"Bullshit." He shifts his weight. "I've seen you play tired. This is different."
I look up, meeting his eyes. Phil's face shows concern, not accusation. Teammate checking on teammate. Friend checking on friend.
"Whatever's in your head," he continues, "it's showing up on the ice."
Heat crawls up my neck. I try for humor, deflection. "Didn't know you were tracking my stats."
"Your stats are fine." Phil doesn't smile. "You aren't."
The words hit harder than they should. I set down my stick, lean back against the wall. The concrete's cold through my compression shirt.
"It's nothing. Personal stuff." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "I'll handle it."
Phil nods slowly. Doesn't push for details, doesn't demand explanations. Just accepts the boundary I'm setting. "Okay. You don't gotta tell me what it is."
Relief floods through me. He's going to let it go.
Then he moves closer, sits on the equipment trunk across from me. His knees almost touch mine in the narrow space.
"But I need you to hear something."
I wait.
"Whatever you're dealing with?" Phil's voice drops lower, more serious. "You don't have to do it alone."
"Phil—"
"I'm not asking for details." He cuts me off, not unkind. "I'm telling you how this works. We notice when one of us is struggling. Could be hockey shit, could be life shit—doesn'tmatter. You carried us through that Calgary series, remember? Four games, you were playing injured and never said a word."
I remember. Separated shoulder, couldn't lift my arm above my head for two weeks after.
"Now it's our turn." Phil's eyes hold mine. "We got your back. When you're ready to talk, we're ready to listen. Until then, we're here."
Something cracks in my chest. The weight I've been carrying alone—the secrecy, the constant vigilance, the fear of what happens if anyone finds out about Sloane—it all presses down harder knowing I can't tell him. Can't tell any of them.
But knowing they'd be there if I could? That matters.
"Thanks, man." The words come out rough.
Phil stands, claps my shoulder once. The contact is brief, solid. "Mean it. Whatever it is, whenever you need it."
I nod. Can't speak past the tightness in my throat.
He reads it, doesn't make me. Heads toward the door, then turns back.
"And Tank? Take care of yourself." His expression softens slightly. "We need you right."
Not just for hockey. He meansme.
Then he's gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway.
The ice pack on my knee has gone warm, but I can’t stop replaying yesterday’s conversation with Sloane.
Her shoulders were too rigid, even when she laughed. Her smile too bright when she said she was “fine, just busy.”
She’s not fine.
She’s carrying too much, and it shows—in the dark circles under her eyes, in the way she checks her phone every thirty seconds like she’s bracing for impact.
