Page 70 of Wild Pucker

"I, ah, wanted to talk to you about something personal, if that's okay." She gestures with her arm welcoming me into her office, and then shuts the door behind her. I sit on a comfy brown leather chair in front of her desk and glance around. I've been in here several times before, and I know I'm stalling. But I don't know the first thing about asking for help, and this is awkward as fuck. "How are Aiden and Gracie?" I ask, motioning to the framed photo of Dr. Brook's kids.

"They're great. Gracie is in her music phase and learning guitar, and Aiden is doing his best to become the next Toronto Northmen draftee."

"You should bring him out sometime. The guys love having kids at practice once in a while."

"He'd love that." She smiles encouragingly, letting silence fill the room. I just sit there, hands in my lap, not quite sure what to do or how to ask what I want to ask. "I'm assuming you didn't come here just to ask me about my kids."

"No, I didn't." I pause again, glancing at Dr. Brooks and then just get on with it. "I wanted to know if there was someone I could, maybe, talk to about some things I've been struggling with from my past. Lily suggested that talking to someone might help me work through it."

"Absolutely, Lily is one hundred percent correct. I know a few excellent therapists if it's strictly mental health related. Or if you need a little more help with this issue, there's always the NHL Players' Assistance Program." The NHL Player Assistance Program is primarily for guys struggling with addiction; that’s not for me.

"No, it's not drugs or alcohol or anything like that. It's more personal crap from when my mom died, living with my dad, and some of the stuff that happened when I played junior hockey."

"I see. Well, this is all strictly confidential, of course, but is there anything you can tell me so I can get a better idea of who to refer you to? And believe me when I say this, Chase, there is nothing to be ashamed of for asking for help. You're certainly not the first hockey player to ask, and you won't be the last. In fact, I wish more of you would come in a talk more often, even if it's just performance or hockey related."

"I, um, my dad isn't a nice guy. He kind of fell apart after my mom died, and I had some shitty stuff happen to me because of that. He brought a woman who wasn't a good person into our life." Sweat starts to bead on my neck and back, and I start fidgeting. How does a two-hundred-pound hockey player, built of muscle, explain that they were sexually assaulted as a kid? "There's, ah, some stuff I don't like when it comes to being physical with women, and I want to get over that."

The room is silent for what seems like forever, and I refuse to look Dr. Brooks in the eyes for fear of what I might see there. When I finally do, it's empathy and understanding mirrored back at me. She smiles sadly and nods.

"Alright, Chase," she says sympathetically but without any hint of pity. "I think Dr. Brighton would be a good fit. She's highly qualified, and I know her personally. She helped me through a difficult time after my sexual assault. Well, perhaps it's more accurate to say we helped each other."

My head jerks up. I expect Dr. Brooks to look as broken as I feel, but she just stares back, strong and confident. Like whatever happened to her in the past has no hold on her now.

"One in three," Dr. Brook says sadly. "One in three women experience sexual assault of some kind, and while the odds for men are lower, it doesn't make it any less valid or harmful."One in three?That's over thirty percent, and it probably only includes reported incidents, which means the actual number is likely a shitload higher. Anger surges through my body, and moisture floods my mouth, making me nauseated. "I'll make the call and text you the details. And don't worry, I'll work everything out around the team's schedule."

I nod once and stand, making my way toward the door. My mind is racing with statistics and probabilities.One in three. That means it's likely several of the women in my life, and probably some of the men, have been victims. I've stayed silent for over a decade, and I can't help but wonder if my silence has harmed more than just myself.

"And just so you know," Dr. Brooks starts before I leave her office, "there is no statute of limitations on sexual assault in Canada. We're not victims, Chase. We're survivors."

22

Gossip Girl

Lily

"Are you ready for your big night?" Sam asks from across the kitchen. We have about ten minutes before our sacred cooking space is taken over by boisterous hockey players with next to no cooking experience. Luke is an exception to the rule. For the most part, hockey players are spoiled from when they're kids to when they're drafted.

Unfortunately, that means by the time they make it to the big show, they have no domestic skills. Most guys can't even do their own laundry without turning all their whites pink or grey, and their cooking skills are limited to Mr. Noodle and frozen crap you can throw in the microwave.

"You know I am," I reply. Tonight is the night I get to choose Chase once and for all. I am more than ready to hand out some cheques and be done with this entire thing. I walk over to Sam and wrap my arms around his shoulders, giving him a big hug. "Thank you for everything. You've been such a good friend." Sam hugs me back and then grins. He really is a handsome fucker, and he can cook to boot. "Sam is a lucky girl."

He blushes, and I smile even bigger. "Is that a blush, Mr. McCrae? Don't hold out on me. Spill the tea."

"Let's just say things have a way of working themselves out for the best. You got your man, and I got my girl."

I laugh and throw in another hug because I couldn't agree more.

"Whoa, what's going on in here?" a male voice calls from the doorway. I step away from Sam and roll my eyes at Ollie, Ozzy, and ten other players walking into the kitchen. We have several cooking stations for everyone to work in pairs and learn valuable life skills.

"What does it look like?" I retort.

"It looks like home-ec class," Carter Callahan says, eyeing the utensils and ingredients like they might explode. He's an eighteen-year-old rookie who currently lives with April and Jake Owens. Jake is nearing retirement and it's pretty status quo for young guys to bunk with veteran players when they're still getting their feet wet in the league.

"That's not a bad analogy," Sam answers, sharpening a knife. "But think of it this way, young Padawan. If you want to impress your lady friends, there's nothing sexier than a man who's good with his hands in a kitchen."

"I second that," Holly calls as she and Avery click-clack their way into the kitchen, phones in hand, ready to create their next viral social media post. "Luke's a superstar cook, and he wowed me with my favourite meal on our first date."

"Yeah, well, everything he knows he learned from me, so you can thank me for that.” I politely butt in.

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