I bite.
And when he shifts right, I’m a millisecond too slow.
The puck glides past my pad and hits the back of the net with a sound I’ll hear in my nightmares for years to come.
The crowd erupts.
Not for us.Not for my team.
The other team floods the ice in celebration, helmets flying, gloves tossed skyward.My teammates are frozen for half a heartbeat before they skate toward me.Slow and careful, like they’re approaching a wounded animal.
But I’m already down.
My knees hit the ice first.Then my hands.My lungs seize up, and the roar of the crowd folds into a low, muffled hum.The world spins around me—lights too bright, sound too thick.The cold should ground me, but it doesn’t.
I can’t feel anything but the tremors in my fingers.The tightness in my chest.The familiar, merciless prickle of panic clawing its way up my throat.
Someone says my name.Once.Then again, louder.A hand lands on my shoulder—heavy and reassuring, but it might as well be miles away.
I try to breathe.In.Out.In.Out.But nothing catches.
There’s no air left for me.
The medics are the first to reach me.Their skates screech as they slide in close, kneeling beside me, shouting to each other over the noise.My chest heaves, every inhale shallow and wrong.Someone grips my helmet, telling me to focus on their voice.Another unclips the chin strap and pulls it off, the rush of cold air hitting my damp skin.
My head drops forward.I can’t stop shaking.
This isn’t just a bad game.
The beast I thought I’d buried is clawing its way back out.Consuming me.Ruining everything.
A towel is thrown over my shoulders, and then a pair of gloved hands help me to my feet.The arena’s still roaring, but it all blurs together now—faces, cameras, the sting of the lights.
I don’t remember skating off.Just the long tunnel…and the darkness at the end, calling to me before finally enveloping me.
The next thing I know, I’m in the medical room, tucked away in the interior of the area.I blink, then blink again.
He’s had a panic attack,I hear a soft, kind voice say.Do you know if he has a history of this?His file doesn’t have—
No.He’s never had a reaction like this before.Coach Ryner.I know that voice.Jesus, this is the last thing we need.A fucking case of nerves made us lose the Cup?Fucking disgrace.
It’s more than nerves.It’s a serious mental health—
Save it.I don’t need to hear more bullshit excuses.
My lungs, which had just stopped burning, start heaving again.A wave of heat crashes over me at the thought of letting my team down.They’ll trade me now.They’d find some reason to bench me.I could hear it in Coach’s voice.Me having any kind of handicap isn’t acceptable.
I don’t know how long I lie there until the doctor comes back into view.
Did you hear any of that?he asks, face sympathetic.
I nod, swallowing the lump that’s sitting heavy in my throat.
You need to listen to me, son.What your coach just said, the lack of empathy he just showed, that’s the disgrace.Mental health is real.It’s vital.And if you don’t get help, the pressure of your career in the spotlight is going to end before it’s even begun.You hear me?
I nod again, letting his words sink deep into my brain.
I’m going to give you my card and the card of a colleague that I know can help you.Go home or back to the hotel.Whatever.Rest up.Then make the call tomorrow.He shakes the cards in his hands.Okay?
