The next morning, my father drops me off at my therapists office before going two stores down to the gym, where he will train for the next hour as I am forced to relieve every anger-inducing moment of my week to Dr. Shaw, who is too damn smart for her own good. She's a nice woman, and her office is very soothing for someone who has no trouble finding something to piss her off in every place she goes, but I can't help but associate each Saturday morning with heavy, emotional talks that may or may not make everything worse. I've never been one for introspection, but I've grown to rely on picking apart my own thoughts and feelings just to make her stop nagging me.

"What was the hardest part of the week for you?" Dr. Shaw asks curiously. She usually starts out either with this question (which is basically asking what pissed me off the most and if I got physical or mouthy as a result) or one about if I did my homework for the week. I didn't have anything to try and do, or not do, other than to not start any fights, which is a constant, so she is going with the first option.

I release a low, elongated sigh as I relax back into the couch. Yesterday's incident at practice comes to mind first, probably because my hand still hurts and because it was most recent, but I don't really want to start off with such a major step back. I haven't hit anything besides a pillow for weeks before yesterday, and even more than twelve hours later I am still full of shame over it.

Dr. Shaw always gives me the time and space I need to answer knowing full well that I will eventually come out with it. She also is good at not jumping to conclusions or damaging reactions right away, so I don't necessarily mind sharing with her even if its initially difficult. "I swore for seven minutes straight on Wednesday over my chem grade."

The only change to her expression is a raised eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"

"Um, loudly?" What other way to swear is there?

A tiny smile pulls at her mouth. "I mean, were you by yourself or with someone else? Were you swearing at the assignment itself, or the teacher, or yourself?"

"Sheila was there." My dad's girlfriend was in the process of making risotto for dinner, so she didn't really have the option of walking away when I plopped down on the counter and started ranting. Not that she would have left, even if she could've. Even after all the hundreds of rants she's heard, she's still willing to listen to me, which is something I will always be grateful for. Plus, she made shrimp risotto. "And I was mad at my teacher. She gave us a three question mini quiz, and I missed one, which fucked me over and dropped me to a C. If I don't get it up by interims, my dad will skin me alive."

"Did you know there was going to be a quiz?"

How did I know she was going to ask that?

Lifting my chin, I say in as calm a voice as I can, "Yes."

"Did you study?"

"A little." Meaning that morning I panicked, asked a classmate who already took it what I had to study, and crammed during lunch. "Not that it would've made a difference because I suck at chemistry."

Dr. Shaw presses her lips together until they are no more than a thin line. "So why are you angry at your teacher? For giving the quiz, which is an integral part of every course and will be in college as well, or because it was only three questions and therefore harder to do well on?"

I sink deeper into the couch. "I don't know."

"Okay, then think about it." But what she's really thinking is yes you do, dumbass. Or maybe that's just what I'm thinking.

Of all people, I hate lying to Dr. Shaw the most. I don't lie to my friends because I have no reason to, and I only ever lie to my dad or Sheila to keep out of trouble. Coming to therapy, which I switched to because the anger management classes were shit and did nothing to help me, has made me realize I lie to myself more than anyone, which is my own problem to fix, but Dr. Shaw has no reason not to believe me. If I lie to her, she will just go along with it, and that doesn't help either one of us.

Despite my various complaints, I know that therapy has helped me a lot. Dr. Shaw specializes in people like me, who have trouble dealing with their emotions, which in my case is anger, and together we have made more progress than the different anger management groups I went to ever did. I owe her a lot, and I want to keep moving forward until my friends, my coaches, and my family can trust me to not get into a fight every time someone I dislike looks at me the wrong way. I hate disappointing them, and I hate disappointing myself even more.

I sigh again. "I guess... I'm not really angry with her. I'm more angry at the situation."

She nods. "Okay. What do you feel towards yourself about it all?"

