Rinkside Ruin

6.OFF BALANCE

ROWAN KAINE'S POV

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I f*****g hate therapy.

It’s been three weeks and I still haven’t said more than twenty-five words to the team shrink. Twenty of them were sarcastic. The rest were curse words.

The guy has a PhD in psychology and a beard that makes him look like he plays the cello in an indie band plus he wears weird socks. I told him once he looked like someone who collects vintage teacups. He smiled and said, “Thank you for sharing.”

Jesus.

I don’t need a shrink. I need my brother not to be dead.

But yeah, sure. Let’s talk about my feelings.

Let’s talk about how Declan used to bang on my door at 3:57 AM sharp like a f*****g lunatic because our morning runs had to start at 4:00 exactly or “we’d ruin the tempo.” Let’s talk about how I didn’t answer the door that day because I was in bed. Not just in bed. Wrapped up in heat and sweat and tangled sheets, mouth on skin and hands lost in curves I still dream about.

I didn’t go running that morning because I overslept in bed with a ghost.

And Declan went alone.

And Declan never came back.

They said it was a mugging. Wrong place, wrong time. Some arsehole with a knife jumped him for his phone and wallet, left him bleeding out in the dirt. No leads. No arrests. There's always some mugging happening over that side of the park. Case closed.

But I keep thinking — if I’d gone with him like I was supposed to, like every other f*****g morning of our lives — maybe it wouldn’t have gone down like that. Maybe I’d have heard the footsteps behind us. Maybe I’d have seen the blade. Maybe I’d have taken the hit. Maybe he’d still be alive.

But I didn’t go, and Declan paid for it with his life.

Now the guilt is a fist wrapped around my throat every time I think about it. I keep trying to act like Declan’s death is something I’ve locked away, shoved down so deep I barely feel it. But it’s there. Just under the surface, twisting into my temper. And lately, my temper’s been a volcano. Exploding at the slightest trigger. That’s why my manager forced me to see some shrink. A f*****g shrink. Like I’m broken or something. Like therapy’s gonna fix the way I feel about Declan.

And if that wasn’t enough, there’s this injury. A stupid, ugly reminder that I’m not invincible.

Levi Beckett, that smug British bastard, hit me low and late during the second period of that Toronto Hammers game. The puck’s moving fast, the crowd roaring like they’re trying to tear the roof off the stadium.

I was making a fast break near the boards, angling to cut off the puck when Levi came at me full speed. His hip slammed into me from the side, the kind of hit that sends a shock straight through your bones. My right skate caught weird, and my torso twisted hard against the hit. Then I felt a pop deep in my pelvis. Like my core muscles just gave out.

I stayed on my feet, didn’t want to look weak in front of the crowd or the team. I took my next shift like it was nothing, but my explosiveness vanished instantly. No more quick bursts off the line, no torque for slapshots, no smooth pivots without stabbing pain just above my groin.

By the third period, I was still on the ice, still hitting hard and yelling like a madman. But the coaches knew and saw that my body wasn’t right.

I lied. I told them it was a cramp or that I slept wrong. That it was just tightness, nothing serious. But deep down, I knew better.

I refused to trust the team med staff. Not when I could be benched for being “fragile.” No way was I letting that happen. I’m the captain. The f*****g leader. I can’t afford to be sidelined.

But the pain got worse. I started compensating for it and pulled my adductors and lower abs. The team med tried ice, massage, core work. All the bullshit rehab stuff. But it didn’t fix what was broken deep down.

Then the GM finally said enough. They’re bringing in a new specialist — a therapist from Seattle. A Dr. Voss. Someone who can fix this without the usual drama, without blowing the team’s image or my reputation.

Great. Just what I need. Another person telling me what to do. First, a shrink for my head, and now one for my body. Because, apparently, I’m falling apart piece by piece. Literally.

