Page 6 of A Christmas For Holly

I didn’t have a choice.

I wanted to hold onto my pride, to say that retiring had been my choice. But stepping away didn’t mean my connection to the Harriers was completely severed. They’d brought in a representative from the NHL Players’ Assistance Program—Roland Gentry—who was here to walk me through the support the system could offer someone like me.

Fucked. Finished. Done.

Despite the heating, the Harriers conference room was cold, and I stared over the empty rink. It had been my home, my sanctuary, about the only thing I could call safe—but now I was losing it.

A wave of panic gripped me, tightening around my chest like a vise. My breath caught, and I had to fight the urge to get up and bolt from the room. My heart raced, and sweat gathered at the back of my neck, cold and clammy as though my body couldn’t decide whether to freeze or burn. The air felt too thick, as though I was breathing through a straw, and I had to swallow hard to keep the nausea at bay. My fingers dug into the chair, the one thing holding me anchored at the gut-wrenching realization I was about to lose everything I knew.

Oscar sat beside me, ever my calm and professional agent, and probably the single person who knew how close I was to snapping in two. He’d tried to take the secret of my fragile mental health to the grave for many reasons, not least of which was the money he’d make on my ten million-a-year contract.

Gentry sat across from me in this plain, quiet room, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure how to feel. He didn’t act much like the big-shot consultant the league had sent to help players“get back on track.”No stern posture, no judgmental scowl—just a calm, grounded presence that made it hard to look away. He had one of those expressions that never showed he was fazed by anything, a slight smile tucked at the corner of his mouth speaking more of understanding than pity.

His eyes showed gentleness as he watched me, which should have made me relax, but it didn’t. Because under that warmth, I saw something else—a glint of steel. He wasn’t just here to pat me on the shoulder. His gaze had a firmness, a subtle message telling me he’d seen more than his fair share of screw-ups like me. Whatever excuse I might have thrown at him, he’d heard it before, and he wasn’t about to let me get away with it. Roland Gentry might have been sympathetic, but he wasn’t soft.

“The program has helped many people, Paul,” he said, his voice steady and warm but with a core of honesty that cut to the bone. There was no sugarcoating, no hiding behind pleasantries.He was offering me something real, something that had helped a lot of players before me, and yet… I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling me the whole story.

“Holly. Call me Holly.”

“Okay, Holly.” He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, smiling gently. “I know it’s a lot to take in. This is your career, your life,” he said, his voice even. “And no one’s here to force you. But you already know what needs to change.”

There it was again—that unspoken steel. He wasn’t here to judge, but he also wasn’t here to indulge me. He was offering me a lifeline, but he wouldn’t let me sink if I refused to grab it—he’d drag me kicking and screaming until the choice was taken away from me.

I sat back, my chest tightening, unsure if I wanted to thank him or tell him to leave me alone. He made it sound as simple as saying yes, and I’d have this invisible support behind me, but at the same time, he knew better than to pretend it would be easy.

He held up a mirror with just a few words, showing me the mess I’d become.

My thoughts were a tangled web of dread and resignation, and the monster in me caused a tremor. My heel tapped, and my knee wobbled, hidden under the table where no one could see.

“Do you need some water?” Gentry nudged a glass toward me.

My chest tightened, and my breath came in shallow bursts as if the air had thickened, making it impossible to get enough. My palms grew slick with sweat, and a faint tremor worked into my fingers despite my best effort to keep them steady. I knew I needed to find my happy place and focus on something calm, something familiar. But the moment I tried, the panic surged even harder, like a dam breaking. My defenses crumbled as quickly as I built them, and the spiral pulled me down.

I’d been Captain of the Harriers for five years, led them to two Stanley Cups wearing theC, and no one could ever take those achievements away from me.

But…the cheers, celebrations, and pure euphoria felt like a lifetime ago. The walls closed in, and my chest hurt as reality snapped and bit at me.

“What would you like to do?” Gentry asked me.

I glanced at Oscar, who probably saw his cash cow becoming worthless as the minutes ticked by.I told you so, my monster preened.You’re shit.

“I’d like this not to be happening,” I murmured.

I was being cut loose and was now alone to deal with a head full of snarling, monstrous self-hate. Losing games had eaten away at my mental health, and that deteriorated mental health had destroyed whatever I had left of my skills.

“Everything will be okay,” Gentry reassured me.

Okay? It wasn’t okay. I was far from fucking okay.

Oscar touched my leg again, a silent reminder I wasn’t alone in this, but it didn’t help. Not really. I was thirty-three years old, the captain of a team I’d imagined I'd lead, or at least play for, until I retired in some nebulous future, and now they were telling me it was over.

That I was done.

“I have some information for you,” Gentry murmured, his tone calm and steady, all kinds of caring and supportive, as he passed over a glossy booklet I assumed held all the details of the miraculous place they sent all the fucked-up NHL players. His words felt like a lifeline in the storm raging inside me. “You’re not alone in this, Holly. The Phoenix Wellness Center is a good place to start—designed for players like you. The counselors understand the pressure and weight of your life, and they’ll help you find your footing again.”

I stared at him, trying to believe the sincerity in his voice, the quiet conviction that made it sound so simple. Maybe I wasn’t beyond saving after all.

“I said I was retiring—why do I need help?” I was so confused, and I turned to Oscar. “Having to do this shit isn’t mandatory if I’m not playing anymore, right?”

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