basket, and it was all too complicated and silly to bother with.

Heather changed subjects and asked, “Are you coming out with us after?”

James hadn’t mentioned anything about hanging out beyond this party, so Amber was pretty sure that she was not invited to any extracurricular activities. She wasn’t surprised, but she was surprised that she felt a little disappointed. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You should,” a pretty brunette said. She had already forgotten her name, but she noted her soft French accent. “It’ll give us a chance to get to know you.”

Amber felt that there was no reason to get to know anyone of them because this would probably be her only team seeing them. It seemed like these women formed a secret club, bonded together because of their roles as WAGs, and Amber would have been a disruptive force.

They alternated asking her the basic questions, like where she worked, where she was from, how old she was—all questions about her and having nothing to do with James. It was a nice gesture on their part, and Amber was sure that it had something to do with how they themselves didn't like being defined by their relationships to hockey players and wanted to be seen as individuals in their rights.

After several minutes of chatting, someone dressed in a plush Santa suit appeared from the locker room, and the young kids went nuts. They gathered around him, all desperate to climb into his soft lap and whisper their Christmas wishes to him; in return, they were given big goodie bags filled with candy, coloring and activity books, crayons, mini-sticks, trinket toys, and probably more stuff that Amber couldn't see. They were all so ecstatic that it made Amber feel different, more childlike and caught up in the magical atmosphere of the holidays.

Some of the kids were running around, fueled by excitement and possibly sugar, and one ran into Amber and spilled the contents of his bag. “Uh oh. Here, kiddo, let me help you,” she said, crouching down and picking up some of the candy that had scattered across the floor. He held out his bag so Amber could drop it in, and then he tried to run off. She said, “Wait! You forgot your box of crayons. Don’t you want these?”

“Yes!” he replied. “I like to color!”

She smiled at him. The kid was so darned cute, it was hard not to respond to him. “Me too. Coloring is fun.”

James watched from the rink as Amber interacted with Jackson, Matt Cooke's seven-year-old son. She had gotten down on one knee, so they were just about at eye level with each other. He watched as Cookie walked over to them, properly introducing his son and himself, and as Amber easily chatted with them. They were strangers, but they had no problem getting on well enough, considering they didn’t know each other. That was something James admired; he was a little shy and very soft-spoken, and he couldn’t talk to someone—really talk to someone—until he knew that person.

That had probably been part of the problem when he arrived in Pittsburgh. It was more of a struggle for him to make friends than normal people. It made adjusting to a new place and new teammates difficult. It took him to a while to warm up to everyone. James admired people who could go with the flow so easily and makes friends wherever they went, and he could see that quality in Amber. He liked that.

He skated over to the bench, sensing that the party was coming to a natural close. Véro was still there, waiting for Marc-André before they’d leave. She turned to him, “Looks like Jackson’s putting the moves on your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he muttered, leaning over to untie his skates.

“A girl that is your friend, c’est une petite amie, non? A girl friend.” Véro was making light of it, seeing that James was digging his feet in the ground, metaphorically speaking. As much as he wanted to say that they were just friends or that there was nothing between them—or that Heather forced him to—there was no way that James would have invited someone to a team party if he didn’t like her, even if it was just a little bit. He obviously just couldn’t admit it to himself, and was using the situation as an excuse, all to his advantage. “Anyway, Jack is going to steal her from you. He is talking to her more than you have all day.”

“That’s not true.”

Véro shrugged. “Are you going to come out with us for dinner tonight? Both of you?”

“Uh.... I was just going to go home. I don’t feel like going out tonight.” He wanted to go home, where he could let Amber get her car, and then he could hang out for a while on his own and relax to let all the stress of the day—and this party—fall away.

Marc appeared, dressed in his coat and with his fiancée’s in his hand. “Laaaame.”

“Yeah, I know,” he admitted.

“We can come over instead,” Marc suggested.

“Yes, that’s a great idea!” Véro agreed. “We can all just stay in, order some food, and watch a Christmas movie or something. I like that idea.”

James was about to argue with them for inviting themselves over to his house—which certainly wouldn’t have been the first time that had happened—but Jordan appeared and asked where they were going, and Marc told him, “We’re going over to Nealer’s.”

He went along with it, simply because he had no other choice; once they all had an idea in their head, there was no changing it. They headed out, and James decided to do the right thing and ask Amber if she wanted to stay and hang out with them.

She turned him down. Amber knew she didn’t fit in with them. “No, I... I think I’d better go. Thanks, though.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, feeling disappointed for some weird, unknown reason.

“Yeah, I think I’m just gonna head home.”

James pulled his car in front of his house, so he wouldn’t block her car in. He hated parking on the street, especially with the worst of the winter weather yet to come. It was his experience that Pittsburgh drivers were horrible: they either were too cautious and slow and then could never make it up the hill, causing them to slip and slide into the cars parallel parked on the side of the street, or they were overly confident in their four-wheel-drive SUVs and still side-swiped the parked cars.

Amber got out and took her skates with her. She stood by her driver’s side door, trying to think of the polite, appropriate thing to say in such a situation. “Thanks again, James, for inviting me to the party. And for the skates too.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. Thanks for coming. Merry Christmas, Amber.”

“You too. Merry Christmas.”

Just as she was ready to slip into the driver’s seat, a sleek car pulled in behind her in the driveway, locking her in and hanging out onto the sidewalk. She watched feebly as Jordan unfolded himself as he got out of the car.

“Excuse me, but you’re blocking me.”

Heather frowned. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yup.” She didn’t bother to give a reason why; the reason was irrelevant.

Jordan stuck his finger in his key ring and twirled his clanging keys around his finger. “But I already parked.” He began to walk up the driveway toward the front door of James’s house.

Exasperated by his rude and presumptuous behavior, Amber looked at Heather with pleading eyes. Surely she would act as an ally and help her out. Heather merely shrugged and said, “Even if I got his keys off of him, he’d never let me drive his car. But it’s okay, I mean, it’s only for a few hours. And Marc and Véro are coming, and TK and Kelsey. Maybe even Geno and Oksana. It’ll be fun.”

As she walked away from her and avoided the confrontation in the driveway, Amber turned to James. “Can’t you do something?”

“I wish I could,” he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. He was embarrassed for the both of them. “But he’s stubborn. I’m sorry.”

Amber let out a frustrated growl. The whole day felt like a plot for a sitcom—everything just kept spiraling out of control. With her patience being so persistently tested, she vented, “Doesn’t it bother you, how everyone just kinds of takes control? And you just kind of have to go along with everything?”

It was his turn to shrug. Sure, it bothered him occasionally, when it was inconvenient like at this moment; however, for the most part, it made his life a lot easier to go with the flow. He took a step closer to her. “Sometimes. But are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

“Do I really have a choice at this point?” she huffed.

“Well, I can take you home, if you really wanna go,” James offered.

That was her out, but she didn’t take it. “And just leave my car here? No thank you.”

Something in James clicked or snapped into place, partially because he didn’t want to be pressured into an uncomfortable situation by his teammates, again, and he didn’t want to put Amber through anymore of the bullshit either. She had already gone out of her way to do some nice things for him, so maybe it was time to repay the favor. It would get him in some shit with the guys later, but he’d deal with it when the time came. “You know, we don’t have to do this. Hang out here, I mean. I think.... I think I owe you a cup of coffee. Do you wanna...?”

Amber glanced at Jordan and Heather, who were waiting for James to unlock the front door and them let them in so the fun could start. She hated to disappoint them, but she didn’t really want to sit around with them more. They were all strong personalities, and there was only so much of that that she could handle at any given time. They waved back at Amber and James, and Jordan said, “Come on, guys!”

She turned back to James and nodded once firmly. He was taking charge, and she liked seeing that side in him instead of the helpless pushover that he had always seemed to be. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

James smiled and held out his hand for her, and Amber took it with a grin of her own.

Jordan called out, “Hey! Where are you guys going?”

“You’re on your own,” James answered, getting the door for Amber.

For Charity's Sake: Two

Over the next several days, Amber headed out to a few stores in order to cross off a few names from her Christmas list. Every time she went shopping, she made sure to have that envelope of money in with her, but it took a special trip to the Pens Gear store to find some items that she felt would be appropriate for a gift basket representative of James Neal. Amber found golf balls and a towel that had the Penguins logo on them that seemed perfect, and she added a black Penguins ball cap, a licensed picture of James, and a T-shirt with his name and number on the back. There was still some money left over, so she added a golf magazine that she picked up from Giant Eagle. Once she bought a basket—which was really just a black plastic container she found at Target—her task was complete, and she had only gone over by twenty bucks. Everything fit in the basket nicely, and while it didn’t look professional or expensive, she thought that she done her job fairly well, considering.

