Page 151 of These Wicked Hearts

She looks up immediately, her expression warming. “Oh, Atlas. It’s good to see you.”

“Hey.” I shift awkwardly in the door frame. “Uh, do you have a minute?”

“Of course.” She gestures me inside. “Close the door.”

I step in, shutting it quietly behind me. Her office smells faintly of peppermint candy and old books. Calm, in a way that makes me wonder if it’s intentional. I sit in one of the chairs across from her desk.

Dr. Alexandra Morales is our team psychologist. She evaluated me after my concussion and prescribed me the medication for my panic attacks, depression, and anxiety.

“How is the medication working?” she asks gently in that soothing voice of hers. “Any more anxiety attacks?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s actually been really good.” I hesitate. “I think I was scared it would change me somehow. Like I wouldn’t feel like myself anymore.”

A small smile touches her mouth. “And how do you feel?”

“Like myself.” I exhale. “Just steadier, I guess. My head’s clearer.”

“That’s good to hear. You actually played well tonight.”

“Ouch.” I laugh, making her chuckle softly.

Silence settles between us. Not uncomfortable, but just enough to give me space to think. For the last week I’ve been thinking about this. About Gage and me. About the way I seem to throw myself into people and substances.

I loved being with him. I still do. But somewhere along the line I think I started to cling to him the way I used to cling to alcohol. Like if I could just stay wrapped up in him long enough, I wouldn’t have to feel anything else. It’s like I used his body to shield me from my thoughts.

And that isn’t fair to him. Love shouldn’t feel like dependency. I want him, badly, but I shouldn’t need him. Gage isn’t a crutch or a drug. He’s a person. Someone with a lot of shit going on. He’s not responsible for my recovery.

I swallow hard. “I think . . .” I stare down at my hands. “My sister’s birthday was yesterday.”

Her expression softens immediately. “How old would she have been?”

Surprised, I lift my head to look at her. “Twenty.”

That still feels impossible. Sometimes I try and imagine who she would’ve become. Would she have gone to college, fallen in love? Would my mom have finally gotten sober on her own? Would I even be playing hockey right now?

I rub a hand over my face. “She died when I was nine,” I say softly. “We were outside playing and I was watching her.” The guilt slices just as sharp all these years later. “She was on her bike and was hit by a car. I keep thinking eventually it won’t hurt this much,” I admit. “But it’s been fifteen years, and somehow I still feel it as fresh as when it happened. It gets so fucking—sorry, excuse me—my mind is so loud sometimes.”

Dr. Morales nods. “That’s an incredibly traumatic thing for a child to experience. Grief like that doesn’t disappear because time passes.”

“Yeah, but most people don’t immediately want to drink every time they think about someone they lost.”

“That’s not necessarily true. Grief and addiction are deeply connected,” she says gently. “Especially when substances become a way to numb emotions.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “I keep telling myself I don’t really have a problem, because I still function.” I swallow and find my voice. “I show up to practice. I take care of people. I can stop whenever I want.”

“Until you can’t?” she says carefully.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I don’t want to spend my entire life needing something just to survive being me.” Before she can say anything, I say, “I met someone recently.” I look up at her.

“That’s good.”

“It doesn’t feel good,” I admit. “I think maybe I shifted my addiction from alcohol to them.” For a moment I stare at the bookshelf behind her desk. Sports, psychology texts. Trauma and recovery. Addiction studies. “I think I’m in worse shape than I thought. I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.” Watching Gage be so brave the other night made me want to be brave myself.

Dr. Morales sits for a moment. “And what would help you?”

It catches me off guard. What would help me? I stare down at my hands again.

“I think if you have time, I’d like to talk about it. I want to come here and maybe see you. Like once or twice a week. I want to get better.”