I don’t want to meet this “miracle worker.” I just want to be on the ice, smashing pucks, or just cracking open a cold beer and forgetting everything for a while. But no. Captain duties call. So I’m driving across town in my dark grey 4Runner, the bright Chicago sun blasting through the window like it forgot it’s only twenty degrees outside.

Gigi’s supposed to pick her up from the airport, but I'm the one handing over the keys. I pull into the lot, kill the engine, and step out. The building's nothing special — just the standard five-story setup where most of the staff crash between games.

The cold air hits my skin, brushing over my tattoos, making the goosebumps rise. I pull my hoodie tighter.

By the entrance, I spot Gigi, the team’s chaos in human form, and a woman dragging a suitcase.

Dr. Voss.

I smirk to myself.

She's gonna love me. Or hate me. Depends on how many times I snap.

Her head hangs low, hood up, shadowing her face like she’s hiding from the world. There’s something about the way she moves, something familiar that tugs at a place I didn’t think still existed. But I shove it down. I'm just tired. My head's a mess. Nothing more.

Gigi waves me over like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “Speak of the devil. Look,” she says, that grin wide like she knows something I don’t.

I close the distance, slipping into my usual role: charming, cocky, a little intimidating. But then the woman lifts her head, and everything flips.

I freeze. I know her. Not just the surface. I know her.

I see her lips part, just a little. Like she’s just now realizing who I am too.

No way. No f*****g way.

“Mara, this is Rowan,” Gigi says, totally oblivious to the chaos unfolding in my head. “The captain of the Chicago Bli—”

The name hits me like a slapshot straight to the chest. Mara. Those f*****g hazel eyes, alive with heat and hesitation. The same ones that locked on me a year ago across a hotel bar. The same ones that dragged me upstairs, undressed me with a look, then left me wrecked before dawn.

My smirk fades. My eyes lock on hers, searching for a sign that maybe this is some cruel joke. But the recognition is there in her gaze. The same shock, the same fight to keep calm.

Her face goes pale, then flushed. Her fingers tighten on the suitcase handle. Like she’s pulling herself together by sheer force.

Gigi looks between us like she just missed a plot twist in a Netflix show. “Mara? Are you okay?" she asks, her voice tinted with concern.

I can’t look away. Her dark hair spills from under her hood, a flush on her cheeks. It’s all flooding back — the way she laughed, the way she whispered my name.

She’s here. The new therapist. The universe has one twisted sense of humor.

“Butterfly,” I breathe, the nickname slipping out before I can stop it.

Her eyes widen. For a second, she looks like she might run. But then she straightens, spine rigid, and forces a smile, sharp and cold. “Hello, Rowan,” she says, voice cool and professional, like she’s trying to erase that night from the world.

My chest tightens. She’s acting like we’re strangers. Like she didn’t tear me apart and stitch me back together with a look. I want to say something. Anything. To bridge the gap. But my brain is stuck in a loop of flashbacks. The warmth of her skin under the luxury hotel sheets. The way her breath hitched when I traced that butterfly tattoo with my tongue.

“Do you two know each other?” Gigi asks again, her brow furrowed, eyes darting between us.

Neither of us answers. Mara’s gaze burns into mine, a wildfire of unspoken words. My chest tightens.

I should say something captain-like. Something about schedules or keys. But all I can think about is how she left. How I woke up to an empty bed. Her side cold. How I spent weeks wondering what the hell I did wrong. I want to ask why she left. Why she never called. Why she wasn’t at Declan’s funeral, even though she was his friend.

Instead, I clear my throat and say the only thing that feels right. “Mara,” I let the name roll out like I’m staking a claim. “Welcome to the team.”

Gigi babbles about being late and heading to work, but I barely hear her or see her drive off. My eyes stay on Mara, on the way her fingers clutch that suitcase like it’s a lifeline.

I shove my hands in my pockets and let the smirk creep back. “Guess we’ve got some catching up to do.”

Her eyes flash with defiance before softening. It makes my pulse spike. This is going to be one hell of a ride.