James was a little nervous about the whole thing. He had no idea what Amber was going to do or what she’d put together; it required a lot of faith in someone he didn’t know. Michelle had vouched for her last winter, when she suggested—or told him, rather—that they should meet so James would feel more comfortable in the strange city. Even back then, Michelle had said that Amber was really nice and would more than likely go above and beyond to help him out with whatever he needed.

The girls teased him about the basket and how it would be obvious that he had done it instead of a girl, and he didn't bother to correct them. They had always talked about setting him up with some of their friends, but he wasn’t really into that. James didn’t have any trouble finding ladies—he just had trouble finding one that he wanted to keep around. And it wasn’t like he needed one anyway; the only problem that had arisen was this whole problem with the basket.

James and Amber had arranged that she would drop the basket off at the arena on Wednesday the fourteenth, because it seemed to be the best time for the both of them: James would be finishing up practice on an off-day, and Amber could run it by on her lunch break. She entered in the Trib Total Media Gate carrying the basket and wandered around until she saw an usher standing by the elevators.

“Hi. Maybe you can help me. I’m looking to drop this charity basket off for James Neal.”

The man gave her a strange look. It couldn’t have been that odd of a request, because she doubted any other girls came in—especially with a basket in hand—to try to gain entrance to the inner sanctum of the arena where all the players would be. And even though she had a basket that obviously had to do with James Neal, evidenced by the photograph and shirt in the basket bearing his likeness and name, it didn’t seem to be enough for the guard. He asked, “Is, he, uh, is he expecting you?”

Amber replied, “Yes, he's waiting for me.” He looked unsure, so Amber got frustrated and bluffed, “I can call him, if you want, if that’ll move this along. I’m on my lunch break, so I don’t have all day.” She raised an eyebrow and began to dig for her cell in her pocket, but the usher caved and let her into the elevator. They rode down together to a lower level, and Amber then began to look for someone else to help point her in the right direction. She felt like a hero on an epic quest, being constantly tested along the way. She headed down a hallway and eventually found someone in the hallway: it was James, who was waiting for her per their agreement. He was dressed in jeans and a Penguins locker room shirt, and is hair was wet, making it look darker and browner than it really was.

“Amber, you made it,” he said in greeting.

She wasn’t sure if he meant making it down to him or making the basket. “Yup. I hope this is okay.”

“Uh, yeah, looks good to me. Can I take it?”

“Go for it.” She gladly relinquished her hold on the basket, which was starting to make her arms feel like jelly from carrying it so long.

“Thanks again for doing this. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Amber shrugged but didn’t get a chance to respond because they were interrupted. A girl came around the corner and jerked to a stop. She asked, “Nealer, is that your basket?”

“Uh, yeah, it is.”

The girl smirked, talking to James and teasing him. “This doesn’t look like your mom.” Then she turned to fully face Amber and introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Staal's girlfriend, Heather Dysievick.”

“Amber Kowalski,” she said, sticking out a hand. “I'm, uh, James's friend.” She hoped it didn't sound like a lie, because they definitely weren't friends. Not in the least.

James further explained, “Amber volunteered to help me with the basket.”

“It looks great, you did a really nice job with it,” Heather said, looking through the basket in James’s hands. “Very cute with the golf theme.” Then she looked up, glancing back and forth between the two people in front of her. She didn’t believe that they were only friends. She knew that James was a relatively private person, but she still didn't understand how his friend could fly under the radar without detection—but it would explain why he had always turned down her match-making offers.

“Thanks,” Amber mumbled.

“Véro put hockey tickets in hers, totally showed up everyone else’s,” Heather sighed.

She immediately began to worry that she had done something to screw up. She didn’t want James to have to suffer because of a mistake on her part—even though it wasn’t really her fault anyway. Amber had done the best she could have with her limited abilities. “I thought there was a price limit.”

“Oh, yeah, there was, it was a minimum retail value of a hundred, and everyone tried to keep it close to that. I did, too. She probably got free tickets or something. But don’t worry, this is great.” Then she switched subjects. Heather pushed for information, hungry for a real explanation. “So how long have you two been, uh, friends? I haven’t seen you around before.”

Amber frowned. “I never said we were good friends.” Then she decided that she had had enough. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the office before my lunch break is over. I’ll... see you later,” she said, deciding that it was the best thing to say under the circumstances. Maybe she would, if Mrs. Roberts decided to interfere; hopefully, she thought, she wouldn’t, but then at least Heather wouldn’t see through their stupid arrangement. At the last moment, she added a smile.

Heather knew she was pushing her luck when she said, just loudly enough for Amber to hear as she started to walk back toward the elevator, “Nealer, look, you hurt her feelings. You should be nice and invite her to the Christmas party this weekend.”

James would have rather had Deryk Engelland body-check him into the boards twelve times in a row than put himself in that awkward situation. Wasn’t this bad enough, having to ask someone to put together the stupid gift basket that he should have just shut up about and done himself like any other responsible adult would have—and now suffer through explaining that they were only friends, just friends, and barely even that? Wasn’t it bad enough that Heather was mistaken in thinking that this was something else, something serious? And why in the world would he want to introduce this girl to the team, this girl who acted like this favor—which she agreed to do—was the biggest favor that anyone had ever done in the history of favors, when the team would undoubtedly take this as much more than it was like Heather was doing?

But then again, he felt bad. Amber did kind of get wrangled into this mess, and she had been under no obligation to help him out. If anyone were to blame, it would be Michelle and her meddling ways. If Michelle had wanted to do something to help, she could have taken the initiate to give him some pointers about Pittsburgh or help to assemble the basket instead of trying to include someone else. Maybe bringing Amber to the party would serve as a good “thank you” for them to end this on a positive note.

James handed Heather the basket and trotted down the hallway after Amber. Even as he did it, he wondered if it really was a good idea, but there was no backing down at that point. “Hey, Am, I know this is last minute, but maybe you could come to the Christmas party this Sunday.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, not looking up at his face as she came to a stop. “I know you’re only asking because what’s-her-name said so.”

He sighed. First Michelle, and now Heather: conspiring to meddle in his life because they thought it was helping, when it really was hurting the situation. “I’m not asking because of her. I’m asking because you did something nice for me, something you didn’t have to do, and now I want to invite you as a way of repaying the favor. It’s just a fun, low-key time for the team, and since you participated in the fundraiser, then I think you deserve to go.” He paused for a moment. “And I’d like for you to come.”

She first turned to see if Heather was still standing there; when Heather saw her looking, she turned around and carried the basket into a room, where she disappeared. Then Amber looked up at James. He appeared to be earnest, so she thought that it would be the right thing to do to accept if he wanted it. “If you’re sure....”

No, he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t going to renege on his offer. It was the right thing to do. “Yeah. Uh, how about you meet me at my place? I’ll text you my address.”

“How can you do that if you don’t have my number?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He dug for his phone in his pocket and then passed it to her. “Here, if you could just, you know, give it to me.”

Sighing, she took it and quickly typed in her cell number. “There. Now you have it.”

“Okay. I’ll call you or text you about Sunday. And thanks again, for the basket.”

The elevator doors opened. “You’re welcome.” She stepped inside with the usher, who must have been waiting for her return.

“Oh, Amber? What size shoe do you wear?”

“What?” she asked, too confused by his seemingly random question to understand it at first. Once his words sunk in, she gave him an answer. “Seven and a half.”



James got slack from practically the entire team the next day, once Heather opened her mouth and the rumors started to abound. None of the guys would have known anything if she hadn’t’ve said something about the “nice girl who made up his basket for the Wives Association.” He swore that some of the girlfriends could give shit just as good as his teammates.

And while the guys didn’t care about the work for the charity, they did care about what charity she was giving to James.

“Finally scoring off the ice, eh, Nealer?”

“I’m not even talking about this,” he said, unsure which of the guys in the dressing room it was who said that. “She’s just this girl I know.”

Jordan asked, “Then why did Heather say that you invited her to the team Christmas party?”

“Because Heather pressured me into doing it. It’s not a big deal, okay?”

TK grinned. “Can’t wait to meet her. She must be a real dog if we’ve never heard of her before.”

“She’s not a dog. She’s....” James couldn’t think of the right words to describe Amber. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought of her like that. He hadn’t tried to assess her looks or attractiveness because he had been too busy trying to avoid her and then trying to smooth everything over. Come to think of it, he knew very little of her. “She’s nice.”

