I'm not icy because I'm calm. I'm icy because I've frozen everything else out. Anger is the only emotion I let myself feel because it's useful. It gets me through games, through pain, through the empty hours when I'm alone with my thoughts. Everything else—the fear, the loneliness, the bone-deep exhaustion—I've locked behind walls of ice so thick I sometimes forget they're there.
But they are. And Scout is melting them, crack by crack, whether I want her to or not. I shake my head. "Nothing good happens."
"Can you give me an example?"
"No." The word comes out too sharp, too fast. She doesn't flinch, just waits patiently. After what feels like an hour but is probably thirty seconds, I cave. "If I let myself feel scared about my career ending, I can't function. I can't get up for PT. I don’t know if I will push through the pain. So I get angry instead. Anger works. It gets me on the ice."
"I see." Her pen scratches for a moment. "Okay. You've mentioned being injured. How much pain are you in on a typical day?"
The shift in topic gives me whiplash, but maybe that's the point. "Scale of one to ten?"
"However you want to quantify it."
"Six. Sometimes seven. On bad days, eight." The admission comes easier than expected, maybe because it's just numbers. "It's been that way for two years, maybe three. You get used to it."
"Do you think that's sustainable?"
I consider that for a long beat. "It has to be."
"Okay." She makes another note, then looks back up at me. "What do you think your teammates expect of you?"
This one's easier. I've thought about it enough. "I'm supposed to be the enforcer. The guy who takes the hits so they don't have to. I fight when someone goes after our skilled players. I'm reliable, consistent, and tough."
My voice gets quieter on the last word.
Dr. Sable nods. "And what do you expect of yourself?"
"More." The word escapes before I can stop it. "Always more. Tougher, stronger, faster. Play through more pain. Take more hits. Score when it matters. Be better than I was yesterday, even when yesterday was already everything I had."
Dr. Sable sets her pen down entirely and looks at me with something that might be concern. "That sounds exhausting."
"It's hockey."
"Is it? Or is it something else?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Do you have support at home?"
Scout's face flashes through my mind. I push out my cheek with my tongue. "Define support."
"Someone you can talk to. Someone who sees you as more than just a hockey player."
"There's..." I stop, then start again. "My roommate. She's helping with the injury. Making sure I eat and do my PT exercises. That kind of thing."
"She?"
Heat creeps up my neck. "Just one of the physical therapists that works for the team. It's temporary, just until my shoulder heals."
"I see." Dr. Sable's eyebrows rise slightly but she doesn't comment on that. "Who do you talk to when things get hard?"
"I don't."
"Never?"
"What's the point? Talking doesn't change anything. It doesn't heal injuries faster or make the team need me more. It can't make me younger or less broken."
"Broken." She absorbs that, then leans back in her chair. "You used an interesting word there. Need. You want the team to need you." She pauses, watching my face carefully. "You want to be indispensable. What happens if you're not?"
The words land like body blows, one after another. My chest goes tight, breath coming shorter. The room feels smaller suddenly, walls pressing in. "Then I'm replaceable. Expendable. Just another guy who used to play."
"And that terrifies you."
