Heath didn't look up. He gripped his stick, knuckles white, and breath coming too fast. His eyes stayed fixed on some point in the middle distance.
I let the silence sit for three seconds. Long enough to be present and short enough that he wouldn't drown in it.
"You're not dead," I said. "That's a win."
Heath turned his head slightly.
"That guy's been playing pro hockey for nine years," I continued. "He's hit people twice your size. He's hit people who saw him coming. You didn't see him coming, and you got up." I shrugged. "League introduction. Everyone gets one."
"I was watching the puck." Heath's voice cracked. "I know better than to watch the puck. Coach told me a hundred times—"
"Coach tells everyone a hundred times. Doesn't matter until you learn it the hard way." I stretched my legs out, crossed my ankles, and made myself look relaxed even though my heart was still thumping from watching him go down. "First time I got hit like that, I cried. On the ice. In front of everyone. Hog had to carry me to the bench."
Heath finally looked at me. "You didn't."
"I did. Ask anyone. It's legendary. They still bring it up at team dinners." I pointed at Desrosiers two spots down. "He has a video."
Desrosiers, without looking up from his water bottle, said, "I have a video."
Heath blinked. Something in his shoulders relaxed—not all the way, but enough.
"Here's the thing," I said. I turned toward him. "You didn't do anything wrong. You did something new. There's a difference."
"Felt pretty wrong."
"Yeah, getting folded usually does." I leaned in. "Next time—bend your knees. Lower your center of gravity. You were standing too tall, which meant he could get under you. Absorb the hit, don't brace against it. Your body wants to tighten up, but that's what breaks things. Stay loose. Let the energy go through you instead of into you."
Heath nodded. He listened.
"The league introduced itself," I said. "Now you know what it feels like. Which means next time, you'll be ready."
"What if I'm not?"
"Then you get up again." I knocked my knee against his. "That's the whole job, rookie. Getting up when you're down. Everything else is details."
The words hung there for a second. Sounding like something I should probably remember later.
A whistle blew. Coach called out line adjustments.
Heath straightened on the bench. He was still pale and a little shaky.
"Pickle," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
I grinned at him. "Don't thank me yet. Wait till you see my advice backfire spectacularly. It's a fifty-fifty shot at best."
He almost smiled.
Coach pointed at the ice. "Donnelly, you're up. Same line."
Heath stood. His legs were steadier than they'd been a minute ago. He pulled his helmet on, adjusted his mouthguard, and climbed over the boards without looking back.
I watched him go.
I'd steadied someone else. Said the right thing at the right time. I was the voice that cut through the spiral instead of the one spiraling.