Most of the time, my anger has another source, another emotion, that helps to influence my actions. Digging for whatever the trigger is, and figuring out why I am so bothered by it, as well as healthier, more mature reactions is where I've had the most success in curbing my temper. "Disappointment, I think. Even if I studied for hours, I don't think it would have gone any different. And..." She waits patiently for me to find the words to continue. "I think... that by not studying as much as I should have, it was my way of controlling the situation. At least then, I wouldn't do well because I chose not to study, not just because I'm bad at chem."

In some part of my mind, I think I already knew this. But by forcing myself to say it out loud to Dr. Shaw, I'm forcing myself to acknowledge the thought, and therefore I can't hide from it.

Her hazel eyes are at once both soft, understanding, calm, and piercing, searching, even soul-baring. She can read me way too easily. "I can see where you'd choose control over a more uncertain outcome, but think about it in terms of a workout. If you didn't try your hardest during training, because you thought you'd lose the game anyway, how would you feel after the loss?"

Even the idea of a metaphorical loss makes my skin itch. "I'd be livid."

"Okay. What if you worked as hard as you could and still lost the game? How would you feel then?"

The thought still bothers me a lot, but this is something I've experienced in plenty of different formats. Hell, I lose against Hunter all the time, even when I work my ass off. "I'd still be upset, but it would be different. Less disappointing."

Dr Shaw waits for a few moments as I mull over the analogy on my own. Eventually, she says, "You should look at your education like you look at hockey. Even if you don't like admitting it, school, homework, and tests are important to you. Instead of using your control over whether or not you study as an excuse for why its okay to not do as well, look at each assignment as a goal you have to reach, with past successes or failures as motivation for the next one."

I squirm in my seat, still quiet as I think.

She's right. I know she is. But, in a way, I rely on not doing well in school and not caring about what happens beyond keeping good enough grades to be allowed to play hockey. If I laugh it off, make it the butt of a joke, it's easier to not get upset about it.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I say, "Okay. I'll... I'll try and be aware of that. From now on."

Dr. Shaw smiles at me, visually pleased with what I said. "That's all I ask for. Now, why don't you tell me what happened to your hand?"

Automatically, I grimace and cover the bruised hand she's referring to with my other hand. Shit. "Okay."

* * *

I make the walk over to the gym every Saturday after my therapy appointment ends. Dad is usually still in the middle of his workout, so I'll do my own to either pass the time or cool off after a particularly heated conversation with Dr. Shaw. Today wasn't too bad; I actually held my temper in check for the entire hour, which is pretty great considering I very easily could've shot off with some of the things she said. In fact, leaving was rather frustrating, because she dug up a lot of thoughts and feelings, and now I have to sort them out myself.

I guess that's what treadmills are for.

Just apologize and try to start over.

Doesn't she know I don't forget anything, ever? I can't start over, not really. And apologize? What is that going to do but make me take the high road when this is all his fault?

No it's not. The words are in Dr. Shaw'd voice, and even though she didn't say them directly, she definitely implied it.

"When is the first time you found yourself getting angry with Tristan?" She asked calmly after I finished listing all the reasons I needed to punch the wall instead of ignoring him for what he said.

I scoffed out loud at that question, which was a tad bit rude, but Dr. Shaw is used to my attitude. "When I first met him. Obviously."

She just cocked her head to the side and said, "Really? Because you seemed pretty bothered by him in my office the day after you heard about a new boy trying out. Before you met him."

And she was right. I was heated that day, mostly because my dad and I got into an argument in the car on the way to the appointment, but also because I was still frustrated that the guys were so taken by Tristan and they hadn't even met him yet. They didn't even know his name, and yet they were all too happy to chat about how good he had to be seeing as he was Canadian. It drove me nuts, which made me sound crazy and jealous and like an attention whore, so I didn't say any of that to her.

Instead, I grumbled, "I was annoyed with my friends for being obsessed with him. That's it."

