Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“I can sort of see that,” I muse, thinking of how he’s giving Locke a shot even though most team execs probably would have discarded him by now. Perhaps it speaks to his belief in the goodness of people.
I also find myself with a smile on my face stemming from the easy conversation with a new friend. It occurs to me that I haven’t had enough of those. I’ve been so driven in my career that the friendships I’ve made have been good but long-distance, maintained in texts and occasional visits. Molly is the exception and I would be a significantly worse person without her.
“We should do a girls’ night,” I say. “My best friend Molly lives in Portland.”
“That’s convenient,” she says, eyebrows lifting.
“It’s my hometown.”
“No way,” she says. “I love it here but I’m severely lacking in girlfriends.”
“You’ll love her. She’s an ER nurse.”
“Let’s do it.” Her eyes light up. “And I’ll invite Crosby’s sister, Birdie. She’s staying with him in between jobs. She’s a saturation diver and an absolute force of nature.”
“A saturation diver?” I ask.
But before Juno can answer, the booth dips on my side and I look over.
Arch Hewitt drops into the seat beside me without asking and without any indication that it occurred to him he should do so. He reaches across the table and takes the last strawberry off my parfait.
Juno raises an eyebrow at him.
“What?” he says. “She wasn’t eating it.”
“It’s fine,” I say, because it is.
He grins and it amps up his hot factor. He has the kind of face that has probably gotten him out of situations his entire life because people end up charmed against their better judgment.
He settles back in the booth. “Okay, so I’ve been thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Juno says.
“I know, I know.” He waves a hand. “But hear me out.” He turns to face me more directly on the banquette seat. “What exactly can you do for someone like me?”
I study him because we’ve already had a session and he seemed bolstered by my advice. “What do you mean?”
Juno starts a quick slide out of the booth, reading the shift in conversation with the instinct of someone who has spent years knowing when she’s in a room and when she shouldn’t be. “And with that, I’ll let you two talk.”
“You don’t have to go,” Arch starts.
“I know.” She picks up her coffee. “But I’m going all the same.” Her gaze comes to me. “Text me for girls’ night.”
“You got it.”
She points at me on her way out like it’s already settled.
I turn back to Arch. “Okay… what do you mean ‘someone like you’?”
“Like—” He spreads his hands. “No major childhood trauma. Good parents. Not complicated. I didn’t have some big thing happen that screwed me up.” He says it with a self-awareness that’s more sophisticated than the delivery suggests. “But I’m third line. Every training camp I come in not knowing if today is the day they decide they don’t need me anymore. I’ve been in this league for eight years and I still haven’t bought a place to live because it feels like the thing that jinxes it.”
Arch doesn’t know exactly how many athletes just like him also need help.
He keeps going. “So what I’m asking is if there’s anything you can do for a guy who’s basically fine, or is this all just for those with the big, complicated situations?”
For a half second, I think of Locke. The way the word traitor hurt my ears to hear it in the Calgary arena. The very large and very complicated situation sitting on the other end of the spectrum from the man in front of me.
“There’s a lot I can do for you,” I say. “And I want to push back at you.”
“Okay.”
“You said you’re basically fine. But what you just described—the performance anxiety, the superstition about buying a home, the feeling with every training camp like your roster spot isn’t real yet—that’s not nothing, Arch. That’s a very specific kind of chronic low-level stress that accumulates over time and it absolutely affects consistency on the ice.”
Arch strokes his chin, nodding. “Yeah… okay… that makes sense. Go on.”
“You don’t need childhood trauma to benefit from mental performance work.”
He tilts his head. “What would we actually do?”
“We’d start with a mental performance assessment. Map out where your focus holds and where it breaks. Identify the specific triggers for the anxiety—what’s happening right before a performance dip. Build some tools, and at some point, we’re probably going to talk about your living situation.”
He laughs, straight white teeth flashing. “Yeah, okay. I’m digging it.”
We spend the next twenty minutes in real conversation—not the surface version he leads with, the easy charm and the jokes. Underneath it he’s sharper than he lets on. More aware of his own patterns than he pretends. He asks good questions and he listens to the answers and I find myself genuinely interested in working with him and that has nothing to do with professional obligation.