Some of the guys groaned, and some laughed. No one ever called a girl “nice” unless she was physically disfigured and had absolutely no appeal. When a girl was called “nice,” it was like hearing church bells knell: that signaled the end. A girl was supposed to be hot or sexy. She could even be something more vague, like great or fun. But there were two things that she could never be: cute or nice. Their reactions let James know that they knew the code; whatever going on between Neal and his mystery girl wasn’t anything serious and definitely wouldn’t last long.

The Pens played on Friday and Saturday, first away in Ottawa and then at home against Buffalo, so the team had things to focus on other than James’s pseudo-date to the Christmas party. James, too, was grateful to have something else to concentrate on. He wasn’t looking forward to the party, but then again he hadn’t cared much for the idea of it anyway. It was supposed to be a low-key kinda thing, with just family—that meant they weren’t supposed to bring frivolous dates. But so many of the guys had serious girlfriends or even fiancées, so it was tough to be a single guy in a situation like that. Even though he didn’t really know Amber at all, he was still glad to have someone there in that capacity, someone who would be there when the guys were all distracted by their own ladies and families. It was maybe a little selfish of him.

Amber didn’t know how to prepare herself for the party because she had no idea what to expect. James did nothing to let her know what was going on, and besides texting her his address on Mount Washington like he had agreed, he didn’t otherwise speak to her. He didn’t even answer her message about where it was or what she should wear, or if she needed to bring anything. She was walking in blind.

Because she didn’t know what was going on, she dressed in layers. Amber wore a dark blue, lace-trimmed cami underneath a plain white, button-down blouse. Over top of that, she pulled on a robin’s egg blue knit sweater. Paired with dark jeans and a long, sparkly, silver necklace, she felt like she could walk into anything and not look out of place.

She pulled up to his house at quarter ’til two, just like he asked. James was standing outside, waving her into his tiny driveway. A spot like this—off-street parking—was prime realty, especially when the view from the window over his kitchen sink was of the city.

“You can park in my driveway for now, so you don’t have to leave your car on the street while we’re gone.” He closed the front door and trotted down the stairs. “I’m right out front here.” James walked straight to the driver’s side door of his black car, and Amber followed his lead. She opened the passenger door and found a big box on the seat. She picked it up so she could sit, placing the box on her lap. “That’s for you, by the way.”

His statement caught her off guard. “For me?” She took off the lid as James started the car and pulled out onto the street, heading toward P.J. McArdle Roadway. Inside was a brand new, pristinely white pair of figure skates. She checked the size. Seven and a half. “Wow.”

“Can you ice skate?”

“Yeah, I think so. I mean, I can rollerblade, so ice skating is the same thing, right?”

“Um, a little different,” he replied. Amber looked over at him. He was looking straight ahead at the road, but the visible corner of his mouth was curled up. “But you’ll probably get the hang of it. The skates aren’t broken in, but they’ll work for this afternoon.”

“So, I take it this is what we’re doing for the party? Skating?”

James nodded. “Yeah, just a skate around at the rink. Maybe some food and stuff, a Santa for the kids. Like I said, nothing fancy. It’s my first one, but it should be fun,” he said, giving her a little shrug. When he was stopped at the light before turning onto the Fort Pitt Bridge, he stole a glance at his passenger. Her strawberry blonde hair was straight and shiny, and there was a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose onto her cheeks. There was a hint of blue hidden by her winter jacket and scarf, but the color made her blue eyes stand out.

The light turned green, and he turned the car toward the Fort Pitt Bridge. When he and Mattie Niskanen had landed in Pittsburgh after the trade, the driver had told them to look out the window when they got through the Fort Pitt Tunnel, and the view was breathtaking. It left them maybe a little in awe, and it was a picturesque distraction from the anxiety of the moment—and that was why Neal was renting a place on Grandview Avenue, where the view reminded him every day of that moment.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. It took only ten minutes to get to Consol. Amber felt like a VIP when James pulled into the parking garage. When she got out, James told her to leave the box in the car. She held a skate in each hand, but James tied the laces in a knot and then set them over her shoulder. “There,” he said, giving her a nod of approval. “Like a pro.”

Amber smiled at him, but wondered if he did it to make her look like she was going to fit in. Did he lie to everyone else here too, letting them think that they were friends when they really weren’t? It would be hard to keep up appearances for a whole afternoon, but Amber figured that it wasn’t really her problem; it was James’s. She was there for a good time, as a reward for doing the right thing and helping him out when he needed it. He was the one who had to live with people thinking there was something between them when there definitely wasn’t.

But that didn’t help to stop the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach or the hollow feeling in her chest that warned her that she should probably turn around and walk in the opposite direction.

For Charity's Sake: One

Amber knew that that she was in for some trouble as soon as Mrs. Roberts had called to say that she’d be in town and wanted to see her to catch up. Mrs. Roberts was a great lady, but the two of them had never been friends. Amber had babysat Mrs. Roberts’s daughter Jordan when the Roberts family lived in Pittsburgh as a way to make some cash while in university; once the family had moved away, they sent Amber Christmas cards but had otherwise cut off communicating due to distance and a general lack of necessity.

At least, that was the way it had been up until earlier in the year, back in February. Mrs. Roberts had called Amber back then too, completely out of the blue, to ask her a favor.

“Amber, hi! How are you?”

“Good, Mrs. Roberts,” she responded, surprised that she had called. “How are you, and Jordan and Mr. Roberts?”

“Oh, everyone’s fine here, thanks for asking. How’s Pitt? That’s where you were studying, right?”

“Yeah, it was. I graduated last year. I’m working for Highmark now downtown.”

Her tone of voice changed slightly. “Oh? So that means you’re still in Pittsburgh then?”

“Yeah, I am.” Amber wondered what she wanted, what she was trying to get at. This was all too random-seeming to not have a reason behind it. “Is there something you wanted, Mrs. Roberts?”

“Please, call me Michelle. And yes, I did want something. I have a favor to ask of you, if you’re not too busy this week.”

She was weary of her request and unsure of how to answer. There was no way of telling what Mrs. Roberts wanted of her, so she was putting her in a tough position. In the end, Amber decided that she would do what she could, since she must have really needed her help if she was calling like this. “Not too busy. What do you need?”

“Well, it’s not really me. It’s one of Gary’s clients, actually. He just got traded to Pittsburgh, and, well, he could really use some guidance, some help in getting used to a new city. Would you be able to help him out? Show him around, answer any questions he has, you know, help him get adjusted to the area?”

That sounded easy enough to Amber. She was living in the suburbs with her parents, but she was very familiar with the city. It was the nice thing to do, so she agreed. “Oh, uh, yeah, I can handle that, I think.”

“Great, Amber, thanks. Does tomorrow work for you?”

It was very sudden notice, but she felt put on the spot and like she couldn’t possibly say no at that point. “Uh, I can do tomorrow evening, after work.”

“Great, I’ll tell James to meet you at the Starbucks downtown after five. He’d never admit it, but I think he can really use some guidance right now. Thanks so much.”

Unfortunately, nothing had ever come from that conversation. Amber had waited at the Starbucks at Sixth and Penn for over thirty minutes before she gave up on expecting James and headed home. It was beyond rude to ditch her when she was the one doing him the favor. Once she was home, she put it all out of her head and vowed to forget it.

Now, however, Mrs. Roberts was calling again and Amber was worried about what this would lead to. But she couldn’t say no. It was a weakness; she was too nice. So one night in early December, when she should have been working on her Christmas shopping list, Amber met up with Mrs. Roberts at the Original Fish Market beneath the Westin, where the Robertses were staying while in town. Mr. Roberts had some more gray hair than Amber remembered from the last time she saw him, but he otherwise looked great. Mrs. Roberts had a couple more lines around her eyes, but she was aging well. Amber assumed that it must have been their super-strict diet that kept them looking so good.

Amber hadn’t expected Mr. Roberts to join them, but she knew that she should have checked her expectations at the door, because she knew there was more to this meeting than “catching up.” She recognized them sitting at the bar, and she quickly headed over to them. Whatever it was that they wanted, she hoped it would be quick so she wouldn’t have to join them for dinner. They had some weird food restrictions and requests, and Amber felt uncomfortable eating around them.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Roberts,” she greeted, dropping her purse on the floor by the empty stool and shedding her coat. “It’s nice to see you both again.”

“Amber, you too,” Mrs. Roberts replied, rising. “I hardly would have recognized you! I know it’s only been a few years, but you look so much more grown up.”