"Right." Her eyes drilled holes into my forehead even as I avoided her gaze. "Can I say what I think?" I know that if I truly didn't want to hear it, she wouldn't go against my wishes and tell me anyway, and yet I still nodded. "I think you felt threatened before you even met Tristan, so when you met him, you took the first reason to be frustrated and ran with it, thereby creating a mountain out of a molehill. And if he weren't so similar to you, he wouldn't have let you get to him so much, and then most of your fights would not have happened."

I sat in silence, mulling over her words, before very confidently telling her she was wrong, even if she was kinda right. In hindsight, that is kind of a lie, even though I hate lying to her, but in the end it didn't matter because she saw right through me.

"This will only get worse from here on out, Ali. You should talk to him and clear the air. Apologize for yesterday and ask to start over. You'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you can sort this out before you actually start to hate each other."

Too late, I thought at the time, but I didn't bother telling her that, because she was right. Most of our issues have come from me overreacting in some way, and while Tristan has had no problem with pushing my buttons on purpose, I also didn't have to go along with it every single time.

Plus, Dr. Shaw made a great point. According to her (and perhaps some part of me deep in my conscience), I had feelings of jealousy and inadequacy the moment Will brought up a potential new teammate coming from Canada, a hockey hot spot, and so because of the ridiculous bias, I was quick to put Tristan on my shitlist and didn't give him much of a chance to make a good impression. Which may have been true.

But I didn't like hearing any of it. No one likes to admit they're wrong, especially when doing so will only be rewarded with a laugh right in the face. Plus, even if I did start out already not liking him, that doesn't change the fact that his behavior towards me ever since we met has still been horrible and rude and absolutely deserving of my responses. Mostly.

You promised her you would try.

And I did. She assigned me the apology for my take home work, and even though the thought alone of apologizing to him for yesterday makes me want to run for the hills, I'll still do it. No matter the outcome.

Besides, if he dares laugh in my face I'll just punch him for real and can buy my own damn milkshake if I please.

The gym is moderately full. After evenings, mornings are the busiest time of day. Even so, I quickly pick my father out from his bench in the far corner near the free weights. He has replaced his usual beats headphones- the ones he gets through his sponsorship- with the airpods he uses to workout that way there are no wires or large plastic pieces getting in his way. Based on the amount of sweat soaking his shirt, rather the lack of it, he hasn't done his cardio for the day and will be over any minute to finish.

Scanning my own gym card, I slip past two elderly women dismounting the bike machines and step onto an open treadmill. There are two others to my right that are open, and as long as no one else takes it before he comes over, I'm sure my father will take the one right next to me.

Just six minutes into my light paced jog, I see my dad appear in the corner of my eye as he turns on the machine directly to my right. He's pulled out the airpod in his left ear, leaving it open to hear my response as he asks, "How was it?"

I shrug, trying to keep my breathing even and controlled. No matter how many times we run together, I still can't help but want to impress him, and I still can't stop the competitive streak that he passed on to me from lighting up and setting me off. Holding back from reaching forward to turn my speed up just to show off is an inner battle that the logical side of my brain wins, thankfully. "It was alright."

Rarely do I share much about my anger management and therapy sessions, so my answer isn't exactly out of character. As a result, my dad just nods. "Give me twenty minutes then we can go."

He reaches forward to turn the speed up on his machine, up to a very fast paced mile, one that's difficult but in no way impossible to meet, and even though I am meeting the guys to practice this afternoon and have a whole week of hellish workouts ahead of me, I can't help myself.

I turn my own speed up until I match his, and then I add one more to tip myself over the edge.

* * *

After the gym, Dad and I stop for breakfast in a cute little restaurant. We order our usual meals- french toast, sausage, and a smoothie for me, with a full spread of eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, and fruit for him- and take the time to check in with each other. There are Saturdays when he's traveling or otherwise busy with hockey, but anytime he's free and in town, he takes me to therapy while he works out, and then we eat breakfast together while talking about our weeks.

My father and I have always been incredibly close. For the longest time, he raised me alone; even at the beginning of his relationship with Sheila, she was more of a babysitter in my eyes. He was the only constant person in my life, other than Will and Ty, for a long time.

