“Him? As in your dad?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. The skin taut over each swallow. “Yes.”
“Does he tell you that?” Cooper shakes his head no. “Does Coach tell you that?” He shakes his head again, but it’s more disjointed. “Who?”
“Does it matter who? If not them, someone will. There’s no room for error out here.” He swings a hand back, gesturing to the ice. “No room to not be perfect. We’re already halfway through the season and I’m nowhere near being on track to hitting his stats for junior year.” He keeps going, rambles increasing in speed, decreasing in volume.
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not, Dave. It’s not okay.” He starts stuttering over the same word. And then it happens.
He’s spiraling. And quickly.
One moment his body is upright, the next he’s slumped against the boards.
“Cooper,” I shout, terrified. Pushing through the door to the ice, I move in front of him and drop to my haunches, leveling myself to his eyesight. “Cooper,” I say again, calmer despite the panic raging through me. “Are you okay? Let me call one of your roommates or Coach.”
“N-n-no.” He’s sweating. A lot. He was already sweaty when he skated over to me, unbuckling his helmet and removing it. Brown hair flattened. This new layer is glistening across his brow, between waves stuck to his olive undertone skin. “I don’t want them to see me like this. I never wanted you to see me like this.”
Leaning into his space, I want to make sure he can hear me. If his panic attack, which this clearly is, is anything like the onesI’ve experienced, then his ears are ringing and sound is muffled as if he’s underwater.
“I always see you, Cooper Carmichael. Even when you don’t want me to. Even when I don’t want me to.”
His eyes pinch shut. Lines creasing at the corners.
“Sutton. Why am I like this? Why does this happen?”
Cooper starts to shake his right hand, trying to free it from his glove. I reach out but pause. “Can I help you?” I ask gently, seeking his permission.
“Please.” The break in his voice is cutting me wide open. If anyone was around, they’d see the hurt he’s caused, sure, but they’d also see how my ribcage grew around the pieces of him I’ve kept. All the years of friendship and growing up together we did. They’d see how parts of me are only holding on by strings he used to sew me together.
I undo his glove. Slip it off his hand and set it on the ice. Immediately he palms his chest, right over his heart.
“Slow down,” he tries to tell it.
“We should get you off the ice,” I advise. “You need to?—”
“I can’t move,” he cuts in. “Can you sit? Can you stay with me?”
Exhaling, I sit down next to him.
Great choice in outfits this morning.The floral skirt I’m wearing bunches around my waist, exposing my thick thighs that thankfully I decided to cover with tights. Unfortunately, they do nothing to stop the cold seeping in through them, chilling my skin.
It’s not warm enough yet for me to be shaving frequently. Short, light-auburn hairs stick through the black tights.
But none of that matters. I whisk the thoughts away and focus on Cooper.
How long has this been going on? Does he get them often? Do they happen whenever he’s on the ice by himself?
That question terrifies me. I open my mouth to ask, but from the corner of my eyes I see him taking staggered breaths, eyes still sealed shut.
I try not to imagine him out here alone or going through any of this alone. He said he didn’t want anyone to see or even know he’s the student I’m working with.
After quitting—I like to say I retired—I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed of how my body was failing me, how my mind was failing me and allowing negative thoughts to become my beliefs about myself. I hid away until my family—mainly Meave—encouraged me to go to therapy.
Meave had been volunteering with kids, mainly those with autism or down syndrome and using art as a form of therapy. She told me therapy can come in all shapes and sizes and there’s nothing to be ashamed of from seeking it out.
“You’re already in therapy to heal your knee. Why avoid healing here?” she asked, tapping my temple.