She wasn’t sure how to reply to that; it sounded like both a compliment and a slight cut. Mrs. Roberts hugged Amber, and then Mr. Roberts extended his hand. “We’re all adults now. You can call me Gary.” After they shook hands, he thumbed at the jacket perched on the seat next to him, meaning they weren’t alone. It didn’t look like a girl’s or woman’s jacket, so it couldn’t have been their daughter’s. “And James is joining us for dinner. He just headed for the restroom.”

Amber’s spine stiffened when she heard the name, recognizing immediately that he must have been the same James that Mrs. Roberts had tried to help ten months ago—the same man that had rudely stood her up without a text or call of explanation. “Actually, I don’t think I can stay for dinner.”

“Oh, no! Please stay.”

“It’s just, you know, December is such a busy month....”

“I’m sure you can spare an hour. You’re already here. And look, there’s James. Now we can grab a table.”

Amber didn’t look at James as the three other people grabbed their things and drinks, nodding at the hostess and heading for a table reserved for them. Because Amber didn’t look at him, she didn’t see that he didn’t look at her either. Neither one of them was looking forward to the next hour and a half.

There was one chair per each four sides. They sat down, with Mrs. Roberts sitting catty-corner to her husband—and leaving Amber to sit next to Mrs. Roberts on one side and James on the other. She was pretty sure that she hadn’t been in such an awkward situation before in her life; to make it worse, neither of the Robertses seemed to notice it.

Mrs. Roberts took her seat and started right back into the conversation. “I always loved Pittsburgh around this time of year. Something about the lights and the rivers, I think. Although it certainly doesn’t feel like winter. Where’s the snow?”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll have had plenty by the time spring eventually rolls around. We always do,” Amber said with a polite smile. She didn’t repeat the often heard joke around the ’Burgh—that the four seasons were almost winter, winter, still winter, and road construction.

“It must remind you of Dallas, doesn’t it, James? A nice mild winter,” Mrs. Roberts added, glancing up at him as she spread the linen napkin across her lap.

James offered them a brief, small smile, which looked more like a slight grimace than a smile. “Yeah, a little, I guess.”

“It was so nice of you to help James when he moved here from Dallas,” Mrs. Roberts continued the conversation, as planned, to get to the whole point of this strategic meeting. Amber looked at James out of the corner of her eye and watched him freeze in his chair. Apparently, he hadn’t said anything to the Robertses about their botched rendezvous, or maybe even lied to them so they thought that they had actually met up. She kept quiet, even though she was seething on the inside—James was making a fool of her.

Mrs. Roberts went on, “New cities are so difficult, especially when you don’t know anyone. But James has done such a good job this season, now that he’s adjusted.” James looked down, suddenly fascinated by the ice in his drink, and tried to hide his embarrassment. He was disappointed by his performance after his trade, and being reminded of it—compared to how he was doing this season—was a constant source of irritation. “Which is kind of why we’re hoping you’d be willing to help him out again.”

Amber couldn’t believe it. She was nice and always tried to make an effort to be a good person, but she felt like this was pushing it. Just because she was nice didn’t mean that she didn’t hae a limit, or a temper. At first, it was just a huge inconvenience to be called upon for a favor and then left waiting in the café until her coffee was cold, but this was another burden altogether. It was one thing to help a stranger for karma points, but she definitely didn’t want to help a proven jerk who was unappreciative when people had tried to help.

The corners of her mouth pulled down toward her chin. “I’m sorry. Normally, I’d love to help but....” She thought as quickly as she could. “Like I said before, December... the end of the year... it's a very busy month for me.”

Mrs. Roberts saw right through her façade. She didn’t know why Amber was lying, but she knew, for sure, that she was. So Mrs. Roberts upped the ante. “You said that about dinner tonight, but here you are.” Amber sucked in a breath, so she knew she hit her mark. Mrs. Roberts smiled; she didn’t want to be mean, but she had a point to make. “And luckily, this is just a tiny favor compared to what you did in February.”

Amber picked up the menu to keep her hands busy, but she didn’t read it. Instead, she nodded once to signal her agreement. She suddenly and impulsively decided that her resolution for 2012 was to learn to be a bitch and use that power accordingly.

“Oh, good,” Mrs. Roberts smiled, contented. She was happy to see that James was getting the help that he refused to ask for or even let on that he needed, and she knew that Amber was a sweet girl who had always offered to do what she could. In her mind, it was the perfect situation, and she had no problem pushing to make it happen. “You see, every year, the Penguins do these raffle baskets. I did them for Gary, and they’re a lot of fun to do.”

Amber nodded but didn’t understand. What could this possibly have to do with her?

Mr. Roberts spoke up. “You see, the Wives Association puts together a basket for every player. Every wife and girlfriend is responsible for making a basket for her husband or boyfriend. Then there’s an online auction, and the money goes to charity. It’s a great way to raise money for good causes, but it’s a little, well, awkward for the players who don’t have someone in their lives to actually make the basket.”

James scratched his forehead, wishing the ground would swallow him up. Lately, it had been good to be James Neal in Pittsburgh. He was playing great and things had never been better. But then he heard about this stupid basket thing, and it was mandatory for each player—not like other projects that wives and girlfriends had the option of chipping in for or volunteering. Since it was his first full year as a Penguin, this was the first he knew about it. But even worse were the girlfriends and fiancées of his teammates, who all teased him about needing to call his mom to put something together for him. James didn’t have any female friends in town to do it for him, since all the girls he knew were through his teammates. And he had planned on just throwing some things in a basket when an accidental gripe to his visiting trainer, Gary, led to this entire mess.

Amber did the math and added up how she fit into the situation, but Mrs. Roberts explained, “So really, all you have to do is a little shopping. And who doesn’t like shopping?”

She went on to describe exactly what it entailed: it had to be at least one hundred dollars in value, and it was supposed to represent the player. James would cover the cost, but he needed a girl to brainstorm and assemble it—and do so before the twentieth so they had time to list it before the auction began.

It didn’t make any sense to Amber, how she was supposed to magically and psychically figure out what he liked in order to construct a basket to represent him when all she knew was that he was a jerk. Maybe she could buy a day planner, so whoever bought it could keep track of their appointments. Or a self-help book like How to Win Friends and Influence People. Either of those would work, because James obviously needed help in those departments himself.

They were interrupted by their waiter, so they put their conversation on hold to order. The Robertses were extremely healthy people, and since James was a student of the Gary Roberts High Performance Centre, they all ordered the most nutritious things on the menu. Amber followed suit to fit in, ordering some sushi, but keeping it light because she knew she’d stop for fast food on the way home.

Once their meals arrived, Mrs. Roberts began to ask Amber more about her life—what her job was like, how her parents were doing, and what she had been up to otherwise. Amber got a full update on their daughter Jordan, too. It was perfectly cordial. James and Mr. Roberts talked amongst themselves on the other side of the table to pass the time.

As soon as their plates were cleared, Mrs. Roberts insisted that Amber order dessert. However, once she ordered the classic opera cake, Mrs. Roberts stood and declared that they had to get going. “But I’m sure James will keep you company while you finish up here. And we’ll leave our credit card on file for the bill. Enjoy the rest of your night.” With a few handshakes and head nods, they were out the door and Amber and James were left alone.

They didn’t speak for a few moments. Amber was mad, and James was embarrassed—and neither one of them wanted to engage the other. Finally, though, James cracked. He had to, if he wanted Amber’s cooperation. “Uh, I came prepared, in case you said yes.” He reached for his wallet and pulled out a crumpled envelope. “There’s a hundred in there, for the basket. If you need more, just let me know. And I do, uh, really appreciate your help with this. It was Michelle’s idea, of course—”

“And why was it her idea?” Amber asked, her voice quiet but acerbic. “Why does she even think that I helped you the first time around?”

His ears turned bright pink. He couldn’t meet her gaze. “Yeah, I know, I lied to her. I told her we met and talked. It was the only way she’d get off my back about meeting you—”

“You never showed up! No call to say ‘forget about it’ or a heads up to let me know if you were running late or anything. Instead, you let me sit there and keep expecting you. It ruined my whole night. I could’ve made plans or something.”

“I’m sorry,” he said back, just as quietly. He didn’t like apologizing, and he hated even worse when there was a reason to legitimately apologize for something he did wrong. “I didn’t intentionally do that. Michelle and Gary just thought it would be helpful to have someone in town to lean on, I didn't ask them—”

Amber interrupted again. She was too bitter about it still to let him finish any of his thoughts. Despite her attempt to always be nice, she held grudges. “Yeah, we all thought we were helping. Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, me.... So why not be at least courteous about it and let me know you were gonna blow me off? Why not tell them that you didn't need my help in the first place? Why act like a total ass about the whole thing? Because not only did you ruin that night for me in February, but you made this dinner awkward, too.”