He is, and always has been, my hero. I treasure our time together more than anything else in the world.

"Is chemistry going okay?" Dad asks just as I place enough bite of french toast into my mouth. My natural reaction is to grimace, and I focus on my chewing, stretching out the act as long as I can to avoid answering. Chemistry is never okay. "Sheila told me about the pop quiz."

I wince. "I was going to tell you, but I was just hoping I could have some good news to share along with it." He raises an eyebrow, and I sigh. "I'm going to ask if I can retake it. Or do some extra credit or something, I don't know."

Dad sets down his fork and leans back in his seat. "Okay."

"Okay? Is that it?" I ask. I roll my hands, cracking the joints in my wrists, both of which have been sprained countless times. "Are you mad? I think I'm below a B." There's no think. I'm definitely in the mid-C range.

Smiling reassuringly, Dad says, "No, I'm not mad. I know you're trying, Ali. Believe it or not, chemistry wasn't my thing either. I don't think it's anyone's thing."

"Except Will," I input with an exasperated sigh. "Lucky bastard is good at everything."

He laughs. "Yes well, that kid is gifted. Most people aren't great at every subject though. And that's okay. What matters to me is that you don't blow off school for hockey and your social life. The fact that you care about academics is enough for me." He pauses. "As long as you don't get a D."

My lips pull up into a smile. "I won't. Promise. Thanks for understanding, Dad."

Taking my hand, my father says, "That's my job, Ali. I know it doesn't always happen, but I do try to understand, especially when you come to me first."

Smiling, I quickly shove some more of the french toast in my mouth and mumble, "Thanks. How long are you in town for?" I know if I don't change the subject quickly, he'll morph the conversation into one about openness and honesty and mistakes being natural but meant to be shared. I know he's worried I wouldn't come to him if I fucked up, but repeating this lecture won't do anything but annoy me to death.

"We have our first training camp later this week on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. I think Sheila said she could drive you to therapy, but if not maybe Hunter could."

I nod. Without even asking him, I know Hunter would. He doesn't do anything, anyway.

"Good." Dad finishes his last egg and wipes up the runny yolk with his toast. "But yeah, so I'll leave Wednesday night and get back sometime on Sunday."

"Cool." Stirring my smoothie with the straw, I ask, "How are you feeling about it?"

"I'm excited. Haven't seen the guys in a while, and it will be nice to practice with them again."

"To practice at all, you mean." I can't help but throw the dig at him with a bright smile. "Seeing as you're too scared to play against me and my friends."

Dad laughs, leaning forward with the same teasing energy. "I wanted to spare your feelings, but if that's how you feel..."

I laugh. "No no, it's fine. Wouldn't want you to injure yourself before your big camp."

He shakes his head, glaring at me with fake anger. "Some day I'll take you up on that offer, and you'll regret ever extending an invite."

"I don't know, I'm pretty stubborn. There's not much I regret." Smiling cheekily at him, I say, "Sounds like someone eles I know."

"Okay okay." Dad lifts his hands in the air. "You're right. We're both stubborn, and this could go on forever, so let's get the check and head out. Are you still meeting the guys at the park?" I nod. "Great. I'll drop you off on my way home."

* * *

Hunter is the only one there when my dad drops me off. He's skating on the ice, going in rounds along the wall while controlling a puck. I've seen this so many times over the years that I've known him. I've watched him put in the work as an individual, improving himself with a dedication bordering on madness. Half of my craziness in relation to hockey comes from my father, but the other half comes from growing up with Hunter as a friend. His self-motivation drives me just as much as my own.

I've watched him grow from the scrawny runt of hockey practices into a man, an athlete that is prepared for the next level in every way.

And I'll watch him next year, and the three after that, make his mark on his collegiate team, watch him transform it just like he changed our program for all future players.

