Iced Out

Chapter 3: Session One

NOVA

My office still smelled like industrial carpet cleaner and the ghost of the previous occupant’s stale coffee. I hadn’t unpacked the two boxes sitting in the corner, save for a single item: a sleek, silver pen that now sat perfectly parallel to the edge of my blank legal pad.

It was 2:14 PM. Cole Harrington’s mandatory psychological evaluation was scheduled for 2:00 PM.

I didn’t pace. I didn’t check my phone. I simply sat behind the heavy oak desk and waited, letting the silence of the room settle over me. In my line of work, lateness wasn’t just a schedule disruption. It was data. It was a power play.

At exactly 2:17 PM, the door handle turned without a preliminary knock.

Cole walked in, and suddenly, the moderately sized office felt like a broom closet.

He had showered since practice, his dark hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, shoved haphazardly under a backward Glaciers ballcap. He wore a grey team hoodie and dark athletic joggers, yet somehow, he managed to make casual leisurewear look like a tailored threat. Up close, the silver-grey of his eyes was even more startling. Cold, intelligent, and entirely unyielding.

He didn’t apologize. He didn’t introduce himself. He just walked over to the leather guest chair opposite my desk, dropped into it, and kicked his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He draped his right arm over the back of the chair, taking up as much physical space as possible.

*Spatial dominance. Textbook.*

“Dr. Calloway,” he drawled, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated right through the mahogany desk. “Let’s make this quick. I have tape to review.”

I picked up my silver pen. I didn’t write anything. I just looked at him.

“Mr. Harrington,” I replied, my voice cool and perfectly level. “You’re seventeen minutes late. Which tells me you either struggle with basic time management, or you’re deliberately trying to establish control of this room before we’ve even spoken. Given your stats on the ice, I’m going to assume it’s the latter.”

A muscle feathered along his sharp jawline. He hadn’t expected me to call it out immediately.

“I’m the captain,” he said flatly. “My time is valuable.”

“So is mine. And right now, mine is being paid for by the same people who sign your checks.” I clicked the pen. Once. “You can drop the alpha-posturing, Cole. It works on your rookies. It works on the press. It is entirely wasted on me.”

For a split second, the icy veneer cracked, revealing a flash of genuine, dark amusement. He slowly sat forward, dropping the relaxed posture. He planted his elbows on his knees, leaning into my space. The scent of him, cedar, sharp soap, and something uniquely, dangerously male, drifted across the desk.

“Alright, Doc,” he said softly, holding my gaze like a physical grip. “You want to skip the posturing? Let’s skip it. You’re here because Victor Raines and the board think I’m a liability. They think the paparazzi catching me at a casino last month means I’m unraveling. They want you to poke around in my head, find a loose wire, and report back so they have an excuse to strip my ‘C’ or renegotiate my contract.”

His eyes narrowed, cutting into me. “So, go ahead. Ask your questions about my childhood. Give me your little inkblot tests. But don’t expect me to hand you the bullets to shoot me with.”

I kept my face entirely impassive, though my heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. *He’s so defensive. He’s hiding so much more than a casino trip.* I thought of the encrypted file on my personal laptop at home. I thought of Marcus.

I leaned forward, mirroring his posture perfectly, closing the distance between us until we were separated by less than two feet of mahogany.

“I don’t work for the board’s PR machine, Cole. I work for the team’s performance.” I kept my voice low, dropping it to a register that forced him to listen closely. “And right now, I’m looking at a captain who is carrying so much tension he’s practically vibrating. A captain who is so desperate to maintain control that he’s compensating on the ice.”

His silver eyes flared. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

“I don’t know what you think you saw today during drills,” he said, the words slipping out like ground glass.

“I saw a man shifting eighty percent of his deceleration weight to his right skate to avoid jarring his left shoulder after a backhand shot,” I countered smoothly.

Cole went perfectly, terrifyingly still.

“I saw a slight grimace that you disguised as a deep breath,” I continued, my eyes tracking down to his left shoulder, hidden beneath the thick cotton of his hoodie, before flicking back up to his face. “And I’m wondering how long you think you can hide whatever is going on with that shoulder from your coach, your team, and your opponents before somebody puts you into the boards and ends your career permanently.”

Silence crashed down over the office. It was heavy, suffocating, and loaded with absolute venom.

He stared at me, the hostility in his eyes morphing into something far more dangerous: cornered desperation. If I reported what I’d observed, it would trigger a medical review. If the review confirmed what I suspected, he was benched. If he was benched, whatever he was dealing with in secret would implode.

Slowly, Cole stood up. He towered over the desk, casting a shadow that swallowed the light from my desk lamp.

“Are you threatening me, Doctor?” he asked, his voice a lethal whisper.

I didn’t back down. I stood up too, smoothing the front of my blazer. I was a foot shorter than him, but I refused to let him feel it. “I don’t make threats. I make clinical observations. My door is always open, Mr. Harrington. We’ll resume this next week. Don’t be late.”

He looked at me for a long, breathless moment. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then snapped back up to my eyes, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Without another word, he turned and walked out, letting the door click shut heavily behind him.

The second the latch caught, the rigid posture drained right out of my spine. I sank back into my leather chair, exhaling a breath I felt like I’d been holding since he walked in. I looked down at my hands.

My fingers were trembling.

Cole Harrington was a fortress, just like Diane had said. But I had just found the crack in the stone. And heaven help me, the dangerous, jagged edges of him made me want to tear the whole wall down.