The game itself was a disaster from the start. Our left wing took an elbow to the mouth, knocking him out of the game—and knocking two teeth from his mouth. By the time I was done helping him up the tunnel, we were losing 3-0.
We gave up another goal in the second period, which led to Coach Jay pulling Elias from the goal and putting in the backupgoalie. But he fared no better, allowing two more goals in the third period en route to a 6-0 loss.
Coach had everyone running drills after the game—the offenseandthe defense. Elias was the only one not out on the ice, for whatever reason. I sat on the bench and watched the players skate back and forth. Nobody looked happy, which meant my own mood was sour.
“You can go home, June,” Jay said after a little while. “Nothing for you to do here, and I’m not letting them leave any time soon.”
“Sorry about the loss,” I said as I headed back up the tunnel to the locker room.
So much for hooking up with Rhett tonight.
I was in my own head, thinking about the game and Rhett, that I didn’t notice the person sitting in my office. I almost jumped when I realized I wasn’t alone.
It was Elias. For a few seconds we just stared at each other, like two animals that had stumbled into each other in a forest.
Then, without a word, he raised the side of his shirt. A pale blue bruise covered his ribs.
“I do not wish to be benched,” he said in a deep, but quiet, voice. “Will you help me?”
15
Elias
I was not a man who asked for help.
Needing help was a weakness. Men did not show weakness to anyone. Not to their family, or their teammates, or their opponents. They suffered in silence, projecting their strength.
I had always been better at silence. Words never came easily, and when they did, they rarely landed the way I intended. Back home in Örebro, my father used to say that goalies were born with quiet hearts. Because noise was what killed you in the crease. I’d taken that to heart early. I learned to live inside the stillness, to coat myself with it like armor. To breathe slow while the world around me was chaos. To trust that the calmness would save me, even when it felt like it was hollowing me out.
This season, that calm had become something heavier. The pain in my side began as a whisper, just another dull ache in the mess of bruises that came with this job. But now it screamed every time I dropped down into the butterfly position, and woke me whenever I rolled over at night.
I told myself it was fine. That pain was merely proof I still cared. If I ignored it long enough, maybe it would forget about me. And maybe everyone else would, too.
I’d learned to hide everything from the world. I wrapped things in stoicism, sealing them behind a glare or a growl. It was how I had kept anyone from learning about what had happened in Örebro ten years ago—everyone but Coach Jay. That was the good part about being the quiet one: people stopped expecting answers and filled in the blanks for you.
June was different.
While watching from the training room window, she noticed things that others missed. I saw her see the hesitation in my stride, the split-second delay when I twisted to my left. She confronted me about it once already in the parking lot but had not called me out in front of the team or Coach Jay yet. Though I could feel her waiting. Watching with what seemed like genuine concern, the most dangerous kind of all.
I told myself I wouldn’t let her in. I never let Andy in, not even after three years on the team. I didn’t need another person knowing what was broken inside me, the weakness that I tried so desperately to hide. Eventually, my injury would heal.
Except it didn’t. It only got worse. I played the first two periods tonight with my side on fire before getting pulled from the game. It was a wake-up call.
I didn’t have the strength to pretend anymore.
And so, when June returned to her office and found me waiting for her, I said the words that I swore I would never say.
“Will you help me?”
The shame of asking for help washed over me like a film of filth, and I thought I would be sick. But June did not throw it in my face.
She calmly put on a pair of latex gloves and examined me.
I tensed as she touched my ribs. “Relax,” she purred, her breath whispering across my bare skin.
Somehow, her presence helped me, and I did relax.
“How long?” she asked while running her fingertip across my muscles.