“I got lost, okay?” he admitted, looking from side to side to make sure no one was listening in. Like it was a big deal. Then James leaned in toward Amber and whispered, “Do you know how many Starbucks there are in downtown Pittsburgh? More than one, I’ll tell you that. And then, once I figured out which one it was, I didn’t know how to get there. The one-way streets, the confusing signs. And where the hell do you fucking park downtown? I don’t know. I still don’t know.

“It was my first week in Pittsburgh, I didn't know where I was going, and I didn't know how to get around town either. By the time I finally found the Starbucks, finally got there, I looked around but you weren't there. I almost called Michelle for your number, but I felt so....” He took a deep breath, not wanting to admit how stupid it made him feel. His lack of confidence in Pittsburgh had fed his lack of confidence on the ice, and the insecurity was a self-feeding circle that wrecked his season. He had never been good at compartmentalizing. “So I'm sorry, but I didn't want to tell her what happened. I didn't know she'd do all this, too.”

“Oh.” Amber felt bad. It was obvious that he was completely incapable of asking for help in any situation—and also blatantly obvious why Mrs. Roberts had felt the need to assist him. The poor boy was apparently hopeless. But that didn't mean that his poor behavior was excusable; he still should have called or something when he knew he wouldn't be on time. Hell, Amber could have even given him the directions he needed, or gone to meet him on familiar territory.

Since neither Amber nor James knew what to say next, they didn't say anything at all. Several moments passed by in uncomfortable silence. Their waiter dropped off the dessert, placing it between them with two clean forks. Like they were sharing it. Like it was a date. The waiter said, “Enjoy,” and then was gone.

Amber picked up a fork and cut off the point of the slice. For some reason, she always felt like the tip tasted best; maybe because it was from the middle of the cake and not part of the edge, which could be dry, or maybe because it was the initial taste, a sweet shock to the palate, and every other bite never quite lives up to it. Once she swallowed, she said to James, “Want some?”

He smiled sadly. “No thanks. I can’t do it knowing Gary’s in the same city.”

“Afraid he might catch you?”

“No, I’m just really trying to adhere to his program throughout the season.” James lifted one shoulder slightly, shrugging away the intensity of his attitude. “It’s worked so far, so I might as well keep it going.”

She took a few more bites, slowly chewing each one, before setting her utensil down and crossing her arms over her chest. “So. This basket. What do I buy for it?”

Relief visibly washed over James. Even his posture changed. “So you’re gonna do it?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess. I mean, I need to start my own Christmas shopping, so I might as well just pick up a few extra things while I’m out and about. Which brings me back to my original question: what do I put in it?”

“Honestly, I don’t know much about these things. It’s my first year having to do something like this. The girls just said that it’s supposed to be representative of me.”

A couple of questions flashed through Amber’s head, like who the girls were and why they weren’t doing it, or how she was supposed to assemble a basket for a charity when she couldn’t even get a good, full answer from James about what it was supposed to be like—but she tried to focus on the task at hand. “Okay, I get that, but, I mean, I don’t know you, James. So how am I supposed to make something representative of you?”

“Oh. Uh, well, I guess any Penguins memorabilia would be good. And I like to golf, I golf a lot over the summer.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know what else.”

Amber picked up her fork again and proceeded to take another bite of cake. She needed to keep her mouth busy with eating, or else she might have started yelling at him. Here she was, trying to the right thing in this situation and help someone out, but it seemed like he was just making it more and more difficult on her to do so. James handed her the envelope, and Amber slid it into her purse for safekeeping.

When she swallowed, she asked, “And then what?”

“If you could just bring it to the arena sometime next week? That should be plenty of time.”

She nodded and decided that she was done—done with her dessert, done with dinner, and done for the night. It was time for her to go home, change into her PJs, and veg out in front of the TV. “Fine. Can we call it a night now? I have to get going.”

“Sure, great.” They flagged down the waiter, who assured them that their bill was taken care of and wished them a good night. Amber and James made the arrangement for her to drop the basket off and then barely said good night to each other before they went their separate ways.

Going Mental: Part Five, The End

Once a story broke, there was no telling how the media would spin it. Kevin wasn’t happy with how they were skewing his friend’s story, but there was little he could do about it; the public had already made up their collective mind about Rypien. However—even though he couldn’t do anything to change the way people were thinking about Rick’s death—there was plenty that he could do to affect how people thought about his life.

The Canucks were open to Kevin’s suggestions. They had already planned on a video tribute to their late, former teammate. Ryp wouldn’t have liked it, because he had never wanted to broadcast his issues and problems to anyone, let alone everyone. He also wouldn’t have liked the very large and very public donation to the BC Children’s Hospital Foundation. It was showy, and Rick never did anything in the spotlight. He was a behind-the-scenes kind of guy.

Kevin was as involved with the tribute as he could be, but his dedication to his friend went beyond that. Whenever he had some free time, he volunteered at the BCCHF as well as the BC Mental Health and Addiction Services as often as possible. It was tough, between the team schedule and his paternal duties at home, but he did what he could when he could. It wasn’t just because the volunteering was one of Dr. Carlyle’s constructive, therapeutic suggestions—he really wanted to help out how he could. It made him feel good, too. Dr. Carlyle had said something about the do good, feel good phenomenon or feedback loop or whatever psychobabble she had spouted out. He hadn’t really listened to that part.

As much as he was benefiting from regular appointments with a sports psychologist—especially since he was actively participating in those sessions—he didn’t talk much about it. When his teammates found out that he was seeking counseling outside of whatever the upper management had mandated for all Canucks, they ragged him about it. However, there were a few guys who had asked him during moments of individual privacy for Dr. Carlyle’s phone number. Even after everything the team had been through, there was still a stigma surrounding counseling.

Dr. Carlyle was reluctant about taking on the “new” patients, simply because she had seen them in a professional context before and they had never acted interested in engaging in therapy then. To her surprise, it was different when they came into her makeshift home office. It was like they hated to be forced into counseling, but when they had decided to pursue it on their own, they were much more receptive and open to talking to someone. Having a connection to the team, but not really being a part of said team, seemed to make things easier as well when it came to allowing a doctor-patient relationship to develop.

Life was different for Renée since she quit her official position with the Canucks organization. Even with her appointments, she had a lot of time on her hands to do some reflecting. At first, she just enjoyed how she could sleep in and waste her mornings in bed or watching bad TV; eventually, though, she felt the urge to do something. It was the same drive that pushed her through years of hockey and then the subsequent years of postgraduate work. Renée hated the feeling of being idle. When she wasn’t doing something, her mind wandered—and usually tripped down a rabbit hole toward some unconstructive thoughts. She would think about what her life would be like if she hadn’t been injured and if she could have pursued hockey further in college. Sometimes, she wondered if she had even really loved the sport at all, or if she had only kept with it because she was good at it.

In order to fill her time, she started to read more, mostly fiction novels but a few biographies that really piqued her interest, and even went to go see a few matinees at the local cinema. It was weird at first, and she had garnered some curious stares from fellow moviegoers as well as some of the staff. But in the dark of the theatre, no one could see that she was sitting in an otherwise empty row of chairs. On one night in mid-October, she went to see a movie with Dave, with a little of Brandy’s prodding and insistence. Renée had explained away her delay in calling by saying that she was overwhelmed with change, after quitting her job, and Dave seemed to accept her excuse. Their date had been a bit awkward since there wasn’t a buffer of a double date to help the conversation along, but it went pretty well for their first solo outing.

That night, they were going out again—this time, for dinner and drinks in Yaletown. Renée dressed up for the occasion in her little black dress, but she had to wear flats because she never could wear heels ever since her surgery. She was rather tall for a woman though, so she had never really liked the additional height.

Saturday was officially their second date, since Renée didn’t count their initial set-up as a real date. The atmosphere was automatically a little less tense and nervous since this was their third time spending time together; each time they agreed to see each other again, they were letting the other know that there was some degree of mutual attraction, which was reassuring and helped them relax.

When they left the restaurant, Dave reached for Renée’s left hand as he walked on the outside of the sidewalk. It felt a little juvenile to her, somewhat surprised that this was his first big move—considering he hadn’t done more than kiss her cheek—but it also felt like a bold gesture on his part. They were holding hands in public, which marked them as a couple, or at least made them look like they were together. To any outside observer, they probably looked happy and comfortable, even though they were a little uncertain on the inside.

As they walked, Dave did most of the talking, as usual. Renée didn’t mind; in fact, she preferred it. It took the pressure off her to direct the conversation or to make it flow easily. Dave asked some questions instead of hogging the spotlight, and he listened, too—but once Renée was finished speaking, he always found a way to relate what she said back to himself. His talent in that regard was almost impressive.

