We sat side by side on a log, shoulders touching, and watched the fire burn. The night was quiet except for the pop of wood and the distant sound of wind moving through the trees.
“Can I ask you something?” Grant asked.
“Yeah.”
“Your hands.” He didn't look at me, just kept watching the flames. “They shake sometimes. I've noticed it for a while now.”
“It's nothing,” I said automatically. “Just nerves before games. Everyone gets?—”
“Jace.” He turned to face me then, and his expression was gentle but firm. “I'm not everyone. And I've seen the difference between pre-game adrenaline and what you're dealing with.”
“It's anxiety,” I said finally, the words feeling like an admission of failure. “Panic attacks, sometimes. Started about two years ago.”
“After the playoff miss.”
“Yeah.” I stared at my hands, watching them rest steady against my thighs in the firelight. They weren't shaking now, but I could still feel the phantom tremor, the memory of every time they'd betrayed me. “It wasn't like this before. I mean, I always got nervous before big games, but that was normal. That was just... part of it.”
“What changed?”
I took a breath, let it out slowly. “That penalty shot. The one everyone remembers. The one that became a fucking meme.” My throat tightened. “We lost that game. And the next day, the entire city turned on me. Social media was brutal. The sports talk shows tore me apart. People were calling for me to be traded, saying I choked, that I'd never be clutch when it mattered.”
Grant's hand found mine, steady and warm.
“And I tried to shake it off. Tried to tell myself it was just one shot, one game, that I'd bounce back. But every time I stepped on the ice after that, I could hear it. The doubt. The criticism. My own voice telling me I was going to fuck it up again.” I swallowed hard. “That's when it started. The shaking. The panic. The feeling like I couldn't breathe.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“I saw a therapist. She diagnosed it as performance anxiety. Gave me tools—breathing exercises, grounding techniques, medication if I needed it.” I laughed bitterly. “But none of that fixes the actual problem, which is that my brain decided to start treating every game like a life-or-death situation.”
“Is that what was happening in the tunnel? Before Boston?”
I nodded, feeling the shame crawl up my spine. “Yeah. I thought I had it under control, but then we were walking out and suddenly my chest was tight and my hands were shaking and I couldn't—” I stopped, hating how weak it sounded. “I didn't know if I could play.”
“But you did.”
“Because you asked if I could.” I looked at him then, saw the firelight reflected in his eyes. “You didn't tell me to suck it up or get over it or pretend it wasn't happening. You just asked if I could do it. And somehow that was enough to pull me out of it.”
Grant was quiet for a moment, thumb brushing across my knuckles in slow, deliberate strokes. “You know it doesn't make you weak, right? The anxiety. The panic. None of it.”
“Feels weak.”
“It's not.” His voice was firm. “You're playing at the highest level of professional hockey while managing a condition that makes your body physically react like you're in danger. That takes more strength than most people will ever need. And you're still showing up. Still performing. Still fighting through it.”
“It's getting better,” I said quietly. “The therapy helps. And being with you...” I trailed off, not sure how to explain it. “When I'm with you, my brain shuts up. The noise stops. I can just... be.”
Grant shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. “Good. Because you don't have to perform for me, Jace. Not ever. I see you. All of you. And you're enough exactly as you are.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I meant it for more than just this conversation.
“Always.” He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Now tell me—is there anything else I should know? Anything that helps when it hits?”
I thought about it. “Grounding helps. Physical touch. Something to focus on that's not the spiral.” I paused. “And weirdly, when you give me orders—like 'eyes on me' or 'stay with me'—that cuts through the noise. Gives me something concrete to hold onto.”
“Noted.” There was something in his voice that made me look at him, and I saw the concern there, the care. “If it happens again, I've got you.”
“I know.”
We sat there for a moment, the fire crackling between us, and I felt the fear that had been living in my chest since the playoff miss start to loosen its grip. Not gone. But acknowledged. Seen. Shared.
