He just laughs and skates away.
I take the next rep like I’m trying to punish the ice for existing.
Coach blows the whistle.
“Again,” he barks.
Again.
Again.
My lungs burn. My legs start to feel heavy. My mind doesn’t calm.
If anything, the harder I push, the more the thoughts keep scraping at me.
Three days.
Birthday.
Dad.
We finish with sprints. The guys groan, because they always do, and I should feel satisfied.
Instead, I feel like someone poured gasoline into my bloodstream.
When practice finally ends, sweat dripping, breath heavy, I skate off without the usual post-drill chatter.
Coach Petrov stands by the boards, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
He watches the last guys file off. Then his gaze lands on me.
For a second, the room feels like that dinner again. Like a test.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just gives me a single, slow nod.
It’s not friendly.
It’s not warm.
But it’s… something.
Acknowledgment.
I nod back once.
Then I keep moving, because I don’t know how to do anything else with that.
In the locker room, the guys are loud. Music blares. A towel goes flying. Someone complains about a hamstring like it’s a life-threatening injury.
I shower at the facility, then head to my other appointments for the day.
Individual mobility work.
Soft-tissue massage.
A sports psychology session.