They were talking about music and their tastes. Dave was explaining that he was really into supporting the Vancouver music scene. “I love going to the local open mic nights and promotions. Sometimes, they’re mediocre at best, but sometimes there are some really good singers or bands. My favorite’s probably Tough Lovers. Have you heard of them?”

“No, I haven’t,” she replied, looking up at him briefly.

He smiled at her. “They’re pretty good. Indie. If you’re into that kind of stuff, I’d love to take you out to a show.”

She wasn’t sure if she were into that “kind of stuff,” but she was willing to give it a shot. She had enough free time lately to be adventurous and try new things. “Yeah, it sounds like it would be fun.”

“Cool. Yeah, my ex got me into them. It’s kind of a funny story, actually, about that. But I bet you don’t want to hear that,” he said smoothly, casting a sideways glance at her.

Renée had tensed at the moment Dave said ex. Past relationships were always a touchy subject when talking with someone new, and it was especially bad when having that conversation so early in a new relationship. If they were really in a new relationship; it was too soon to even tell that much about where whatever it was that they were doing was going.

“Not really,” she mumbled, feeling a dip in the mood of the evening.

“I can understand that. Definitely. I mean, I wouldn’t want to hear about your exes. And I’m sure you had your fair share.”

She stopped walking, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk. There was a group of people behind them that had to break apart to move past the obstruction. Did he just insinuate that he thought she was a slut? “What does that mean?”

“It means, uh, it’s just that, I had assumed, well, I think you’re pretty, and Brandy said you’d never been married before, so I just thought, um, that you had dated a lot. That’s all.”

“What’s your point?” she asked, dropping his hand and then placing hers on her hip. Her eyebrow skyrocketed toward her hairline.

“Well, if you’re playing the field....” Dave shrugged, seemingly nonchalantly.

Renée grunted. She was angry with him for his base assumption. There wasn’t anything wrong with dating around, in her opinion; it was just that she didn’t do it. There were always more important things in the way of romance—things that took precedence in her life. At first, in high school and initially in college, it was hockey. When she wasn’t in class, she was practicing, training, or watching tape. After her injury, her education completely took over, and, when she wasn’t in class, she was in the library. Once she graduated with her doctorate, she plunged into starting her career and establishing herself in the field of sports psychology. Renée hadn’t really had any free time in which to date nor to feel lonely. It wasn’t until recently, after quitting and having an excess of free time, that she wished for companionship. Now she was wondering if she had chosen an ill-suited man for that position in her life.

So, while she was mad at Dave for his conjecture and wanted to call it quits right there in the street, she felt the need to correct him. Sometimes, when her buttons were pushed a certain way, she couldn’t help the words that spewed out of her mouth.

“I’ll have you know that my world doesn’t revolve around men and dating. You know, this is what happens when men watch Sex and the City, they think every girl sleeps around like Samantha or is as picky as any one of ’em. I’ve spent my entire life devoted to making a name for myself—my name, too, not to waste it by only having to change it some day.”

He held up his hands. “What? Renée, I didn’t mean it like that.”

She rolled her eyes and glanced around her, checking for the easiest route of escape. “Whatever.”

“It’s true.” Dave took a step toward her, reached for her hand, and ended up grabbing her wrist. “And it doesn’t matter how many boyfriends you’ve had—”

“None,” she blurted out, unable to keep her secret any longer. “Okay? Happy now?”

Dave looked stunned. A few seconds passed before he found his voice again. “Really, none? Wow, uh, okay.” He paused again before further adding, “Wait, wait a minute. Are you—are you a virgin?”

“No!” she hissed sharply, keeping her volume low. First she was a slut, then she was a nun; there was no medium with him. Renée was certainly not a saint. There had been men in her life, but they were all flings and not committed relationships. That was mostly her own fault, due to her naïveté and learning too late that a girl can’t sell the cow when she gives away the milk for free. She had been far too busy in the rink in high school to learn the nuances of dealing with boys, which didn’t translate well when she finally decided to lose her V-card at McGill. There were spans of time during her recoveries that she spent more time working out with men in her dorm room rather than with her team on the ice, but she had never let that deter her from her ultimate goals. And then lately, she had been stuck in a long, long dry spell. “I’m not a virgin. I’ve dated, just not... seriously.” She wrung her arm free of Dave’s grasp.

He was having a hard time figuring out Renée’s problem. He couldn’t figure her out, period. Most of all, he could not understand how a psychologist—someone who was supposed to be calm and rational with a strong understanding of the human mind—could be acting so crazy in the middle of a street in Yaletown. Psycho. Dave had just wanted to learn more about her and get a feel for her past before he invested any more time and money into dating her, all on what started out as a friend’s whim. And making a scene in public certainly was not what he had had in mind for the night.

“Okay,” he relented, treating her like he would a frightened horse and speaking smoothly. “How about I just take you home now, hmm?”

She felt even more incensed. It was such a double standard that he labeled her a slut and then became completely disinterested once he learned the contrary. Full of disgust, she spat back, “Don’t bother. Goodnight, Dave.”

They stared each other down underneath the streetlight, carefully and patiently waiting for the other to make a move first. Silence fell between them, neither wanting to break the stalemate.

Luckily for both of them, an outsider stepped between them and unknowingly interrupted their moment. Bieksa seemingly popped out of nowhere. He had been unsure about how to handle seeing his therapist out in public—especially when he was with his wife and about to meet a bunch of his teammates out in Yaletown to celebrate the night’s win. The Bieksas didn’t go out very often, but when they had a babysitter willing to work late, they took advantage of the situation.

“Dr. Carlyle,” Kevin said, sensing the tension but not understanding it.

She looked away from Dave and recognized Kevin. It was surprising to see him, to run into him randomly in the city, and worst of all, at that exact time. Someone or something in her life had an unfortunate sense of humor. “Hi, Kevin.”

The moment dissolved into awkwardness. Kevin didn’t know what the protocol was for spotting his therapist outside of his appointments. Renée, who hadn’t even known he was there, would have let him walk by without so much of a head nod of acknowledgement, because that was a part of the doctor-patient relationship. She wasn’t used to having patients interact with her of their own volition. With Renée distracted, Dave slipped away into the night, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

“Uh, hi,” he echoed, unsure of what else to say.

A woman’s voice added, “We didn’t mean to interrupt.” Renée didn’t recognize it or her, but assumed that it was Kevin’s wife.

He introduced her and proved Renée correct. “Dr. Carlyle, this is my wife, Katie.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand. Renée was surprised when she shook her hand firmly. Nothing was more respectable than a firm handshake. “We were just heading into the bar for a few celebratory drinks. Would you like to join us?”

She shook her head slightly and flashed them a quick, polite smile. It wasn’t proper to join a patient at the bar. “No, thanks.”

Kevin took her response for what it was, shrugged, and headed inside to meet up with the guys and their significant others, who had already arrived. Katie, however, didn’t give up quite so easily. “Are you sure? I would love to have the chance to talk to you.” Katie slung her arm around Renée’s and gently guided her toward the bar entrance. “I’ve seen a change in Kev since he started coming to you. He’s acting more like himself.”

Renée nodded but said, “That’s good to hear, Mrs. Bieksa, but I can’t talk about him with you. Our sessions are private, confidential, you see.” She was led toward an unoccupied table not very far away from Kevin and some of his teammates. She saw Luongo there—another one of her new patients acquired since leaving the Canucks organization—which added to her unease with the situation. Considering how her date with Dave had ended, she was anxious to get home, get into comfortable sweats, and curl up with a book or a movie with a bottle of red wine.

“Oh, of course. I understand. I don’t really want to talk about that anyway,” Katie said. She held up her hand and tried to get the waitress’s attention, but she was too busy ogling Ryan Kesler and ignoring his wife Andrea. Then she turned back to Renée. “Really, I guess I just wanted to say ‘thanks.’ It’s nice having my old Kevin back. Things were really rough for him over the summer, you know, after Rick died,” she explained, her voice low so the guys wouldn’t hear what they were talking about. Kevin certainly wouldn’t have appreciated having his sensitive side broadcast for his teammate’s amusement.

She continued, “But it was rough for him before then, too, even though he didn’t—and won’t—admit it. He was worried about Rick for a long time. Years. He’d be okay, seem okay at least, and then he wouldn’t be. I mean, we were all worried about him. Kevin had him live with us for a while, just so he was sure that he wouldn’t, you know, do anything to himself. I didn’t want anything to happen to him either, but it wasn’t until after he was staying with us that I really got attached to him.” Katie smiled softly, her eyes lowered to the table. “Did you know that he knew that I was pregnant with my daughter before Kevin even did?”

