Then it happens.
Three minutes left. We’re cycling in their zone, trying to kill time. I’ve got the puck behind the net, and I make the mistake of hesitating. My usual quiet and focus on the ice, rattled loose under the pressure. A half a second too long. Their defenseman reads it and charges. I hear the roar of skates right before the impact.
He catches me mid-turn. My chest takes the brunt. The air leaves my lungs in a violent whoosh, and I go sprawling, my ribs screaming as I hit the ice.
Pain blooms sharp. Then dull. Then sharp again. The ceiling of the arena spins.
I hear whistles. Shouts. My name from somewhere behind the glass.
And just like that, the walls close in.
The noise turns sharp and hollow, ricocheting through my skull. My hands curl into fists on instinct, trying to find purchase, but between my gloves and the ice, I’m scrabbling at nothing. And I can’t drag in any air. My chest is locked. My gearfeels like it’s suffocating me. My heart is pounding so loud I can’t hear anything else.
The panic isn’t creeping this time. It’s slamming into me.
I push off the ice, stumble upright, and shove my way off. Bench. Tunnel. I don’t know where I’m going except away. Away from the noise and the stares and the vice grip squeezing my ribs.
The locker room is cold and sterile, but it still somehow feels crowded. I yank my gloves off, then my helmet, then the jersey that feels like it’s choking me. My breath comes in gasps. I can’t find a steady rhythm.
I can’t find myself.
My knees buckle and I crash to the floor, forehead to metal, trying to convince my body to slow down, slow down, please slow down.
A shadow falls over me. Cole.
He crouches next to me, not crowding, just there.
“You’re okay, Beau.”
I shake my head, gasping. “I can’t… I can’t get air.”
“Yes, you can. In through your nose. Four counts. I’ll do it with you.”
He counts. I try. It doesn’t work. Then it almost works. Then it does.
My body starts to obey. Barely. Just enough.
“They’re not mad,” Cole says after a pause. “JJ told the ref to go to hell. Lucy threatened to rearrange someone’s femurs. Grant is probably composing a formal complaint to send to the NCAA.”
A laugh slips out of me. Choked and messy, but real.
“They’ve got your back, man.”
I nod, wiping the sweat and cold from my face.
Then I hear her voice. “Beau?”
She’s there. At the door. Still in the beanie. Still in the jersey, and my curiosity is back. Her eyes are wide but not scared. Just worried. Fiercely present. Something I’m not used to from anyone but my sister.
She crosses the space without hesitation, dropping beside me. One arm wraps around my back, firm and steady.
Cole slips away, soundless as a ghost, leaving us in a silence that’s somehow full.
She doesn’t speak right away. Just lets me lean into her, my forehead to her shoulder, my body wrung out and spent.
“You okay?” she says finally.
I nod. “I am now.”