I have to put the thoughts out of my head; I can't stand the thought of losing Hunter. We'll still be friends no matter the distance, but three hours with hockey schedules and school taking up each day will make visits few and far between. If I focus on the thought at all, my mood will be ruined for the entire practice.

Instead, I hop the fence just as Hunter makes the turn and comes straight at me. He swerves at the last minute, swearing loudly as he almost clips me with his elbow, and I laugh. "Oops, my bad. At least you get some extra dodging work."

"I could've sliced your damn toes off, you stupid bitch." Hunter skates to my side, wrapping his arm around my shoulders in a tight half-hug. I return it, briefly resting my head against him.

"Have some faith in yourself. I knew you'd dodge in time." Smirking up at him, I say, "Besides, if you cut my toes off, I'd cut off your foot. Retribution, you know."

Hunter laughs. "Of course you would. Hurry up and get your skates on, lazy ass. We can get a few rounds in before the others get here."

My lips tug up at the edges. "You know, if Caleb were here, he'd-"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, I know. He'd make a sex joke over my warning."

Laughing, I pull away from his arm, even though I could stand there forever with the comforting weight on my shoulders. "Alright, fine then, old man. Get ready to lose."

Will and Tyler walk into the rink seven minutes later, and Caleb arrives soon after them. By that point, I've scored three times, as has Hunter.

"We have to do a tie breaker!" I'm buzzing on adrenaline and a competitive energy, and I skate circles around Hunter as he shakes his head at me.

"If that's what you want. Don't start whining when you lose though."

"Oh fuck off, I'm not going to lose." And I'm not. I can feel a buzzing in my muscles, steel in my bones, certainty in my heart. I feel like I could fly through the ice rink on this high, and I know in every fiber of my being that I'm going to win.

Hunter grabs my arm, and I steady myself before my feet fly out from under me. Meeting my gaze, he says, "I wouldn't be too sure of that." There's only a few inches separating us, more so due to the height different than anything else, and I have to crane my neck to look into his eyes. He's just as determined as I am, but I don't care.

Because that half of my crazy that came from my dad is more potent than the crazy I got from Hunter. And if there's one thing I learned from my dad, it's that you do whatever it takes to win.

I lift my chin. "We'll see." Pulling away from his grip, I turn to stake back into the center circle. Will catches my gaze, locking eyes with me. There's something in his expression, a message meant for me, but I don't care enough to decipher it at the moment.

I've got a point to win.

* * * 

I wasn't purposely avoiding Tristan during school on Monday, but I certainly wasn't seeking him out. I know I'll see him at some point today- we have two classes together after lunch and then there's day one of Hell Week to look forward to- so there's no point in stressing about whether or not I'll be able to do the apology that Dr. Shaw talked me into, but I'd be lying if I said I weren't a little nervous about what will happen when I actually do see him.

What if he doesn't give me the chance to say anything? What if he picks a fight before I can apologize, therefore baiting me into an argument I already know I won't be able to back away from, especially when I'm already so on edge? What if I screw it all up even more than before and end up in a worse position with him than I already am in?

Slipping through the somewhat busy halls and trying to make it to the cafeteria in a reasonable timeframe, I nearly walk right past him.

But there he is, closing his locker door and locking it tight in one smooth motion. There's no reason for him to look my way, not when the way to lunch is opposite me, yet he still turns his head and meets my gaze at the exact second I notice him. I can't read his mind, but I bet it looks like I was heading purposefully for him.

Fuck.

My heart rate speeds ups, the nervous knots my stomach has been in throughout the first half of the day tighten uncomfortably in my abdomen, and I really wish I could give him the cold shoulder and stalk right past him, but I can't. I told Dr. Shaw I would do this, and I told Will just so I have another person who will hold me accountable for this. I truly cannot lie to my best friend, and he'll see right through me if I try just to send me Tristan's way and force the words out of me.

So I lift my chin and alter my course by a handful of degrees until I really am heading right for him.

Don't be a pussy, Ali. Just fucking do it so you can go sit with your friends, eat your lunch, and possibly steal Caleb's cookie if he's feeling generous.