Renée could tell Katie had her fair share of unloading to do. It wasn’t exactly how she would have liked to spend her Saturday night, but she couldn’t just walk away either. So she smiled and let Katie ramble on.

“The guys were away on a long road trip, and I was waiting for them to get back so I could tell Kev in person. But Rick was staying with us then, and my morning sickness was pretty bad and I couldn’t hide it from him. He was actually really concerned about me that I was so sick, puking all morning like that. So I had to tell him so he’d stop worrying about me. But that was so like him—no matter what his own problems were, he always put them aside so he could do what he could to help. Maybe....” She took a deep breath. “Maybe if he had focused a little more on himself, things wouldn’t have ended that way for him. Maybe if I had paid attention to him the way he had for me, he could have gotten the help he needed.”

The therapist put her hand over Katie’s. “It sounds like you were there for him. Sometimes, no matter what you do, it’s not enough. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I think a part of me really wants to believe that. Before, when he would hit bottom, he would know it and he’d do something about. He’d talk to the team and take a leave so he could, I don’t know, I guess clear his head and get back on track. I just… I don’t know what happened this time that he didn’t get that help.”

Renée shook her head. It was always the same questions that resurfaced over and over again, and there were never any concrete answers. Seeing that anguish, and not being able to immediately do anything to make it disappear, was the hardest part about being a psychologist. “You may never know. But that doesn’t mean that you weren’t a good friend to him.”

“We had stayed up late some nights talking,” Katie went on. “Sometimes, we wouldn’t go to bed until Kevin woke up to head out for practice. I thought we were close enough that he could come to me, to us, you know, me or Kevin, if he ever needed anything. I knew his demons were bad. Relentless, even. I guess I just didn’t know how bad it really was.”

They were interrupted by the guys calling out loudly to another player who had just arrived. Both Katie and Renée turned to see who it was; Renée didn’t recognize him, but he was welcomed warmly to the table by everyone.

The girls continued their talk for a few minutes more before being disrupted again. It was Kevin, asking Katie if she was ready to head home. “I’m feel pretty tired after the game. Do you mind cutting out early?”

“Uh, no,” she replied, giving a smile to Renée. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Carlyle.”

“Same here,” she said, giving them both a nod. “Good night.” Renée was about to grab her purse and head out right behind them, but another body slid into the seat that Katie had just vacated. It was the new guy, the one she didn’t know. She squinted at him, searching her memory in the hopes of being able to place his face with a name. “Hello….” Her voice faded away. The name never came to her.

“Are you friends with those two?” he asked her, jerking his head in the direction of the door through which the Bieksas had left.

She stalled for a split second, unsure of what to say. Then she recovered and merely said, “Uh, kind of. Yeah.” After all, she couldn’t exactly tell him the truth.

“David,” he introduced, producing his hand. “Booth.”

The name rang a bell in her head; she suddenly remembered hearing his name in relation to the Canucks because of a trade. Of course she had heard about it through the grapevine, either on the radio or while listening to the TV but not watching, so she hadn’t seen his picture or the interviews. Since she wasn’t officially a part of the Canucks organization, she didn’t stay on top of the league’s hockey news, choosing to rely mostly on the word from her patients.

David was cute, with unruly, curly blond hair and a crooked, easy smile. He didn’t look like a hockey player to Renée, but she knew better than to judge a book by its cover—people had always second-guessed her ability to play the sport since she was a woman. And, to make it easier on her, she had heard a few good things about this pretty boy.

“Renée,” she responded, taking his hand and mimicking his introduction. “Carlyle.”

“Would you like another drink?”

Out of sheer habit, she almost said no. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested or not thirty, but rather that he was a hockey player and she was a sports psychologist and, up until that point in time, she had always had to say no because her job and professional obligations demanded it. This time around, however, she had no reason to decline. Sure, David was a hockey player, but she had never seen him. This time, she didn’t have to say no.

She smiled. “Sure.” Renée asked for a vodka tonic, and David got up and headed to the bar to place the order since the waitress was still preoccupied with the table of hockey players nearby. While she thought about how weird it was that she had started the night with one David and was apparently ending it with another David, she rubbed her eyes while trying not to smudge her make-up too much. Without a doubt, she needed a drink that night, and badly.

David came back, setting the vodka tonic on the table in front of Renée and then sat down with his own beer. “I know that expression well. Long day?”

“You have no idea,” she replied, but she kept her tone light so as not to put him off.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” She took a sip of her drink. It was a little strong, but it was really hitting the spot.

“I guarantee you’ll feel better if you talk about it,” he advised, trying to move long the conversation. He gave her another big, lopsided smile. “And I’m a really good listener.”

She laughed, finding it hilarious that he was preaching to her exactly what she told all her clients—especially the hockey players who thought that they had to keep all their fears and emotions tightly under wraps. Her mood changed, and she forgot about her earlier disaster. “It’s okay though. My day has definitely taken a turn for the better.”

Going Mental: Part Four

Renée knew that she was going to lose the staring contest, so she caved and huffed, “Why are you making such a big deal about this?”

“Because I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! I didn’t even know you were thinking about quitting, let alone that you would up and do it like this. And anyway, isn’t it customary to put in a two-weeks’ notice?”

Brandy had stopped at Renée’s house with a bottle of Chardonnay and hopes of finding out why she had yet to call Dave after last week’s surprise set up. Instead, she had walked in to find her best friend on the couch, her left leg stretched out with a heating pad over her knee and her MacBook Pro perched on her lap. She was in yoga pants and a matching, form-fitting top. It was a sad sight, even for a Tuesday evening. Renée was getting lamer and lamer in her old age—content to sit at home alone with nothing to do, and nothing Brandy could do could stop her transformation into a no-fun spinster.

“For normal jobs, yes. But this had special circumstances. Just trust me, it was for the best.” Renée stood and gathered up their empty wine glasses. She had to gingerly take baby steps because her knee was killing her. It always did when rain was coming. And in Vancouver, it seemed like it was always raining.

“Okay, fine, whatever. But no back up? Nothing waiting in the wings? Girl, you’re crazy. In this economy?”

“I’ll be fine, Brandy. I have some money saved, and I’ll find something.” She set the glasses in the sink without rinsing them, quiet for a moment as she thought. “Maybe it’s time for a change anyway, time to try something else. I’m feeling a little burnt out, I think.”

“Something else? Are you nuts? You get your Ph.D., and now you don’t want to be a therapist anymore?”

Renée shrugged, not feeling up to arguing. After a week of not having to get up early, dress uncomfortably, and listen to guys lie to her, she really enjoyed the break. She felt calmer and definitely more relaxed. “I liked all those classes I took in university, it was interesting, and... I just didn’t know what else to do and went with it. But I never really loved it.”

“Do you think I love marketing? No fucking way, but that doesn’t mean I just up and quit because I don’t like it.”

She sighed and closed her eyes as she debated on trying to explain. Renée didn’t really want to disclose the true reason why she quit, nor could she, but she also knew that Brandy wouldn’t stop bugging her about it until she got a better answer. As she weighed her options in her head, she was interrupted and didn’t have to make the decision: there was a knock on the door.

Renée limped from the kitchen and peeked through the peephole. It surprised her to see the man on her front porch. “What the....” She slid back the deadbolt and undid the chain. “Kevin, what are you doing here?”

“Hi, Dr. Carlyle. I did it.”

“Did what?”

He smiled, obviously proud of himself and kind of giddy. “Wrote my letter. I wanted to tell you.”

“Wrote your—you mean to tell me that you came here to tell me that? How did you even find my house?” She huffed and put her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe this.”

“I know it’s kinda late, but you were right. Once I started writing it, things clicked. And—”

Brandy poked her head around the door and tried to figure out what was going on, and Kevin clammed up once he saw that they weren’t alone. He felt a little embarrassed that he was intruding on something. “Uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay, I was just leaving,” Brandy replied, slinging her purse over her shoulder and giving Renée a quick squeeze. “Call me, okay?”

“Wait, Brandy, you don’t have to go—”

“It’s fine, John’s waiting for me. Good night.” She nodded at Kevin as she slipped by him and headed for her car.

He gave Renée an expectant look, like a little kid waiting for his parent’s move. She didn’t want to be burdened with talking to someone that late into the evening after sharing a bottle of wine, but a big enough part of her was curious about Kevin’s energy and excitement over completing his assignment. It had been a long time since she had doled out advice to someone that had been taken to heart like that.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked finally, taking a step back and gesturing toward her living room.

