Contact Sport
Chris
Chris hated therapy.
He hated the sterile walls, the digging questions, the way silence stretched like it was supposed to mean something. But for reasons he couldn’t explain—even to himself—he’d shown up this morning. Early again.
Two days in, and he was already breaking his own rules.
Maybe it was because of the way Dr. Blaine didn’t flinch when he threw sarcasm at her like a slapshot. Maybe it was because she didn’t try to fix him. Just listened. Asked the hard shit without sounding like she pitied him.
Or maybe it was the way she looked at him—clear-eyed and steady. Like he wasn’t a mess. Like he was a person worth trying for.
It messed with his head.
He walked into the training room instead of her office today. Figured he’d lift, burn off some of the static in his blood. There were already a few guys there, tossing banter like pucks—normal locker room noise. But as he stepped under the bar for his first bench press set, he heard it.
“Guess punching out a guy in a bar is all it takes to get one-on-one sessions with the new doc.”
Laughter. Not loud. But loud enough.
Chris froze.
He knew the voice. Darrin Webb. Rookie defenseman with more mouth than sense.
“Maybe I’ll take a swing at someone this weekend,” Webb added, smug.
Chris set the bar down with too much force. The clang echoed.
“What was that?” he asked, cool and low.
Webb shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just saying. Must be nice.”
Chris stepped forward. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t throw a punch.
But the look in his eyes said he could.
“You want an appointment, rookie?” he asked. “Break your jaw. I’ll walk you there myself.”
Webb shut up.
Chris walked out.
Anna
She saw him storm past her office window, jaw set, fists tight.
Her gut said it wasn’t nothing.
A few minutes later, she found him alone by the ice, staring out across the empty rink like it might tell him something. She didn’t speak right away. Just stood beside him.
He didn’t look at her. “You ever feel like no matter what you do, people already have their version of you carved in stone?”
Anna folded her arms. “Every single day.”
That surprised him. She saw it.
“Yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
They stood in silence a while longer. The cold from the rink snuck under her coat, but she didn’t move.
“Something happen?” she finally asked.
Chris flexed his hands, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does.”
He gave her a look—sharp, skeptical.
“I’m not your coach,” she said. “I’m not here to tell you to shake it off. If something’s getting under your skin, I want to know. Because that’s where the damage starts. Underneath.”
Chris breathed in through his nose. “Some of the guys think I’m getting special treatment. Because I’m a ‘headcase.’ Because you’re—well, you.”
Anna blinked. “Me?”
“Smart. Cool under pressure. Not hard to look at.”
Her brows lifted. “You realize you just gave me a compliment and insulted me in the same breath.”
He cracked a half-grin. “Multitasking.”
But then he sobered. “It’s not about you. They just don’t get it. They see a highlight reel. Not what’s behind it.”
“And what is behind it?”
Chris looked at her, quiet for a moment. “A guy trying not to turn into his brother.”
Anna’s heart thudded.
“You’re not him,” she said.
Chris nodded once. “Then help me prove it.”
---
Anna
Later that night
Anna stood at her kitchen counter, stirring pasta she didn’t want, thinking about a man she shouldn’t.
Chris Neil wasn’t her patient in the traditional sense—he hadn’t come to her seeking help. He’d been ordered into it, shoved into her world with all the grace of a body check. And yet… he’d stayed. He’d shown up. Twice now. And today, he’d actually asked her to help him.
She could still hear his voice: “Then help me prove it.”
She didn’t have the luxury of pretending it hadn’t affected her. The resolve in his tone. The rawness he barely covered.
Anna poured herself a glass of wine and sat at her small kitchen table, legs folded beneath her, her laptop open to half-written reports she couldn’t focus on. She kept replaying his words, his eyes, the moment at the rink when the space between them felt heavy with more than just words.
And that terrified her.
She’d buried herself in rules for a reason. Clear boundaries. No attachments. No lingering thoughts about clients after hours. But Chris made detachment feel impossible. He made caring feel inevitable.
She took a sip of wine. Then another.
She should’ve reported the comment from the rookie to Coach Mallory. But Chris hadn’t asked her to, and she’d respected that. Maybe she was already slipping.
Maybe she was already in trouble.
---
Chris
The next day
Media Room – Post-practice
He hated press days more than he hated drills, and that was saying something.
Chris sat in front of the cluster of microphones, hat pulled low, trying to look present but not engaged. Half-listening. Half-existing.
A reporter from the local paper leaned in. “Chris, there's been some speculation about your suspension last season and what kind of support the team’s giving you this year. Anything you want to say to address that?”
It wasn’t the question that made his stomach twist—it was the tone. Loaded. Fishing.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “I’m focused on the game. On showing up for my team and handling my business.”
“Are you receiving any additional… counseling?” the guy asked, eyebrow raised.
Chris felt every eye turn to him.
He could lie. He could dodge.
But he thought of Anna. Of her face in the cold light by the rink. Of how it felt to have someone actually listen.
“I’ve got the right people around me,” he said finally. “And I’m doing what I need to do.”
The reporter didn’t blink. “So that’s a yes?”
Chris leaned forward, letting just enough heat into his voice. “You want my playbook, or you want a headline?”
There was a murmur of laughter from the other reporters, and the question moved on. But the damage was done. The moment would make the rounds. His face, that quote, probably under a tabloid title like Neil’s New Therapy Strategy: Talk It Out or Fight It Out?
By the time he left the podium, he wanted to throw something. Instead, he walked straight to the gym, strapped on gloves, and hit the heavy bag until his knuckles ached.
---
Anna
Same time – Team Office
She saw the media clip before he did.
Someone forwarded it to her work email with the subject line: You might want to see this.
She clicked. Watched. Winced.
They were coming for him. Again. Even when he was trying.
Anna stared at her screen, heart clenching. She was supposed to stay detached. Objective.
But she couldn’t watch someone drown and pretend it was just part of the job.
She reached for her phone.
---
Chris
He didn’t remember walking home from the gym.
Didn’t remember taking off his gloves or peeling off his hoodie, damp with sweat and shame. Just remembered the weight of the media questions, the scrutiny in every stare, and the tightness in his chest that no amount of punches could loosen.
His phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number.
He stared at it, thumb hovering.
Then he answered.
“Yeah?”
There was a pause. Then her voice.
Anna.
“I saw the press conference.”
Chris exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “That fast, huh?”
“You okay?”
He wanted to lie. Say yeah. Say always.
Instead, he leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. “Not really.”
Another pause. Then, softly: “Do you want me to come over?”
He opened his eyes.
No one had asked him that in a long time. Not like that. Not without expecting something in return.
He didn’t know what to say.
So he said the truth. “Yeah.”
---
Anna
She surprised herself.
The offer had left her lips before she’d fully thought it through. But when he said yeah, low and tired and open in a way he hadn’t been before, she didn’t second-guess.
Ten minutes later, she stood outside his apartment door, heart thudding.
This wasn’t a house call. This wasn’t professional.
But it also wasn’t just about him.
She needed to see he was okay.
She knocked.
The door opened.
Chris stood there, hoodie half-zipped, knuckles scraped raw, eyes unreadable.
They stared at each other for a long moment. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but weighted.
“I didn’t bring a notepad,” she said, trying to keep it light.
Chris stepped aside, voice quiet. “Didn’t ask you to take notes.”
She stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind her.
---