Caleb would have a fucking hernia if he knew how much anxiety one little dumb apology was giving me. He'd never let me live it down.

The combined knowledge of Will being in the know about my therapy homework, of my friends waiting not so patiently for me at our usual table, and of Caleb's fucking smirk if he ever found out I considered avoiding Tristan over a stupid altercation that wasn't even all that bad makes it somewhat easier to ignore the mixture of emotions on my target's face. Those same emotions of hesitancy, frustration, wariness, and a hefty amount of animosity are clear as day and should inspire confidence in me- he wants this just as much as I do, so not at all- but they don't.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I stop at the locker beside his. I'm close enough for this conversation to be spoken in a low volume that can't be overheard but far enough to not have to be any closer to him than I have to be. His fingertips were pressed against the teal metal of the locker before dropping to his side, and he straightens, using every inch of his height to stand over me. He's not that much taller than me, but its enough.

Lifting my gaze to meet his, I wait for an extra few seconds to gather my courage, then say, "Hey." I use the absolute least conflicting tone I can manage and don't put any hidden emotions behind it. In fact, I'm pretty proud of myself for it.

Tristan doesn't seem to agree. His eyes narrow as his lips tighten into a grimace. "You're joking, right? You try to hit me last week, and now you're coming to say hey?"

Actually, I came to apologize dickhead.

The words are on the very tip of my tongue, which I physically bite to keep myself from saying out loud. "I came to say more than that, but I was just... trying to be polite." Wow, I didn't start foaming at the mouth when I said those horrid words. Shocker.

He scoffs and suddenly I want to punch him again. The urge had been buried for a short while, covered by the hope this conversation will go smoothly, but its quickly resurfaced at his dickhead tendencies. "Oh, now you're trying to be nice to me? You're about three months too late."

Don't hit him don't hit him don't hit him don't-

I take the deepest breath I can, inhaling through my nose and holding it until the red at the edges of my vision fades. Slowly, I exhale, rolling my head to crack my neck. Don't hit him, Ali. "Look." No matter how hard I try, I can't keep all the frustration out of my voice, and honestly I don't really care anymore. As long as I don't try to punch him again, and as long as the words I'm sorry come out of my mouth, I don't care what happens from now on. "All I wanted to do was say sorry for almost punching you on Friday." I also really want to say how I wasn't even aiming for his face- even though I wish I had been- and that he wasn't at risk of being hit- even though he was, because I have hit people for less-, but I don't. For some reason, I don't think he'll like that very much.

When I don't say anything else, instead leaving the apology to hang between us on our own, the anger stretched across his face relaxes into a gentle, curious surprise. "I... Really?"

Oh my god.

I breathe in and out again. "Yes, really. I lost control of myself when I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

There. I even said it twice.

Tristan doesn't move for a very long ten seconds, and the silence very nearly breaks me as my temper builds and builds behind the damn I've built to hold it back. I've done the hard part here, all his dumbass has to fucking do is-

"Okay. I accept your apology."

I swear, every muscle in my body must relax at those words. This time when I exhale, its a prolonged, relieved one that allows me to start breathing normally again. "Great. Bye." I slip past him, ignoring the bewildered look on his face. I came to him to say sorry, not to make friendship bracelets and braid each others fucking hair.

When I get to our lunch table, all of the guys ask me what took me so long except for Will. I think he can tell, based on my frazzled yet relieved appearance that definitely matches the turmoil inside my head, where I was and what I was doing. And when he pats my hand and changes the topic of conversation, I've never felt so damn glad in all my life. 

Authors Note:

hey everyone!!!! the semester is finally over which means I have almost two months off of school!!! its a bitter sweet family bc as much as I need time off from school and to see my family, im going to miss my friends SO MUCH

but im going to put this time to good use! here's the next chap of ali's story. im going to try and keep working on this story and others over the next few weeks.

love you all!! for my fellow americans, happy thanksgiving (:

soph