“Thanks. I do appreciate this, Dr. Carlyle. I just, I wanted to tell someone.” He walked into the room and took a seat on the coach, where Renée had been stretched out earlier. She turned off her heating pad, placed it on the coffee table, and then sat on the chair that faced him. Crossing her legs, she folded her hands in her lap in her therapist position.

Kevin reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he held out for Renée to take. She hesitated, knowing that whatever was written was going to be personal and heart wrenching; the gesture of sharing it, even with a therapist, was a big step forward in dealing with his grief.

She leaned forward and took the envelope, carefully opening it. There were three sheets of papers inside, both the front and back filled with tiny, printed chicken scratch. Renée didn’t read it, but she did scan the pages. Several words popped out at her. Friend. Wish. Sorry. Love. Miss. Brother. She folded the pages up and slid them back into the envelope. “This is great, Kevin.” She felt proud of him for taking her advice to heart—and it made her feel good, too.

“When I sat down to write it, it was hard at first. I didn’t know where to even begin. There was so much for me to say,” he gushed out, taking the letter back and pushing it back into his pocket. “Once I got started, it all came out. And you were right. It felt good to get it out. And I know what I’m going to do with it.”

Renée smiled. It really touched her that Kevin was being so positive. She had recommended the controlled purging of his emotions because she had hoped that he’d have just this reaction. “I’m happy to hear that. How do you feel now that you have your thoughts and feelings on paper?”

“Better, I think. I’m still... saddened by the whole thing, but having something in my hands, something tangible that I can hold, it makes me feel, see, there’s not even a word to describe it.”

She understood what he meant without him having to say it. When she told him to write a letter, she gave him an opportunity to lend a voice to a facet of his personality that didn’t expressed often. He was able to see it, which made it more real—and once it felt real, then it had to be reckoned with. Once it felt real, then it wasn’t silly or stupid or weak to do something to deal with it.

Kevin continued, “And really, I just wanted to thank you. I’m not over it, I know that, but it’s a start. A good start. This is gonna be a tough season without Ryp, since it’s the first one without him, but it doesn’t feel so daunting anymore.”

“It’s good to hear that. What I’d like to hear also,” she segued, “is that you’ll continue counseling by seeing the team therapist. You’re right in that it’s going to be a difficult experience throughout the entirety of the season, so you’re going to need steady support—”

“Oh, yeah, that’s why I have this,” he answered, reaching into his other pocket. He produced a single sheet of paper, which he handed over to Renée.

“A waiver,” she sighed, glancing down at it. She recognized it easily, having seen it before. She had hated to see it because it used to mean that she was losing a patient. Whenever a player brought one to her, it meant that they were pursuing outside options and excluding the Canucks’ resources in their treatment. Now, it meant she was gaining a patient. Kevin had already signed it. There was a blank left for her signature, if she was willing to do it. She set it down on the coffee table between them and resumed her position.

“I don’t like the new guy. He comes off so pretentious, and he doesn’t listen. And when I talked about Ryp, it felt wrong. I mean, he didn’t know him, never met him, and I don’t want him to think of him like some statistic or something. He was my friend.”

Renée tilted her head to the side and tried to be sympathetic. “I can tell you, as a professional, that—”

“I know what you’re gonna say, that he’ll understand or whatever because he’s trained to, but it’s different with you.” Kevin inched forward on the coach. “You were there for the team, so you get it.” He paused and cleared his throat before he slowly added, “And I Googled you. So I know you get it. Really get it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as she unfolded her hands and grabbed the arms of the chair. Her nails dug into the fabric tensely. She was offended slightly but mostly unnerved. “You Googled me?”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to know who I was going to be talking to.” He was very matter-of-fact about his reply.

“And what, pray tell, did you find?” she asked sarcastically.

“A lot. I was surprised by what I found out about you, Dr. Renée Carlyle. Not only did you graduate from McGill, undergraduate and Ph.D., but you played hockey there for the Martlets.” She cringed, but that didn’t stop Kevin from laying it all out. “You didn’t play a lot of games and only played for parts of two seasons, but your stats were good. So then I checked YouTube, and saw a couple videos uploaded. You were good. You had moves I’d expect to see in the pros. I’m not gonna lie, it was a surprise. I never would’ve expected that from you. But see, I can respect that—you know the game, the demands, the expectations, the stress, because you’ve been there. Now I’m not just talking to a shrink, but a hockey player.

“But there is one thing I don’t get. Dr. Carlyle, there were talks about you making the Olympic roster for 2002. The Olympics.”

Renée shook her head. “Okay, that’s enough. End of conversation.”

“That’s something that everyone dreams of, but not everyone gets to do it. You have to be selected, make the cut. You were so close, and you just walked away.”

“No, I did not walk away,” she corrected, riled into responding to him. Once the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake. “This is inappropriate. If I’m supposed to be your therapist, Kevin, then my life is off limits. It’s irrelevant.”

“How is it irrelevant? It’s perfectly relevant. And besides, you’re not my doctor yet. Please, I want to know. I have to know.”

“This has nothing to do with my ability to help you. You just have to trust me and trust the process.”

“If you want me to trust you, honestly, I have to know how you left it all behind. How you could do it, give up the dream. You’re a hockey player. Hockey players don’t just give up.”

She closed her eyes. Everything inside of her screamed to stop; not only were her therapeutic instincts telling her that she needed to maintain the air of professionalism, but she also didn’t want to relive that particular portion of her past. But when she opened her eyes and looked back at Kevin, she knew she couldn’t completely dismiss it. He already knew much more than any of the other Canucks had—because none of them had bothered to look up what was considered public knowledge. If he really wanted to know the whole story, she was sure that he could find it somewhere on the Internet.

“I didn’t give up. I didn’t leave it behind. You can’t say it like that. I wanted to play in the Olympics, of course I did. It’s just that I got hurt, and....” Her voice faded out as she fought the surge of emotions welling up inside her. While she had moved on from those years and got on with her life, it still hurt to think about. After all, it had been her dream for the first nineteen years of her life; it had been a part of her for so long that she thought she’d never be able to reflect back without being sad.

“What’d you hurt?”

“My knee.”

Kevin looked at her expectantly, waiting for a more thorough explanation. “Well, what happened?”

Taking one long, deep breath, she began. “My first year at McGill, I hurt my knee. There was a divot in the ice by the net, and I tripped and slid feet-first into the boards. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but my knee popped. My ACL. They told me I didn’t need surgery, but I missed the rest of the season. Which sucked, but I focused on making it back for my sophomore year.

“We were playing Concordia when I got hurt again. They were our rivals. I know everyone thinks girls’ sports aren’t as competitive and physical, but we got up for this game. I went for the puck along the boards, and I got pinned. My knee got pinned. Tore my ACL again. This time, I needed to get it surgically repaired. The doctor assumed that it didn’t heal properly the first time, which was why it tore again and was worse that time around.”

Renée sighed. “Needless to say, I missed the Olympic camp. That was it.”

Kevin was quiet for a few moments, absorbing the information. “Man. That sucks.”

“Yeah, it did. It sucked.”

He pushed for more. “So, what happened after that? Why didn’t you play again?”

Renée looked down at her hands. “The time between when it tore the first time and getting the surgery did some damage, the meniscus wore down. Even after my ACL was repaired, after rehab, it didn’t feel the same. I didn’t have the same range of motion. Playing wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same player, I couldn’t do the same things on the ice. The doctor was worried about what would happen if I injured it again, so playing on less than one hundred percent wasn’t really an option for me because the chances of reinjury were so high.”

“Oh,” he murmured apologetically. As an athlete, he knew the severity of that news; a hockey player always wanted to play, but there were circumstances in which he or she would need to walk away. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Too bad that isn’t on Wikipedia. It would save me the grief and aggravation of retelling it.” Once she realized how rude and unprofessional her comment was, she went on to finish her story. “Obviously, it was a tough adjustment to make. I, too, had to seek counseling to help with the transition. Well, I was forced into it my by parents. I refocused my energy on school, and pursued sports psychology to help people like I had needed.” Renée left out how unhealthy it was to switch from one obsession to another. With nothing else to occupy her time, she delved into her schoolwork. It wasn’t until after she had graduated with her doctorate that she had discovered that she didn’t love psychology like she had loved hockey. However, she hadn’t known what else to do, and she was such a dedicated individual that she couldn’t stand to not have a purpose or a goal in mind.

He nodded and glanced down at the coffee table. Kevin reached for the form and looked down at it. “So, will you sign it?”

She held out her hand, not wanting to let all that have been in vain. How could she send him away after all that? “Yeah, I’ll sign.”